When Mrs. Chump had turned her back on Brookfield, the feelings of the
outcast woman were too deep for much distinctly acrimonious sensation
toward the ladies; but their letters soon lifted and revived her, until,
being in a proper condition of prickly wrath, she sat down to compose
a reply that should bury them under a mountain of shame. The point,
however, was to transfer this mountain from her bosom, which laboured
heavily beneath it, to their heads. Nothing could appear simpler. Here
is the mountain; the heads are yonder. Accordingly, she prepared to
commence. In a moment the difficulty yawned monstrous. For the mountain
she felt was not a mountain of shame; yet that was the character of
mountain she wished to cast. If she crushed them, her reputation as a
forgiving soul might suffer: she could not pardon without seeing them
abased. Thus shaken at starting, she found herself writing: “I know that
your father has been hearing tales told of me, or he would have written,
and he has not; so you shall never see me, not if you cried to me from
the next world--the hot part.”
Perusing this, it was too tremendous. “Oh, that's awful!” she said,
getting her body a little away from the manuscript. “Ye couldn't curse
much louder.”
A fresh trial found her again rounding the fact that Mr. Pole had not
written to her, and again flying into consequent angers. She had some
dim conception of the sculpture of an offended Goddess. “I look so,”
she said before the glass “I'm above ye, and ye can't hurt me, and
don't come anigh me: but here's a cheque--and may ye be haunted in your
dreams!--but here's a cheque.”
There was pain in her heart, for she had felt faith in Mr. Pole's
affection for her. “And he said,” she cried out in her lonely room--“he
said, 'Martha, ye've onnly to come and be known to 'm, and then they'll
take to the ideea.' And wasn't I a patient creature! And it's Pole
that's turned--Pole!”
Varied with the frequent 'Oh!' and 'Augh!' these dramatic monologues
occupied her time while the yacht was sailing for her Devon bay.
At last the thought struck her that she would send for
Braintop--telegraphing that expenses would be paid, and that he must
come with a good quill. “It goes faster,” she whispered, suggesting the
pent-up torrent, as it were, of blackest ink in her breast that there
was to pour forth. A very cunning postscript to the telegram brought
Braintop almost as quick to her as a return message. It was merely
'Little Belloni.'
She had forgotten this piece of artifice: but when she saw him start
at the opening of the door, keeping a sheepish watch in that direction,
“By'n-by,” she said, with a nod; and shortly afterward unfolded her
object in summoning him from his London labours: “A widde-woman ought
to get marrud, Mr. Braintop, if onnly to have a husband to write letters
for 'rr. Now, that's a task! But sup to-night, and mind ye say yer
prayers before gettin' into bed; and no tryin' to flatter your Maker
with your knees cuddled up to your chin under the counterpane. I do 't
myself sometimes, and I know one prayer out of bed's worrth ten of 'm
in. Then I'll pray too; and mayhap we'll get permission and help to
write our letter to-morrow, though Sunday, as ye say.”
On the morrow Braintop's spirits were low, he having perceived that the
'Little Belloni' postscript had been but an Irish chuckle and nudge in
his ribs, by way of sly insinuation or reminder. He looked out on the
sea, and sighed to be under certain white sails visible in the offing.
Mrs. Chump had received by the morning's post another letter from
Arabella, enclosing one for Wilfrid. A dim sense of approaching mastery,
and that she might soon be melted, combined with the continued silence
of Mr. Pole to make her feel yet more spiteful. She displayed no
commendable cunning when, to sharpen and fortify Braintop's wits, she
plumped him at breakfast with all things tempting to the appetite of
man. “I'll help ye to 'rr,” she said from time to time, finding that no
encouragement made him potent in speech.
Fronting the sea a desk was laid open. On it were the quills faithfully
brought down by Braintop.
“Pole's own quills,” she said, having fixed Braintop in this official
seat, while she took hers at a station half-commanding the young clerk's
face. The mighty breakfast had given Braintop intolerable desire
to stretch his limbs by the sounding shore, and enjoy life in
semi-oblivion. He cheered himself with the reflection that there was
only one letter to write, so he remarked politely that he was at his
hostess's disposal. Thereat Mrs. Chump questioned him closely whether
Mr. Pole had spoken her name aloud; and whether he did it somehow, now
and then by accident, and whether he had looked worse of late. Braintop
answered the latter question first, assuring her that Mr. Pole was
improving.
“Then there's no marcy from me,” said Mrs. Chump; and immediately
discharged an exclamatory narrative of her recent troubles, and the
breach between herself and Brookfield, at Braintop's ears. This done,
she told him that he was there to write the reply to the letters of the
ladies, in her name. “Begin,” she said. “Ye've got head enough to guess
my feelin's. I'm invited, and I won't go--till I'm fetched. But don't
say that. That's their guess ye know. 'And I don't care for ye enough to
be angry at all, but it's pity I feel at a parcel of fine garls'--so on,
Mr. Braintop.”
The perplexities of epistolary correspondence were assuming the like
proportions to the recruited secretary that they had worn to Mrs.
Chump. Steadily watching his countenance; she jogged him thus: “As if
ye couldn't help ut, ye know, ye begin. Jest like wakin' in the mornin'
after dancin' all night. Ye make the garls seem to hear me seemin' to
say--Oooo! I was so comfortable before your disturbin' me with your
horrud voices. Ye understand, Mr. Braintop? 'I'm in bed, and you're
a cold bath.' Begin like that, ye know. 'Here's clover, and you're
nettles.' D'ye see? Here from my glass o' good Porrt to your tumbler of
horrud acud vin'gar.' Bless the boy! he don't begin.”
She stamped her foot. Braintop, in desperation, made a plunge at the
paper. Looking over his shoulder in a delighted eagerness, she suddenly
gave it a scornful push. “'Dear!'” she exclaimed. “You're dearin' them,
absurd young man I'm not the woman to I dear 'em--not at the starrt! I'm
indignant--I'm hurrt. I come round to the 'dear' by-and-by, after I have
whipped each of the proud sluts, and their brother Mr. Wilfrid, just as
if by accident. Ye'll promus to forget avery secret I tell ye; but our
way is always to pretend to believe the men can't help themselves. So
the men look like fools, ye sly laughin' fella! and the women horrud
scheming spiders. Now, away, with ye, and no dearin'.”
The Sunday-bells sounded mockingly in Braintop's ears, appearing to ask
him how he liked his holiday; and the white sails on the horizon line
have seldom taunted prisoner more. He spread out another sheet of
notepaper and wrote “My,” and there he stopped.
Mrs. Chump was again at his elbow. “But, they aren't 'my,'” she
remonstrated, “when I've nothin' to do with 'm. And a 'my' has a 'dear'
to 't always. Ye're not awake, Mr. Braintop; try again.”
“Shall I begin formally, 'Mrs. Chump presents her compliments,' ma'am?”
said Braintop stiffly.
“And I stick myself up on a post, and talk like a parrot, sir! Don't you
see, I'm familiar, and I'm woundud? Go along; try again.”
Braintop's next effort was, “Ladies.”
“But they don't behave to me like ladus; and it's against my conscience
to call 'em!” said Mrs. Chump, with resolution.
Braintop wrote down “Women,” in the very irony of disgust.
“And avery one of 'em unmarred garls!” exclaimed Mrs. Chump, throwing up
her hands. “Mr. Braintop! Mr. Braintop! ye're next to an ejut!”
Braintop threw dawn the pen. “I really do not know what to say,” he
remarked, rising in distress.
“I naver had such a desire to shake anny man in all my life,” said Mrs.
Chump, dropping to her chair.
The posture of affairs was chimed to by the monotonous bell. After
listening to it for some minutes, Mrs. Chump was struck with a notion
that Braintop's sinfulness in working on a Sunday, or else the shortness
of the prayer he had put up to gain absolution, was the cause of his
lack of ready wit. Hearing that he had gloves, she told him to go to
church, listen devoutly, and return to luncheon. Braintop departed, with
a sensation of relief in the anticipation of a sermon, quite new to him.
When he next made his bow to his hostess, he was greeted by a pleasant
sparkle of refreshments. Mrs. Chump herself primed him with Sherry,
thinking in the cunning of her heart that it might haply help the
inspiration derived from his devotional exercise. After this, pen and
paper were again produced.
“Well, now, Mr. Braintop, and what have ye thought of?” said Mrs. Chump,
encouragingly.
Braintop thought rapidly over what he might possibly have been thinking
of; and having put a file of ideas into the past, said, with the air of
a man who delicately suggests a subtlety: “It has struck me, ma'am, that
perhaps 'Girls' might begin very well. To be sure 'Dear girls' is the
best, if you would consent to it.”
“Take another glass of wine, Mr. Braintop,” Mrs. Chump nodded. “Ye're
nearer to ut now. 'Garls' is what they are, at all events. But don't you
see, my dear your man, it isn't the real thing we want so much as a sort
of a proud beginnin', shorrt of slappin' their faces. Think of dinner.
Furrst soup; that prepares ye for what's comin'. Then fish, which is on
the road to meat, dye see?--we pepper 'em. Then joint, Mr. Braintop--out
we burrst: (Oh, and what ins'lent hussies ye've been to me, and yell
naver see annything of me but my back!) Then the sweets,--But I'm a
forgivin' woman, and a Christian in the bargain, ye ungrateful minxes;
and if ye really are sorrowful! And there, Mr. Braintop, ye've got it
all laid out as flat as a pancake.”
Mrs. Chump gave the motion of a lightning scrawl of the pen. Braintop
looked at the paper, which now appeared to recede from his eyes,
and flourish like a descending kite. The nature of the task he had
undertaken became mountainous in his imagination, till at last he fixed
his forehead in his thumbs and fingers, and resolutely counted a number
of meaningless words one hundred times. As this was the attitude of a
severe student, Mrs. Chump remained in expectation. Aware of the fearful
confidence he had excited in her, Braintop fell upon a fresh hundred,
with variations.
“The truth is, I think better in church,” he said, disclosing at last as
ingenuous a face as he could assume. He scarcely ventured to hope for a
second dismissal.
To his joy, Mrs. Chump responded with a sigh: “There, go again; and the
Lord forgive ye for directin' your mind to temporal matters when ye're
there! It's none of my doin', remember that; and don't be tryin' to make
me a partic'pator in your wickudness.”
“This is so difficult, ma'am, because you won't begin with Dear,” he
observed snappishly, as he was retiring.
“Of coorse it's difficult if it bothers me,” retorted Mrs. Chump,
divided between that view of the case and contempt of Braintop for being
on her own level.
“Do you see, we are not to say 'Dear' anything, or 'Ladies,' or--in
short, really, if you come to think, ma'am!”
“Is that a woman's business, Mr. Braintop?” said Mrs. Chump, as from a
height; and the youth retired in humiliation.
Braintop was not destitute of the ambition of his time of life, and
yearned to be what he believed himself--something better than a clerk.
If he had put forth no effort to compose Mrs. Chump's letter, he would
not have felt that he was the partner of her stupidity; but he had
thoughtlessly attempted the impossible thing, and now, contemplating his
utter failure, he was in so low a state of mind that he would have taken
pen and written himself down, with ordinary honesty, good-for-nothing.
He returned to his task, and found the dinner spread. Mrs. Chump gave
him champagne, and drank to him, requesting him to challenge her. “We
won't be beaten,” she said; and at least they dined.
The 'we' smote Braintop's swelling vanity. It signified an alliance, and
that they were yoked to a common difficulty.
“Oh! let's finish it and have it over,” he remarked, with a complacent
roll in his chair.
“Naver stop a good impulse,” said Mrs. Chump, herself removing the lamp
to light him.
Braintop sat in the chair of torture, and wrote flowingly, while his
taskmistress looked over him, “Ladies of Brookfield.” He read it out:
“Ladies of Brookfield.”
“I'll be vary happy to represent ye at the forthcomin' 'lection,” Mrs.
Chump gave a continuation in his tone.
“Why, won't that do, ma'am?” Braintop asked in wonderment.
“Cap'tal for a circular, Mr. Braintop. And ye'll allow me to say that I
don't think ye've been to church at all.”
This accusation containing a partial truth (that is, true if it referred
to the afternoon, but not as to the morning), it was necessary for
Braintop's self-vindication that he should feel angry. The two were
very soon recriminating, much in the manner of boy and girl shut up on a
sunny afternoon; after which they, in like manner, made it up--the fact
of both having a habit of consulting the glass, and the accident of
their doing it at the same time, causing an encounter of glances there
that could hardly fail to be succeeded by some affability. For a last
effort, Mrs. Chump laid before Braintop a prospect of advancement in his
office, if he so contrived as to write a letter that should land her
in Brookfield among a scourged, repentant, and forgiven people. That
he might understand the position, she went far modestly to reveal her
weakness for Mr. Pole. She even consented to let 'Ladies' be the opening
apostrophe, provided the word 'Young' went before it: “They'll feel that
sting,” she said. Braintop stipulated that she should not look till the
letter was done; and, observing his pen travelling the lines in quick
succession, Mrs. Chump became inspired by a great but uneasy hope. She
was only to be restrained from peeping, by Braintop's petulant “Pray,
ma'am!” which sent her bouncing back to her chair, with a face upon one
occasion too solemn for Braintop's gravity. He had written himself into
excellent spirits; and happening to look up as Mrs. Chump retreated from
his shoulder, the woman's comic reverence for his occupation--the prim
movement of her lips while she repeated mutely the words she supposed he
might be penning--touched him to laughter. At once Mrs. Chump seized on
the paper. “Young ladus,” she read aloud, “yours of the 2nd, the 14th,
and 21st ulto. The 'ffection I bear to your onnly remaining parent.”
Her enunciation waxed slower and significantly staccato toward a pause.
The composition might undoubtedly have issued from a merchant's office,
and would have done no discredit to the establishment. When the pause
came, Braintop, half for an opinion, and to encourage progress, said,
“Yes, ma'am;” and with “There, sir!” Mrs. Chump crumpled up the paper
and flung it at him. “And there, sir!” she tossed a pen. Hearing
Braintop mutter, “Lady-like behaviour,” Mrs. Chump came out in a fiery
bloom. “Ye detestable young fella! Oh, ye young deceiver! Ye cann't do
the work of a man! Oh! and here's another woman dis'pointed, and when
she thought she'd got a man to write her letters!”
Braintop rose and retorted.
“Ye're false, Mr. Braintop--ye're offensuv, sir!” said Mrs. Chump; and
Braintop instantly retired upon an expressive bow. When he was out of
the room, Mrs. Chump appealed spitefully to an audience of chairs;
but when she heard the front-door shut with a report, she jumped up in
terror, crying incredulously, “Is the young man pos'tively one? Oh! and
me alone in a rage!--” the contemplated horrors of which position set
her shouting vociferously. “Mr. Braintop!” sounded over the stairs, and
“Mr. Braintop!” into the street. The maid brought Mrs. Chump her bonnet.
Night had fallen; and nothing but the greatest anxiety to recover
Braintop would have tempted her from her house. She made half-a-dozen
steps, and then stopped to mutter, “Oh! if ye'd onnly come, I'd forgive
ye--indeed I would!”
“Well, here I am,” was instantaneously answered; her waist was clasped,
and her forehead was kissed.
The madness of Braintop's libertinism petrified her.
“Ye've taken such a liberty, sir 'deed ye've forgotten yourself!”
While she was speaking; she grew confused with the thought that Braintop
had mightily altered both his voice and shape. When on the doorstep
he said; “Come out of the darkness or, upon my honour, I shall behave
worse,” she recognized Wilfrid, and understood by his yachting costume
in what manner he had come. He gave her no time to think of her dignity
or her wrath. “Lady Charlotte is with me. I sleep at the hotel; but you
have no objection to receive her, have you?” This set her mind upon her
best bedroom, her linen, and the fitness of her roof to receive a
title. Then, in a partial fit of gratitude for the honour, and immense
thankfulness at being spared the task of the letter, she fell on
Wilfrid's shoulder, beginning to sob--till he, in alarm at his absurd
position, suggested that Lady Charlotte awaited a welcome. Mrs. Chump
immediately flew to her drawing-room and rang bells, appearing presently
with a lamp, which she set on a garden-pillar. Together they stood by
the lamp, a spectacle to ocean: but no Lady Charlotte drew near.
CHAPTER, XXXVI
Though Mrs. Chump and Wilfrid, as they stood by the light of the lamp,
saw no one, they themselves were seen. Lady Charlotte had arranged to
give him a moment in advance to make his peace. She had settled it with
that air of practical sense which her title made graceful to him. “I
will follow; and I dare say I can complete what you leave unfinished,”
she said. Her humorous sense of the aristocratic prestige was conveyed
to him in a very taking smile. He scarcely understood why she should
have planned so decisively to bring about a reconciliation between Mrs.
Chump and his family; still, as it now chimed perfectly with his own
views and wishes, he acquiesced in her scheme, giving her at the same
time credit for more than common wisdom.
While Lady Charlotte lingered on the beach, she became aware of a figure
that hung about her; as she was moving away, a voice of one she knew
well enough asked to be directed to the house inhabited by Mrs. Chump.
The lady was more startled than it pleased her to admit to herself.
“Don't you know me?” she said, bluntly.
“You!” went Emilia's voice.
“Why on earth are you here? What brings you here? Are you alone?”
returned the lady.
Emilia did not answer.
“What extraordinary expedition are you making? But, tell me one thing:
are you here of your own accord, or at somebody else's bidding?”
Impatient at the prospect of a continuation of silences, Lady Charlotte
added, “Come with me.”
Emilia seemed to be refusing.
“The appointment was made at that house, I know,” said the lady; “but if
you come with me, you will see him just as readily.”
At this instant, the lamp was placed on the pillar, showing Wilfrid, in
his sailor's hat and overcoat, beside the fluttering Irishwoman.
“Come, I must speak to you first,” said Lady Charlotte hurriedly,
thinking that she saw Emilia's hands stretch out. “Pray, don't go into
attitudes. There he is, as you perceive; and I don't use witchcraft.
Come with me; I will send for him. Haven't you learnt by this time
that there's nothing he detests so much as a public display of the kind
you're trying to provoke?”
Emilia half comprehended her.
“He changes when he's away from me,” she said, low toneless voice.
“Less than I fancied,” the lady thought.
Then she told Emilia that there was really no necessity for her to whine
and be miserable; she was among friends, and so forth. The simplicity of
her manner of speech found its way to Emilia's reason quicker than her
arguments; and, in the belief that Wilfrid was speaking to Mrs. Chump
on urgent private matters (she had great awe of the word 'business'),
Emilia suffered herself to be led away. She uttered twice a little
exclamation, as she looked back, that sounded exceedingly comical to
Lady Charlotte's ears. They were the repressions of a poignant outcry.
“Doggies make that noise,” thought the lady, and succeeded in feeling
contemptuous.
Wilfrid, when he found that Lady Charlotte was not coming, bestowed a
remark upon her sex, and went indoors for his letter. He considered it
politic not to read it there, Mrs. Chump having grown so friendly, and
even motherly, that she might desire, out of pure affection, to share
the contents. He put it by and talked gaily, till Mrs. Chump, partly to
account for the defection of the lady, observed that she knew they had
a quarrel. She was confirmed in this idea on a note being brought in to
him, over which, before opening it, he frowned and flushed. Aware of the
treachery of his countenance, he continued doing so after his eyes had
taken in the words, though there was no special ground furnished by
them for any such exhibition. Mrs. Chump immediately, with a gaze of
mightiest tribulation, burst out: “I'll help ye; 'pon my honour, I'll
help ye. Oh! the arr'stocracy! Oh, their pride! But if I say, my dear,
when I die (which it's so horrud to think of), you'll have a share,
and the biggest--this vary cottage, and a good parrt o' the Bank
property--she'll come down at that. And if ye marry a lady of title,
I'll be 's good as my word, I will.”
Wilfrid pressed her fingers. “Can you ever believe that, I have called
you a 'simmering pot of Emerald broth'?”
“My dear! annything that's lots o' words, Ye may call me,” returned Mrs.
Chump, “as long as it's no name. Ye won't call me a name, will ye? Lots
o' words--it's onnly as if ye peppered me, and I sneeze, and that's all;
but a name sticks to yer back like a bit o' pinned paper. Don't call me
a name,” and she wriggled pathetically.
“Yes,” said Wilfrid, “I shall call you Pole.”
“Oh! ye sweetest of young fellas!”
Mrs. Chump threw out her arms. She was on the point of kissing him, but
he fenced with the open letter; and learning that she might read it, she
gave a cry of joy.
“Dear W.!” she begins; and it's twice dear from a lady of title. She's
just a multiplication-table for annything she says and touches. “Dear
W.!” and the shorter time a single you the better. I'll have my joke,
Mr. Wilfrud. “Dear W.!” Bless her heart now! I seem to like her next
best to the Queen already.--“I have another plan. Ye'd better keep to
the old; but it's two paths, I suppose, to one point.--Another plan.
Come to me at the Dolphin, where I am alone. Oh, Lord! 'Alone,' with a
line under it, Mr. Wilfrud! But there--the arr'stocracy needn't matter a
bit.”
“It's a very singular proceeding not the less,” said Wilfrid. “Why
didn't she go to the hotel where the others are, if she wouldn't come
here?”
“But the arr'stocracy, Mr. Wilfrud! And alone--alone! d'ye see? which
couldn't be among the others; becas of sweet whisperin'. 'Alone,'” Mrs.
Chump read on; “'and to-morrow I'll pay my respects to what you call
your simmering pot of Emerald broth.' Oh ye hussy! I'd say, if ye
weren't a borrn lady. And signs ut all, 'Your faithful Charlotte.'
Mr. Wilfrud, I'd give five pounds for this letter if I didn't know ye
wouldn't part with it under fifty. And 'deed I am a simmerin' pot; for
she'll be a relation, my dear! Go to 'r. I'll have your bed ready for
ye here at the end of an hour; and to-morrrow perhaps, if Lady Charlotte
can spare me, I'll condescend to see Ad'la.”
Wilfrid fanned her cheek with the note, and then dropped it on her
neck and left the room. He was soon hurrying on his way to the Dolphin:
midway he stopped. “There may be a bad shot in Bella's letter,” he
thought. Shop-lights were ahead: a very luminous chemist sent a green
ray into the darkness. Wilfrid fixed himself under it. “Confoundedly
appropriate for a man reading that his wife has run away from him!” he
muttered, and hard quickly plunged into matter quite as absorbing. When
he had finished it he shivered. Thus it ran:
“My beloved brother,
“I bring myself to plain words. Happy those who can trifle with human
language! Papa has at last taken us into his confidence. He has
not spoken distinctly; he did us the credit to see that it was
not necessary. If in our abyss of grief we loss delicacy, what is
left?--what!
“The step he desired to take, Which We Opposed, he has anticipated, And
Must Consummate.
“Oh, Wilfrid! you see it, do you not? You comprehend me I am surf! I
should have said 'had anticipated.' How to convey to you! (but it would
be unjust to him--to ourselves--were I to say emphatically what I have
not yet a right to think). What I have hinted above is, after all;
nothing but Cornelia's conjecture, I wish I could not say confirmed by
mine. We sat with Papa two hours before any idea of his meaning dawned
upon us. He first scolded us. We both saw from this that more was to
come.
“I hope there are not many in this world to whom the thought of honour
being tied to money ever appears possible. If it is so there is wide
suffering--deep, for it, must be silent. Cornelia suggests one comfort
for them that they will think less of poverty.
“Why was Brookfield ever bought? Our old peaceful City-life--the vacant
Sundays!--my ears are haunted by their bells for Evening Service. I said
'There they go, the dowdy population of heaven!' I remember it now.
It should be almost punishment enough to be certain that of all those
people going to church, there cannot be one more miserable than we who
stood at the old window ridiculing them. They at least do not feel
that everything they hope for in human life is dependent upon one human
will--the will of a mortal weather-vane! It is the case, and it must be
conciliated. There is no half-measure--no choice. Feel that nothing you
have ever dreamed of can be a disgrace if it is undergone to forestall
what positively impends, and act immediately. I shall expect to see you
in three days. She is to have the South-west bedroom (mine), for which
she expressed a preference. Prepare every mind for the ceremony:--an old
man's infatuation--money--we submit. It will take place in town. To have
the Tinleys in the church! But this is certainly my experience, that
misfortune makes me feel more and more superior to those whom I despise.
I have even asked myself--was I so once? And, Apropos of Laura! We hear
that their evenings are occupied in performing the scene at Besworth.
They are still as distant as ever from Richford. Let me add that Albert
Tinley requested my hand in marriage yesterday. I agree with Cornelia
that this is the first palpable sign that we have sunk. Consequent upon
the natural consequences came the interview with Papa.
“Dearest, dearest Wilfrid! can you, can I, can any one of us
settle--that is, involve another life in doubt while doubt exists? Papa
insists; his argument is, 'Now, now, and no delay.' I accuse nothing but
his love. Excessive love is perilous for principle!
“You have understood me, I know, and forgiven me for writing so nakedly.
I dare not reperuse it. You must satisfy him that Lady C. has fixed a
date. Adela is incomprehensible. One day she sees a friend in Lady
C., and again it is an enemy. Papa's immediate state of health is not
alarming. Above all things, do not let the girl come near him. Papa will
send the cheque you required.”
“When?” Wilfrid burst out upon Arabella's affectionate signature. “When
will he send it? He doesn't do me the honour to mention the time. And
this is his reply to a third application!”
The truth was that Wilfrid was in dire want of tangible cash simply to
provision his yacht. The light kindled in him by this unsatisfied need
made him keen to comprehend all that Arabella's attempt at plain writing
designed to unfold.
“Good God, my father's the woman's trustee!” shaped itself in Wilfrid's
brain.
And next: “If he marries her we may all be as poor as before.” That is
to say, “Honour may be saved without ruin being averted.”
His immediate pressing necessity struck like a pulse through all the
chords of dismal conjecture. His heart flying about for comfort, dropped
at Emilia's feet.
“Bella's right,” he said, reverting to the green page in his hand; “we
can't involve others in our scrape, whatever it may be.”
He ceased on the spot to be at war with himself, as he had been for many
a day; by which he was taught to imagine that he had achieved a mental
indifference to misfortune. This lightened his spirit considerably. “So
there's an end of that,” he emphasized, as the resolve took form to
tell Lady Charlotte flatly that his father was ruined, and that the son,
therefore, renounced his particular hope and aspiration.
“She will say, in the most matter-of-fact way in the world, 'Oh,
very well, that quite alters the case,'” said Wilfrid aloud, with the
smallest infusion of bitterness. Then he murmured, “Poor old governor!”
and wondered whether Emilia would come to this place according to his
desire. Love, that had lain crushed in him for the few recent days,
sprang up and gave him the thought, “She may be here now;” but, his eyes
not being satiated instantly with a sight of her, the possibility of
such happiness faded out.
“Blessed little woman!” he cried openly, ashamed to translate in
tenderer terms the soft fresh blossom of love that his fancy conjured
forth at the recollection of her. He pictured to himself hopefully,
moreover, that she would be shy when they met. A contradictory vision of
her eyes lifted hungry for his first words, or the pressure of his
arm displeased him slightly. It occurred to him that they would be
characterized as a singular couple. To combat this he drew around him
all the mysteries of sentiment that had issued from her voice and her
eyes. She had made Earth lovely to him and heaven human. She--what
a grief for ever that her origin should be what it was! For this
reason:--lovers must live like ordinary people outwardly; and say, ye
Fates, how had she been educated to direct a gentlemen's household?
“I can't exist on potatoes,” he pronounced humorously.
But when his thoughts began to dwell with fitting seriousness on the
woman-of-the-world tone to be expected from Lady Charlotte, he folded
the mental image of Emilia closely to his breast, and framed a misty
idea of a little lighted cottage wherein she sat singing to
herself while he was campaigning. “Two or three fellows--Lumley and
Fredericks--shall see her,” he thought. The rest of his brother officers
were not even to know that he was married.
His yacht was lying in a strip of moonlight near Sir Twickenham's
companion yawl. He gave one glance at it as at a history finished, and
sent up his name to Lady Charlotte.
“Ah! you haven't brought the good old dame with you?” she said, rising
to meet him. “I thought it better not to see her to-night.”
He acquiesced, mentioning the lateness of the hour, and adding, “You are
alone?”
She stared, and let fall “Certainly,” and then laughed. “I had forgotten
your regard for the proprieties. I have just sent my maid for Georgiana;
she will sleep here. I preferred to come here, because those people at
the hotel tire me; and, besides, I said I should sleep at the villa, and
I never go back to people who don't expect me.”
Wilfrid looked about the room perplexed, and almost suspicious because
of his unexplained perplexity. Her (as he deemed it--not much above
the level of Mrs. Chump in that respect) aristocratic indifference to
opinion and conventional social observances would have pleased him by
daylight, but it fretted him now.
Lady Charlotte's maid came in to say that Miss Ford would join her. The
maid was dismissed to her bed. “There's nothing to do there,” said her
mistress, as she was moving to the folding-doors. The window facing
seaward was open. He went straight to it and closed it. Next, in an
apparent distraction, he went to the folding-doors. He was about to
press the handle, when Lady Charlotte's quiet remark, “My bedroom,”
brought him back to his seat, crying pardon.
“Have you had news?” she inquired. “You thought that a letter might be
there. Bad, is it?”
“It is not good,” he replied, briefly.
“I am sorry.”
“That is--it tells me--” (Wilfrid disciplined his tongue) “that I--we
are--a lieutenant on half-pay may say that he is ruined, I suppose, when
his other supplies are cut off!...”
“I can excuse him for thinking it,” said Lady Charlotte. She exhibited
no sign of eagerness for his statement of facts.
Her outward composure and a hard animation of countenance (which,
having ceased the talking within himself, he had now leisure to notice)
humiliated him. The sting helped him to progress.
“I may try to doubt it as much as I please, to avoid seeing what must
follow.... I may shut my eyes in the dark, but when the light stares me
in the face...I give you my word that I have not been justified even in
imagining such a catastrophe.”
“The preamble is awful,” said Lady Charlotte, rising from her recumbent
posture.
“Pardon me; I have no right to intrude my feelings. I learn to-day, for
the first time, that we are--are ruined.”
She did not lift her eyebrows, or look fixedly; but without any change
at all, said, “Is there no doubt about it?”
“None whatever.” This was given emphatically. Resentment at the perfect
realization of her anticipated worldly indifference lent him force.
“Ruined?” she said.
“Yes.”
“You I'll be more so than you were a month ago. I mean, you tell me
nothing new, I have known it.”
Amid the crush and hurry in his brain, caused by this strange
communication, pressed the necessity to vindicate his honour.
“I give you the word of a gentleman, Lady Charlotte, that I came to
you the first moment it has been made known to me. I never suspected it
before this day.”
“Nothing would prompt me to disbelieve that.” She reached him her hand.
“You have known it!” he broke from a short silence.
“Yes--never mind how. I could not allude to it. Of course I had to wait
till you took the initiative.”
The impulse to think the best of what we are on the point of renouncing
is spontaneous. If at the same time this object shall exhibit itself
in altogether new, undreamt-of, glorious colours, others besides a
sentimentalist might waver, and be in some danger of clutching it a
little tenderly ere it is cast off.
“My duty was to tell you the very instant it came to my knowledge,” he
said, fascinated in his heart by the display of greatness of mind which
he now half divined to be approaching, and wished to avoid.
“Well, I suppose that is a duty between friends?” said she.
“Between friends! Shall we still--always be friends?”
“I think I have said more than once that it won't be my fault if we are
not.”
“Because, the greater and happier ambition to which I aspired...” This
was what he designed to say, sentimentally propelled, by way of graceful
exit, and what was almost printed on a scroll in his head for the
tongue to read off fluently. He stopped at 'the greater,' beginning to
stumble--to flounder; and fearing that he said less than was due as a
compliment to the occasion, he said more.
By no means a quick reader of character, Lady Charlotte nevertheless
perceived that the man who spoke in this fashion, after what she had
confessed, must be sentimentally, if not actually, playing double.
Thus she came to his assistance: “Are you begging permission to break
our engagement?”
“At least, whatever I do get I must beg for now!” He took refuge
adroitly in a foolish reply, and it served him. That he had in all
probability lost his chance by the method he had adopted, and
by sentimentalizing at the wrong moment, was becoming evident,
notwithstanding. In a sort of despair he attempted comfort by critically
examining her features, and trying to suit them to one or other of the
numerous models of Love that a young man carries about with him. Her
eyes met his, and even as he was deciding against her on almost every
point, the force of their frankness held his judgement in suspense.
“The world is rather harsh upon women in these cases,” she said, turning
her head a lithe, with a conscious droop of the eyelids. “I will act as
if we had an equal burden between us. On my side, what you have to tell
me does not alter me. I have known it.... You see that I am just the
same to you. For your part, you are free, if you please. That is fair
dealing, is it not?”
The gentleman's mechanical assent provoked the lady's smile.
But Wilfrid was torn between a profound admiration of her and the
galling reflection that until she had named the engagement, none had
virtually existed which diplomacy, aided by time and accident, might not
have stopped.
“You must be aware that I am portionless,” she continued. “I have--let
me name the sum--a thousand pounds. It is some credit to me that I have
had it five years and not spent it. Some men would think that a quality
worth double the amount. Well, you will make up your mind to my bringing
you no money;--I have a few jewels. En revanche, my habits are not
expensive. I like a horse, but I can do without one. I like a large
house, and can live in a small one. I like a French cook, and can dine
comfortably off a single dish. Society is very much to my taste; I shall
indulge it when I am whipped at home.”
Wilfrid took her hand and pressed his lips to the fingers, keeping his
face ponderingly down. He was again so divided that the effort to find
himself absorbed all his thinking faculties.
At last he muttered: “A lieutenant's pay!”--expecting her to reply, “We
can wait,” as girls do that find it pleasant to be adored by curates,
Then might follow a meditative pause--a short gaze at her, from
which she could have the option of reflecting that to wait is not the
privilege of those who have lived to acquire patience. The track he
marked out was clever in a poor way; perhaps it was not positively
unkind to instigate her to look at her age: but though he read character
shrewdly, and knew hers pretty accurately, he was himself too much of a
straw at the moment to be capable of leading-moves.
“We can make up our minds, without great difficulty, to regard the
lieutenant's pay as nothing at all,” was Lady Charlotte's answer. “You
will enter the Diplomatic Service. My interest alone could do that. If
we are married, there would be plenty to see the necessity for pushing
us. I don't know whether you could keep the lieutenancy; you might.
I should not like you to quit the Army: an opening might come in it.
There's the Indian Staff--the Persian Mission: they like soldiers
for those Eastern posts. But we must take what we can get. We should,
anyhow, live abroad, where in the matter of money society is more
sensible. We should be able to choose our own, and advertize tea,
brioche, and conversation in return for the delicacies of the season.”
“But you, Charlotte--you could never live that life!” Wilfrid broke in,
the contemplation of her plain sincerity diminishing him to himself. “It
would drag you down too horribly!”
“Remorse at giving tea in return for dinners and balls?”
“Ah! there are other things to consider.”
She blushed unwontedly.
Something, lighted by the blush, struck him as very feminine and noble.
“Then I may flatter myself that you love me?” he whispered.
“Do you not see?” she rejoined. “My project is nothing but a whim--a
whim.”
The divided man saw himself whole, if not happy in the ranks of
Diplomacy, with a resolute, frank, faithful woman (a lady of title)
loving him, to back him. Fortune shone ahead, and on the road he saw
where his deficiencies would be filled up by her. She was firm and
open--he irresolute and self-involved. Animal courage both possessed.
Their differences were so extreme that they met where they differed.
It struck him specially now that she would be like Day to his spirit in
continued intercourse. Young as he was he had wisdom to know the right
meaning of the word “helpmate.” It was as if the head had dealt the
heart a blow, saying, “See here the lady thou art to serve.” But the
heart was a surly rebel. Lady Charlotte was fully justified in retorting
upon his last question: “I think I also should ask, do you love me? It
is not absolutely imperative for the occasion or for the catastrophe, I
merely ask for what is called information.”
And yet, despite her flippancy, which was partly designed to relieve his
embarrassment, her hand was moist and her eyes were singularly watchful.
“You who sneer at love!” He gave a musical murmur.
“Not at all. I think it a very useful part of the capital to begin the
married business upon.”
“You unsay your own words.”
“Not 'absolutely imperative,' I think I said, if I remember rightly.”
“But I take the other view, Charlotte.”
“You imagine that there must be a little bit of love.”
“There should be no marriage without it.”
“On both sides?”
“At least, if not on both sides, one should bring such a love.”
“Enough for two! So, then, we are not to examine your basket?”
Touched by the pretty thing herein implied, he squeezed her hand.
“This is the answer?” said she.
“Can you doubt me?”
She rose from her seat. “Oh! if you talk in that style, I really am
tempted to say that I do. Are there men--women and women--men? My dear
Wilfrid, have we changed parts to-night?”
His quickness in retrieving a false position, outwardly, came to his
aid. He rose likewise, and, while perfecting the minor details of an
easy attitude against the mantelpiece, said: “I am so constituted,
Charlotte, that I can't talk of my feelings in a business tone; and I
avoid that subject unless... You spoke of a basket just now. Well, I
confess I can't bring mine into the market and bawl out that I have
so many pounds' weight of the required material. Would a man go to the
market at all if he had nothing to dispose of? In plain words--since
my fault appears to be, according to your reading, in the opposite
direction--should I be here if my sentiments could not reply eloquently
to your question?”
This very common masterpiece of cunning from a man in a corner, which
suggests with so persuasive an air that he has ruled his actions up
to the very moment when he faces you, and had almost preconceived the
present occasion, rather won Lady Charlotte; or it seemed to, or the
scene had been too long for her vigilance.
“In the affirmative?” she whispered, coming nearer to him.
She knew that she had only to let her right shoulder slip under his left
arm, and he would very soon proclaim himself her lover as ardently as
might be wished. Why did she hesitate to touch the blood of the man? It
was her fate never to have her great heart read aright. Wilfrid could
not know that generosity rather than iciness restrained her from
yielding that one unknown kiss which would have given the final spring
to passion in his breast. He wanted the justification of his senses, and
to run headlong blindly. Had she nothing of a woman's instinct?
“In the affirmative!” was his serene reply.
“That means 'Yes.'” Her tone had become pleasantly soft.
“Yes, that means 'Yes,'” said he.
She shut her eyes, murmuring, “How happy are those who hear that they
are loved!” and opening them, all her face being red, “Say it!” she
pleaded. Her fingers fell upon his wrist. “I have this weakness,
Wilfrid; I wish to hear you say it.”
The flush of her face, and tremour of her fingers, told of an unimagined
agitation hardly to be believed, though seen and felt. Yet, still some
sign, some shade of a repulsion in her figure, kept him as far from her
as any rigid rival might have stipulated for.
The interrogation to the attentive heavens was partially framed in his
mind, “How can I tell this woman I love her, without...” without putting
his arm about her waist, and demonstrating it satisfactorily to himself
as well as to her? In other words, not so framed, “How, without that
frenzy which shall make me forget whether it be so or not?”
He remained in his attitude, incapable of moving or speaking, but
fancying, that possibly he was again to catch a glimpse of the vanished
mountain nymph, sweet Liberty. Her woman's instinct warmed more and
more, until, if she did not quite apprehend his condition, she at least
understood that the pause was one preliminary to a man's feeling himself
a fool.
“Dear Wilfrid,” she whispered, “you think you are doubted. I want to be
certain that you think you have met the right woman to help you, in me.”
He passed through the loophole here indicated, and breathed.
“Yes, Charlotte, I am sure of that. If I could be only half as worthy!
You are full of courage and unselfishness, and, I could swear, faithful
as steel.”
“Thank you--not dogs,” she laughed. “I like steel. I hope to be a good
sword in your hand, my knight--or shield, or whatever purpose you put me
to.”
She went on smiling, and seeming to draw closer to him and throw down
defences.
“After all, Wilfrid, the task of loving your good piece of steel won't
be less thoroughly accomplished because you find it difficult. Sir, I do
not admit any protestation. Handsome faces, musical voices, sly manners,
and methods that I choose not to employ, make the business easy to men.”
“Who discover that the lady is not steel,” said Wilfrid. “Need she, in
any case, wear so much there?”
He pointed, flittingly as it were, with his little finger to the slope
of her neck.
She turned her wrist, touching the spot: “Here? You have seen, then,
that it is something worn?”
There followed a delicious interplay of eyes. Who would have thought
that hers could be sweet and mean so much?
“It is something worn, then? And thrown aside for me only, Charlotte?”
“For him who loves me,” she said.
“For me!”
“For him who loves me,” she repeated.
“Then it is for me!”
She had moved back, showing a harder figure, or the “I love you, love
you!” would have sounded with force. It came, though not so vehemently
as might have been, to the appeal of a soft fixed look.
“Yes, I love you, Charlotte; you know that I do.”
“You love me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I love you! Dead, inanimate Charlotte, I love you!”
She threw out her hand as one would throw a bone to a dog.
“My living, breathing, noble Charlotte,” he cried, a little bewitched,
“I love you with all my heart!”
It surprised him that her features should be gradually expressing less
delight.
“With all your heart?”
“Could I give you a part?”
“It is done, sometimes,” she said, mock-sadly. Then, in her original
voice: “Good. I never credited that story of you and the girl Emilia. I
suppose what people say is a lie?”
Her eyes, in perfect accordance with the tone she had adopted, set a
quiet watch on him.
“Who says it?” he thundered, just as she anticipated.
“It's not true?”
“Not true!--how can it be true?”
“You never loved Emilia Belloni?--don't love her now?--do not love her
now? If you have ever said that you love Emilia Belloni, recant, and you
are forgiven; and then go, for I think I hear Georgiana below. Quick!
I am not acting. It's earnest. The word, if you please, as you are a
gentleman. Tell me, because I have heard tales. I have been perplexed
about you. I am sure you're a manly fellow, who would never have played
tricks with a girl you were bound to protect; but you might have--pardon
the slang--spooned,--who knows? You might have been in love with her
downright. No harm, even if a trifle foolish; but in the present case,
set my mind at rest. Quick! There are both my hands. Take them, press
them, and speak.”
The two hands were taken, but his voice was not so much at command. No
image of Emilia rose in his mind to reproach him with the casting over
of his heart's dear mistress, but a blind struggle went on. It seemed
that he could do what he dared not utter. The folly of lips more loyal
than the spirit touched his lively perception; and as the hot inward
struggle, masked behind his softly-playing eyes, had reduced his
personal consciousness so that if he spoke from his feeling there was a
chance of his figuring feebly, he put on his ever-ready other self:--
“Categorically I reply: Have I loved Miss Emilia Belloni?--No. Do
I?--No. Do I love Charlotte Chillingworth?--Yes, ten thousand times! And
now let Britomart disarm.”
He sought to get his reward by gentle muscular persuasion. Her arms
alone yielded: and he judged from the angle of the neck, ultra-sharp
though it was, that her averted face might be her form of exhibiting
maidenly reluctance, feminine modesty. Suddenly the fingers in his grasp
twisted, and not being at once released, she turned round to him.
“For God's sake, spare the girl!”
Emilia stood in the doorway.