When Guest drove round to the hotel next morning to escort Cornelia to
the station, she was surprised to see his own bag on the roof, and to
hear that he intended to accompany her all the way to Norton.
"I want to make sure that you are safely housed once more," he explained
as they drove off. "I feel a certain responsibility for you, and I
think perhaps your aunt would like to see me, and hear from a second
person that everything is satisfactorily settled here."
"My aunt," said Cornelia, demurely, "my aunt isn't a mite disposed to
acknowledge your responsibility. She thinks you're `dashing'! She
don't approve of dashing young men. She warned me specially to avoid
you."
"Humph! dashing, am I? The word has an Early Victorian sound that
suggests side-whiskers and leg-of-mutton trousers. I'm not at all sure
that I'm flattered!" returned Guest, as he alternately stared out of the
window, and busied himself in arranging the bags on the front seat of
the cab.
There was an air of embarrassment in his manner this morning, and he
talked against time, as if anxious not to let the conversation come to a
pause. The afternoon on the river had been a delightful experience,
abundantly proving the truth of his prophecy that it would be impossible
to be bored in Cornelia's society. She had looked very sweet in her
softened mood, and as they drifted down the stream together, had
prattled away in simple, confiding fashion, telling him the story of her
life; of the ups and downs which she and her Poppar had known together;
of her own individual adventures. He learnt that she was not engaged,
and had never been in love, though there were always heaps of admirers
"prancing" round. She intended to marry some day, however. Why,
suttenly! Just as soon as ever the right man hove along. What was the
good of being a woman, if you didn't have your own home, and your own
husband and children! Then she looked at him with her clear, golden
eyes, and inquired how it was with himself. Was he in love?
"No!" answered Guest, but, even as he spoke, he knew in his heart that
he lied. In the guise of a Yankee stranger, who embodied in herself all
the traits which he most condemned, the one woman of his life had
appeared. He loved--and the woman whom he loved was Cornelia Briskett!
After that, conversation languished. Guest was too much bewildered by
the sudden realisation of his position to wish to talk, and Cornelia had
developed a headache as a result of the morning's emotion. She was glad
to be quiet; to allow herself to be led about, and cared for, and told
what she must do.
"Just like a `nice young girl'!" she said, laughingly as they parted in
the lounge of the hotel. "If I lived over here long enough--there's no
telling--I might grow into a Moss Rose myself!"
"I wish you would! I wish you would! Won't you try?" Guest cried
eagerly. He, himself, did not know what he really meant by the inquiry,
for the words had sprung to his lips almost without thought. He was as
much startled by the sound of them as was Cornelia herself. He saw the
dismay in her eyes, the dawning comprehension; he saw something else
also--the first flicker of self-consciousness, the first tell-tale droop
of the lids. She put him off with a light answer, and he went out to
pace the streets until the night closed around him. ... What was this
that had happened, and what was it going to mean? One week--a week to
the day since he had first met this girl and conceived a violent dislike
to her on the spot. Voice, accent, and manner had alike jarred on his
nerves: she had appeared in every respect the opposite to the decorous,
soft-voiced, highly-bred, if somewhat inane, damsel who represented his
ideal of feminine charm. One week ago! What magic did she possess,
this little red-haired, white-faced girl, to make such short work of the
scruples of a lifetime? What was this mysterious feminine charm which
blinded his senses to everything but just herself, and the dearness of
her, and the longing to have her for his own? The jarring element had
not disappeared, the difference of thought still existed, but for the
moment he was oblivious of their existence. For the first time in his
three-and-thirty years he was in love, and had room for no other
thought.
The morning brought colder reflections. When--supposing he ever
married, it would be wormwood and gall to see his wife condemned by his
friends! He had looked forward to espousing the daughter of some
irreproachable county family, and returning to his old home to live in
frugal state for the rest of his life; driving to church in the old
barouche, attending a succession of dull, country-house dinners; taking
the chair at village meetings. He tried to imagine Cornelia spending
long, peaceful years as the squire's wife, contentedly pottering about
the village, superintending Dorcas meetings, and finding recreation in
occasional garden parties, where the same people met the same people,
attired in the same frocks, and sat meekly in rows, drinking claret cup
and sour lemonade, but the effort failed. Cornelia obstinately refused
to fit into the niche. He could summon up a vision of her, indeed, but
it was a disconcerting vision, in which she "pranced round," while the
neighbourhood turned its back, and pursed disapproving lips.
He was attracted by the girl--seriously attracted, _but_-- It was a
great big _but_, and he promised himself to be cautious, to think long
and well before taking the plunge. All the same, it seemed imperative
that he should return to Norton. His aunt was always delighted to put
him up, and he could not be happy until he had satisfied himself that
all was well with Cornelia once more. Incidentally also, he was
interested to know what was happening at the Manor.
On the journey to Norton the presence of fellow-travellers kept the
conversation necessarily impersonal, and at the station Cornelia
dismissed her escort, refusing point blank to drive with him to the
Park.
"I'm going back as a sorrowing penitent, and it don't suit the part to
drive up with a dashing young man. There are only two players in this
act, and they are Aunt Soph and myself. You come round in the evening,
when I've paved the way."
"Till to-night, then!" said Guest, raising his hat. Once again, as he
looked at her through the window of the cab, the clear eyes wavered
before his own; once again his scruples vanished. He loved, and the
world held nothing but that glad fact.
Cornelia exhibited much diplomacy in her interview with her aunt.
Seated at the good lady's feet in an attitude of childlike humility, she
related the story of her adventures in simple, unexaggerated language,
without any attempt at self-justification.
"I ought to have guessed from the start; but it seems I'm not as smart
as I thought. They had me, the whole way through. You were right, you
see, and I was wrong. I should have taken your advice. Guess it will
be a lesson to me!"
"I trust it may prove so, my dear! a dearly-bought, but invaluable
lesson!" quoth Miss Briskett, blandly. So far from being incensed, she
actually purred with satisfaction, for had not the truant returned home
in a humble and tractable spirit, ready to acknowledge and apologise for
her error? Her good humour was such that she bore the shock of hearing
of Guest's role in the drama with comparative composure.
"He seems," she declared, "to have comported himself with considerable
judgment, but, my dear Cornelia, if anything more were needed to
demonstrate the necessity for caution and restraint in the future, it
must surely be the remembrance that you were driven into such intimate
relationship with a man whose acquaintance you had made but a few short
days before! It seems to me that the recollection must be painfully
embarrassing to any nice young girl."
"Yes, 'um!" said Cornelia, meekly. She lowered her eyelids, and her
cheeks flushed to a vivid pink. Such a typical picture did she make of
a modest and abashed young girl, that the spinster's stern face relaxed
into a smile, and she laid her hand affectionately upon the ruddy locks.
"There! there! We will say no more about it--
"`Repentance is to leave
The sins we loved before;
And show that we in earnest grieve
By doing so _no more_!'
"Another time you will be guided by wiser counsels!"
"...Have you missed me, Aunt Soph, while I've been away?"
"Er--the house has seemed very quiet," replied Miss Briskett,
truthfully. "I am sorry that I am obliged to leave you this afternoon,
my dear, but I have promised to attend a committee meeting at four
o'clock. You will be glad to rest after your journey, and to unpack and
get your things put neatly away."
"Has Elma come home?"
"She returned yesterday morning. I saw the dog-cart from the Manor
waiting outside the gate this morning. Mrs Ramsden told me the other
day that Elma's health was completely restored."
Cornelia pondered over these scanty items of news as she sat at her
solitary tea an hour later. Elma was well; Elma had returned home. A
dog-cart from the Manor had been observed waiting outside the gate of
The Holt that morning. A dog-cart! Imagination failed to picture the
picturesque figure of Madame perched on the high seat of that
undignified vehicle. If the cart had not conveyed the mother, it must,
in all probability, have conveyed the son. The dog-cart had been
_waiting_! The deduction was obvious to the meanest intellect.
Geoffrey Greville had driven down to see Elma the morning after her
departure, and had spent a considerable time in her society!
Suddenly Cornelia realised that her anxiety could brook no delay, and
that it would be impossible to spend another night without discovering
how the Moss Rose had fared during her absence. She despatched Mary to
The Holt with a verbal message to the effect that she had returned from
town, and, if convenient, would much like to see Miss Ramsden for a few
minutes before six o'clock, and while she was still at tea the answer
was received; a note this time, written in pencil, and bearing marks of
haste and agitation.
"Dearest Cornelia,--Yes, of course! I _am_ thankful you are back.
Come right up to my room. It's perfectly wretched here, but I'm so
happy! Elma."
Cornelia rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and indulged in an expressive
whistle. Contradictory as Elma's epistle might have appeared to an
ordinary reader, she understood it readily enough. It was Mrs Ramsden
who was wretched, Elma who was happy--"_so_ happy," despite the
atmosphere of disapproval. The crisis had arrived!
In five minutes' time, Cornelia was in her friend's room, holding her
hands, gazing into her face, kissing her flaming cheeks.
"Elma, _is_ it? It is! I can see it in your face! Oh, you dear thing!
When? How? I'm crazy to know. Tell me every single thing."
Elma laughed; a delicious little laugh of conscious happiness.
"Yes, yes, it is! Oh, Cornelia, isn't it wonderful? I can't believe
it! It's partly your doing, you know, and I love you for that, but
doesn't it seem impossible that he can really care for--_me_!" She
turned her exquisite, flower-like face towards her friend, with an
expression of humility as sweet as it was sincere. "He might have had
anybody, and he chooses--_me_! Oh, Cornelia, I never knew that one
could live, and be so happy! It seems like a dream."
"Wake up, then, and get down to facts! I'm crazy to hear all about it.
When was it settled?"
"This morning."
"Only this morning! I calculated it would come off Monday at latest."
"No, it didn't. Of course he was very--I mean, I knew--we both
understood, but Geoffrey says he couldn't possibly have spoken plainly
while I was a guest under his own roof. It wouldn't have been the right
thing. He was obliged to wait till I got home!"
"My! how mediaeval. I should have thought Geoffrey Greville had more
snap to him, than to hang on to such worn-out notions. Fancy letting
you go away, and driving down in cold blood next morning! It's the
dullest thing!"
"It's not dull at all!" contradicted Elma, hotly. "It's noble, and
manly, and self-sacrificing. I love him for it--
"`I could not love thee, dear, so much
Loved I not honour more!'"
"Shucks!" sniffed Cornelia, scornfully. "I'd as lief have a little less
high-falutin', and a lot more push. I wouldn't mind if it was his house
ten times over, I'd want him to feel he couldn't wait another five
minutes, and settle it off, so's we could have a good time together. If
he let me come away, not knowing if he were in fun or earnest, I'd have
led him a pretty dance for his pains. But you're so meek; I bet you
dropped into his mouth like a ripe plum!"
Elma drew herself up with a charming dignity.
"I told him the truth without any pretences, if that is what you mean,"
she said quietly. "I am perfectly satisfied with Geoffrey's behaviour,
and I'd rather not discuss it, Cornelia, please. We may seem old-
fashioned to you, but we understand each other, and there is not a
thing--not a single thing--I would wish altered. I am perfectly,
utterly happy!"
"Bless you, you sweet thing, I see you are, and I'm happy for you!
Never mind how it happened; it _has_ happened, and that's good enough.
... How's Mrs Ramsden bearing up?"
Elma's face fell. For a person who had just proclaimed herself
completely happy, she looked astonishingly worried and perturbed.
"Oh, my dear, such a scene! I took Geoffrey in to see her, and she
couldn't have been more horrified if he had been the most desperate
character in the world. She refused to listen to a word. You would not
have recognised mother, she was so haughty and distant, and--rude! Some
things she said were horribly rude. After he went, she cried! That was
the worst of all. She cried, and said she had given her whole life for
me for twenty-three years, and was I going to break her heart as a
reward? I cried, too, and said, No, I should love her more, not less,
but she wouldn't listen. She said if I married Geoffrey it would be as
bad as a public refutation of all the principles which I had professed
since childhood. Then she called him names, and I got angry. We didn't
speak a word all through lunch, and as soon as it was over she sent for
a fly to drive to the Manor. She's there still!"
"Shut up with Madame, hatching the plan of campaign! Madame won't like
it any better, I suppose!"
Elma flushed miserably.
"No; she's against us, too! Geoffrey told her what he was coming for,
and--isn't it curious?--she was quite surprised! She had not suspected
a bit, and I'm afraid she was pretty cross. Geoffrey wouldn't let me
say it, but I know she doesn't think me good enough. I'm not; that's
quite true. No one knows it better than I."
"If you say that again, I'll shake you! You're a heap too good for the
best man that ever lived. Mind now, Elma, don't start out on this
business by eating humble pie! You've got to hold up your end of the
stick for all you're worth, and let them see you won't be sat upon.
When you feel redooced, go and sit in front of the glass for a spell,
and ask yourself if he won't be a lucky man to have that vista across
the table all the rest of his life. Don't be humble with _him_,
whatever happens! Make him believe he's got the pick of the bundle!"
"He--he does!" said Elma, and blushed again. "It makes me ashamed to
hear him talk about me, for I know I am really so different. He would
not have thought me so sweet if he had heard me scolding mother this
morning. Poor mother! I'm so terribly sorry for her. It must be hard
to care for a child for twenty-three years, as she says, and then have
to step aside for a stranger. I sympathised with every word she said,
and knew that I should have felt the same. My head was with her all the
time, but my heart"--she clasped her hands to her side with the
prettiest of gestures--"my heart was with Geoffrey! Reason's not a bit
of use, Cornelia, when you're in love."
"Well!" said Cornelia, firmly, "my heart's got to wait and behave
itself, until my head goes along at the same pace. I've not kept it in
order for twenty-three years to have it weaken at the last moment. I'll
stick to my guns, whatever it may cost."
Elma looked at her with surprised curiosity.
"Why, you talk as if, as if you were in love, too! I wish you _were_!
We could sympathise with each other so beautifully. _Are_ you in love,
Cornelia? You never said so before."
Cornelia turned to the window and gazed out on the forbidden grass of
the Park. Her face was hidden from view, and she answered by another
question, put in slow, thoughtful tones.--"What is love? You seem to
feel pretty certain that yours is the genuine article. Define it for
me! How do you feel when you are in dear Geoffrey's society?"
"Happy! so wonderfully happy that I seem to walk on air. Everything
seems beautiful, and I love everybody, and long to make them as happy as
myself. Nothing troubles me any more. It seems as if nothing could
_ever_ trouble me. Geoffrey's there! He is like a great big rock,
which will shelter me all my life."
"Do you feel one moment that it's the cutest thing in the world to sit
right there in the shade and be fussed over, and the next as if you
wanted to knock the rock down _flat_, and march away down your own road?
Do you feel blissful one moment and the next all worked up, and fit to
scratch? When he's kinder big and superior, and the natural protector,
do you feel ugly; or inclined to cave in, and honour and obey?"
Elma stared at her with shocked blue eyes.
"Of _course_ I'll obey! Geoffrey is so wise and clever. He knows so
much better than I. I'm only too thankful to let him decide for us
both. You talk so strangely, Cornelia; I don't understand--"
Cornelia swung round quickly, and kissed her upon the cheek.
"Never mind, sweetling!" she said fondly, "don't _try_ to understand!
You are better off as you are. It is women like you who have the best
time in the world, and are the most loved. I wish I were like you, but
I'm not, so what's the use of repining. I am as I wor' created!"
She laughed, but the laugh had a forced, unnatural sound. Elma saw with
dismay a glimmer of tears in the golden eyes.