CHAPTER XIX

Gossip of course was excited on the subject of the choice of a partner

made by the member for the county. Cornelia placed her sisters in one of

their most pleasing of difficulties. She had not as yet pledged her word.

It was supposed that she considered it due to herself to withhold her

word for a term. The rumour in the family was, that Sir Twickenham

appreciated her hesitation, and desired that he might be intimately known

before he was finally accepted. When the Tinleys called, they heard that

Cornelia's acceptance of the baronet was doubtful. The Copleys, on the

other hand, distinctly understood that she had decided in his favour.

Owing to the amiable dissension between the Copleys and the Tinleys, each

party called again; giving the ladies of Brookfield further opportunity

for studying one of the levels from which they had risen. Arabella did

almost all the fencing with Laura Tinley, contemptuously as a youth of

station returned from college will turn and foil an ill-conditioned

villager, whom formerly he has encountered on the green.

"Had they often met, previous to the...the proposal?" inquired Laura; and

laughed: "I was going to say 'popping.'"

"Pray do not check yourself, if a phrase appears to suit you," returned

Arabella.

"But it was in the neighbourhood, was it not?"

"They have met in the neighbourhood."

"At Richford?"

"Also at Richford."

"We thought it was sudden, dear; that's all."

"Why should it not be?"

"Perhaps the best things are, it is true."

"You congratulate us upon a benefit?"

"He is to be congratulated seriously. Naturally. When she decides, let me

know early, I do entreat you, because...well, I am of a different opinion

from some people, who talk of another attachment, or engagement, and I do

not believe in it, and have said so."

Rising to depart, Laura Tinley resumed: "Most singular! You are aware, of

course, that poor creature, our organist--I ought to say yours--who

looked (it was Mr. Sumner I heard say it--such a good thing!)" as if he

had been a gentleman in another world, and was the ghost of one in this:"

really one of the cleverest things! but he is clever!--Barrett's his

name: Barrett and some: musical name before it, like Handel. I mean one

that we are used to. Well, the man has totally and unexpectedly thrown up

his situation."

"His appointment," said Arabella. Permitting no surprise to be visible,

she paused: "Yes. I don't think we shall give our consent to her filling

the post."

Laura let it be seen that her adversary was here a sentence too quick for

her.

"Ah! you mean your little Miss Belloni?"

"Was it not of her you were thinking?"

"When?" asked Laura, shamefully bewildered.

"When you alluded to Mr. Barrett's vacant place."

"Not at the moment."

"I thought you must be pointing to her advancement."

"I confess it was not in my mind."

"In what consisted the singularity, then?"

"The singularity?"

"You prefaced your remarks with the exclamation, 'Singular!'"

Laura showed that Arabella had passed her guard. She hastened to

compliment her on her kindness to Emilia, and so sheathed her weapon for

the time, having just enjoyed a casual inspection of Mrs. Chump entering

the room, and heard the brogue an instant.

"Irish!" she whispered, smiling, with a sort of astonished discernment of

the nationality, and swept through the doorway: thus conveying forcibly

to Arabella her knowledge of what the ladies of Brookfield were enduring:

a fine Parthian shot.

That Cornelia should hold a notable county man, a baronet and owner of

great acres, in a state between acceptance and rejection, was considered

high policy by the ladies, whom the idea of it elevated; and they

encouraged her to pursue this course, without having a suspicion, shrewd

as they were, that it was followed for any other object than the honour

of the family. But Mr. Pole was in the utmost perplexity, and spoke of

baronets as things almost holy, to be kneeled to, prayed for. He was

profane. "I thought, papa," said Cornelia, "that women conferred the

favour when they gave their hands!"

It was a new light to the plain merchant. "How should you say if a Prince

came and asked for you?"

"Still that he asked a favour at my hands."

"Oh!" went Mr. Pole, in the voice of a man whose reason is outraged. The

placidity of Cornelia's reply was not without its effect on him,

nevertheless. He had always thought his girls extraordinary girls, and

born to be distinguished. "Perhaps she has a lord in view," he concluded:

it being his constant delusion to suppose that high towering female sense

has always a practical aim at a material thing. He was no judge of the

sex in its youth. "Just speak to her," he said to Wilfrid.

Wilfrid had heard from Emilia that there was a tragic background to this

outward placidity; tears on the pillow at night and long vigils. Emilia

had surprised her weeping, and though she obtained no confidences, the

soft mood was so strong in the stately lady, that she consented to weep

on while Emilia clasped her. Petitioning on her behalf to Wilfrid for

aid, Emilia had told him the scene; and he, with a man's stupidity,

alluded to it, not thinking what his knowledge of it revealed to a woman.

"Why do you vacillate, and keep us all in the dark as to what you mean?"

he began.

"I am not prepared," said Cornelia; the voice of humility issuing from a

monument.

"One of your oracular phrases! Are you prepared to be straightforward in

your dealings?"

"I am prepared for any sacrifice, Wilfrid."

"The marrying of a man in his position is a sacrifice!"

"I cannot leave papa."

"And why not?"

"He is ill. He does not speak of it, but he is ill. His actions are

strange. They are unaccountable."

"He has an old friend to reside in his house?"

"It is not that. I have noticed him. His mind...he requires watching."

"And how long is it since you made this discovery?"

"One sees clearer perhaps when one is not quite happy."

"Not happy! Then it's for him that you turn the night to tears?"

Cornelia closed her lips. She divined that her betrayer must be close in

his confidence. She went shortly after to Emilia, whose secret at once

stood out bare to a kindled suspicion. There was no fear that Cornelia

would put her finger on it accusingly, or speak of it directly. She had

the sentimentalist's profound respect for the name and notion of love.

She addressed Emilia vaguely, bidding her keep guard on her emotions, and

telling her there was one test of the truth of masculine protestations;

this, Will he marry you? The which, if you are poor, is a passably

infallible test. Emilia sucked this in thoughtfully. She heard that

lovers were false. Why, then of course they were not like her lover!

Cornelia finished what she deemed her duty, and departed, while Emilia

thought: "I wonder whether he could be false to me;" and she gave herself

shrewd half-delicious jarrings of pain, forcing herself to contemplate

the impossible thing.

She was in this state when Mrs. Chump came across her, and with a slight

pressure of a sovereign into her hand, said: "There, it's for you, little

Belloni! and I see ye've been thinkin' me one o' the scrape-hards and

close-fists. It's Pole who keeps me low, on purpose. And I'm a wretch if

I haven't my purse full, so you see I'm all in the dark in the house, and

don't know half so much as the sluts o' the kitchen. So, ye'll tell me,

little Belloni, is Arr'bella goin' to marry Mr. Annybody? And is Cornelia

goin' to marry Sir Tickleham? And whether Mr. Wilfrud's goin' to marry

Lady Charlotte Chill'nworth? Becas, my dear, there's Arr'bella, who's

sharp, she is, as a North-easter in January, (which Chump 'd cry out for,

for the sake of his ships, poor fella--he kneelin' by 's bedside in a

long nightgown and lookin' just twice what he was!) she has me like a

nail to my vary words, and shows me that nothin' can happen betas o' what

I've said. And Cornelia--if ye'll fancy a tall codfish on its tail: 'Mrs.

Chump, I beg ye'll not go to believe annything of me.' So I says to her,

'Cornelia! my dear! do ye think, now, it's true that Chump went and

marrud his cook, that ye treat me so? becas my father,' I tell her, 'he

dealt in porrk in a large way, and I was a fine woman, full of the

arr'stocracy, and Chump a little puffed-out bladder of a man.' So then

she says: 'Mrs. Chump, I listen to no gossup: listen you to no gossup.

'And Mr. Wilfrud, my dear, he sends me on the flat o' my back, laughin'.

And Ad'la she takes and turns me right about, so that I don't see the

thing I'm askin' after; and there's nobody but you, little Belloni, to

help me, and if ye do, ye shall know what the crumple of paper sounds

like."

Mrs. Chump gave a sugary suck with her tongue. Emilia returned the money

to her.

"Ye're foolush!" said Mrs. Chump. "A shut fist's good in fight and bad in

friendship. Do ye know that? Open your hand."

"Excuse me," persisted Emilia.

"Pooh! take the money, or I'll say ye're in a conspiracy to make me

blindman's-buff of the parrty. Take ut."

"I don't want it."

"Maybe, it's not enough?"

"I don't want any, ma'am."

"Ma'am, to the deuce with ye! I'll be callin' ye a forr'ner in a minute,

I will."

Emilia walked away from a volley of terrific threats.

For some reason, unfathomed by her, she wanted to be alone with Wilfrid

and put a question to him. No other, in sooth, than the infallible test.

Not, mind you, that she wished to be married. But something she had heard

(she had forgotten what it was) disturbed her, and that recent trifling

with pain, in her excess of happiness, laid her open to it. Her heart was

weaker, and fluttered, as if with a broken wing. She thought, "if I can

be near him to lean against him for one full hour!" it would make her

strong again. For, she found that if her heart was rising on a broad

breath, suddenly, for no reason that she knew, it seemed to stop in its

rise, break, and sink, like a wind-beaten billow. Once or twice, in a

quick fear, she thought: "What is this? Is this a malady coming before

death?" She walked out gloomily, thinking of the darkness of the world to

Wilfrid, if she should die. She plucked flowers, and then reproached

herself with plucking them. She tried to sing. "No, not till I have been

with him alone;" she said, chiding her voice to silence. A shadow crossed

her mind, as a Spring-mist dulls the glory of May. "Suppose all singing

has gone from me--will he love wretched me?"

By-and-by she met him in the house. "Come out of doors to-night," she

whispered.

Wilfrid's spirit of intrigue was never to be taken by surprise. "In the

wood, under the pine, at nine," he replied.

"Not there," said Emilia, seeing this place mournfully dark from

Cornelia's grief. "It is too still; say, where there's water falling. One

can't be unhappy by noisy water."

Wilfrid considered, and named Wilming Weir. "And there we'll sit and

you'll sing to me. I won't dine at home, so they won't susp-a-fancy

anything.--Soh! and you want very much to be with me, my bird? What am

I?" He bent his head.

"My lover."

He pressed her hand rapturously, half-doubting whether her pronunciation

of the word had not a rather too confident twang.

Was it not delightful, he asked her, that they should be thus one to the

other, and none know of it. She thought so too, and smiled happily,

promising secresy, at his request; for the sake of continuing so

felicitous a life.

"You, you know, have an appointment with Captain Gambier, and, I with

Lady Charlotte Chillingworth," said he. "How dare you make appointments

with a captain of hussars?" and he bent her knuckles fondlingly.

Emilia smiled as before. He left her with a distinct impression that she

did not comprehend that part of her lesson.

Wilfrid had just bled his father of a considerable sum of money; having

assured him that he was the accepted suitor of Lady Charlotte

Chillingworth, besides making himself pleasant in allusion to Mrs. Chump,

so far as to cast some imputation on his sisters' judgement for not

perceiving the virtues of the widow. The sum was improvidently large. Mr.

Pole did not hear aright when he heard it named. Even at the repetition,

he went: "Eh?" two or three times, vacantly. The amount was distinctly

nailed to his ear: whereupon he said, "Ah!--yes! you young fellows want

money: must have it, I suppose. Up from the bowels of the earth Up from

the--: you're sure they're not playing the fool with you, over there?"

Wilfrid understood the indication to Stornley. "I think you need have no

fear of that, sir." And so his father thought, after an examination of

the youth, who was of manly shape, and had a fresh, non-fatuous, air.

"Well, if that's all right..." sighed Mr. Pole. "Of course you'll always

know that money's money. I wish your sisters wouldn't lose their time, as

they do. Time's worth more than money. What sum?"

"I told you, sir, I wanted--there's the yacht, you know, and a lot of

tradesmen's bills, which you don't like to see standing:-about--perhaps I

had better name the round sum. Suppose you write down eight hundred. I

shan't want more for some months. If you fancy it too much..."

Mr. Pole had lifted his head. But he spoke nothing. His lips and brows

were rigid in apparent calculation. Wilfrid kept his position for a

minute or so; and then, a little piqued, he moved about. He had inherited

the antipathy to the discussion of the money question, and fretted to

find it unnecessarily prolonged.

"Shall I come to you on this business another time, sir?"

"No, God bless my soul!" cried his father; "are you going to keep this

hanging over me for ever? Eight hundred, you said." He mumbled: "salary

of a chief clerk of twenty years' standing. Eight: twice four:--there you

have it exactly."

"Will you send it me in a letter?" said Wilfrid, out of patience.

"I'll send it you in a letter," assented his father. Upon which Wilfrid

changed his mind. "I can take a chair, though. I can easily wait for it

now."

"Save trouble, if I send it. Eh?"

"Do you wish to see whether you can afford it, sir?"

"I wish to see you show more sense--with your confounded 'afford.' Have

you any idea of bankers' books?--bankers' accounts?" Mr. Pole fished his

cheque-book from a drawer and wrote Wilfrid's name and the sum, tore out

the leaf and tossed it to him. "There, I've written to-day. Don't present

it for a week." He rubbed his forehead hastily, touching here and there a

paper to put it scrupulously in a line with the others. Wilfrid left him,

and thought: "Kind old boy! Of course, he always means kindly, but I

think I see a glimpse of avarice as a sort of a sign of age coming on. I

hope he'll live long!"

Wilfrid was walking in the garden, imagining perhaps that he was

thinking, as the swarming sensations of little people help them to

imagine, when Cornelia ran hurriedly up to him and said: "Come with me to

papa. He's ill: I fear he is going to have a fit."

"I left him sound and well, just now," said Wilfrid. "This is your

mania."

"I found him gasping in his chair not two minutes after you quitted him.

Dearest, he is in a dangerous state!"

Wilfrid stept back to his father, and was saluted with a ready "Well?" as

he entered; but the mask had slipped from half of the old man's face, and

for the first time in his life Wilfrid perceived that he had become an

old man.

"Well, sir, you sent for me?" he said.

"Girls always try to persuade you you're ill--that's all," returned Mr.

Pole. His voice was subdued; but turning to Cornelia, he fired up: "It's

preposterous to tell a man who carries on a business like mine, you've

observed for a long while that he's queer!--There, my dear child, I know

that you mean well. I shall look all right the day you're married."

This allusion, and the sudden kindness, drew a storm of tears to

Cornelia's eyelids.

"Papa! if you will but tell me what it is!" she moaned.

A nervous frenzy seemed to take possession of him. He ordered her out of

the room.

She was gone, but his arm was still stretched out, and his expression of

irritated command did not subside.

Wilfrid took his arm and put it gently down on the chair, saying: "You're

not quite the thing to-day, sir."

"Are you a fool as well?" Mr. Pole retorted. "What do you know of, to

make me ill? I live a regular life. I eat and drink just as you all do;

and if I have a headache, I'm stunned with a whole family screaming as

hard as they can that I'm going to die. Damned hard! I say, sir, it's--"

He fell into a feebleness.

"A little glass of brandy, I think," Wilfrid suggested; and when Mr. Pole

had gathered his mind he assented, begging his son particularly to take

precautions to prevent any one from entering the room until he had tasted

the reviving liquor.