Wilfrid Cumbermede

‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that,’ returned Sir Giles. ‘The barometer has been steadily falling for the last three days. My dear, you had better give your orders at once.’

‘You had better stop, Charley,’ I said.

‘I won’t if you go,’ he returned.

Clara was beside.

‘You must not think of going,’ she said.

Whether she spoke to him or me I did not know, but as Charley made no answer—

‘I cannot stop without being asked,’ I said, ‘and it is not likely that any one will take the trouble to ask me.’

The storm increased. At the request of the ladies, the gentlemen left the library and accompanied them to the drawing-room for tea. Our hostess asked Clara to sing, but she was too frightened to comply.

‘You will sing, Mary, if Lady Brotherton asks you, I know,’ said Mrs Osborne.

‘Do, my dear,’ said Lady Brotherton; and Mary at once complied.

I had never heard her sing, and did not expect much. But although she had little execution, there was, I found, a wonderful charm both in her voice and the simplicity of her mode. I did not feel this at first, nor could I tell when the song began to lay hold upon me, but when it ceased, I found that I had been listening intently. I have often since tried to recall it, but as yet it has eluded all my efforts. I still cherish the hope that it may return some night in a dream, or in some waking moment of quiescent thought, when what we call the brain works as it were of itself, and the spirit allows it play.

The close was lost in a louder peal of thunder than had yet burst. Charley and I went again to the library to look out on the night. It was dark as pitch, except when the lightning broke and revealed everything for one intense moment.

‘I think sometimes,’ said Charley, ‘that death will be like one of those flashes, revealing everything in hideous fact—for just one-moment and no more.’

‘How for one moment and no more, Charley?’ I asked.

‘Because the sight of the truth concerning itself must kill the soul, if there be one, with disgust at its own vileness, and the miserable contrast between its aspirations and attainments, its pretences and its efforts. At least, that would be the death fit for a life like mine—a death of disgust at itself. We claim immortality; we cringe and cower with the fear that immortality may not be the destiny of man; and yet we—I—do things unworthy not merely of immortality, but unworthy of the butterfly existence of a single day in such a world as this sometimes seems to be. Just think how I stabbed at my sister’s faith this morning—careless of making her as miserable as myself! Because my father has put into her mind his fancies, and I hate them, I wound again the heart which they wound, and which cannot help their presence!’

‘But the heart that can be sorry for an action is far above the action, just as her heart is better than the notions that haunt it.’

‘Sometimes I hope so. But action determines character. And it is all such a muddle! I don’t care much about what they call immortality. I doubt if it is worth the having. I would a thousand times rather have one day of conscious purity of heart and mind and soul and body, than an eternity of such life as I have now.—What am I saying?’ he added, with a despairing laugh. ‘It is a fool’s comparison; for an eternity of the former would be bliss—one moment of the latter is misery.’

I could but admire and pity my poor friend both at once.

Miss Pease had entered unheard.

‘Mr Cumbermede,’ she said, ‘I have been looking for you to show you your room. It is not the one I should like to have got for you, but Mrs Wilson says you have occupied it before, and I dare say you will find it comfortable enough.’

‘Thank you, Miss Pease. I am sorry you should have taken the trouble. I can go home well enough. I am not afraid of a little rain.’

‘A little rain!’ said Charley, trying to speak lightly.

‘Well, any amount of rain,’ I said.

‘But the lightning!’ expostulated Miss Pease in a timid voice.

‘I am something of a fatalist, Miss Pease,’ I said. ‘“Every bullet has its billet,” you know. Besides, if I had a choice, I think I would rather die by lightning than any other way.’

‘Don’t talk like that, Mr Cumbermede.—Oh! what a flash!’

‘I was not speaking irreverently, I assure you,’ I replied.—‘I think I had better set out at once, for there seems no chance of its clearing.’

‘I am sure Sir Giles would be distressed if you did.’

‘He will never know, and I dislike giving trouble.’

‘The room is ready. I will show you where it is, that you may go when you like.’

‘If Mrs Wilson says it is a room I have occupied before, I know the way quite well.’

‘There are two ways to it,’ she said. ‘But of course one of them is enough,’ she added with a smile. ‘Mr Osborne, your room is in another part quite.’

‘I know where my sister’s room is,’ said Charley. ‘Is it anywhere near hers?’

‘That is the room you are to have. Miss Osborne is to be with your mamma, I think. There is plenty of accommodation, only the notice was short.’

I began to button my coat.

‘Don’t go, Wilfrid,’ said Charley. ‘You might give offence. Besides, you will have the advantage of getting to work as early as you please in the morning.’

It was late and I was tired—consequently less inclined than usual to encounter a storm, for in general I enjoyed being in any commotion of the elements. Also I felt I should like to pass another night in that room, and have besides the opportunity of once more examining at my leisure the gap in the tapestry.

‘Will you meet me early in the library, Charley?’ I said.

‘Yes—to be sure I will—as early as you like.’

‘Let us go to the drawing-room, then.’

‘Why should you, if you are tired, and want to go to bed?’

‘Because Lady Brotherton will not like my being included in the invitation. She will think it absurd of me not to go home.’

‘There is no occasion to go near her, then.’

‘I do not choose to sleep in the house without knowing that she knows it.’

We went. I made my way to Lady Brotherton. Clara was standing near her.

‘I am much obliged by your hospitality, Lady Brotherton,’ I said. ‘It is rather a rough night to encounter in evening dress.’

She bowed.

‘The distance is not great, however,’ I said, ‘and perhaps—’

‘Out of the question!’ said Sir Giles, who came up at the moment.

Will you see, then, Sir Giles, that a room is prepared for your guest?’ she said.