Wilfrid Cumbermede

‘No one. But I have come to the knowledge of what only one besides yourself could have told me.’

‘You mean—’

‘Geoffrey Brotherton.’

‘He! He has been telling you—’

‘No—thank heaven! I have not yet sunk to the slightest communication with him.’

She turned her face aside. Veiled as it was by the gathering gloom, she yet could not keep it towards me. But after a brief pause she looked at me and said,

‘You know more than—I do not know what you mean.’

‘I do know more than you think I know. I will tell you under what circumstances I came to such knowledge.’

She stood motionless.

‘One evening,’ I went on, ‘after leaving Moldwarp Hall with Charles Osborne, I returned to the library to fetch a book. As I entered the room where it lay, I heard voices in the armoury. One was the voice of Geoffrey Brotherton—a man you told me you hated. The other was yours.’

She drew herself up, and stood stately before me.

‘Is that your accusation?’ she said. ‘Is a woman never to speak to a man because she detests him?’

She laughed—I thought drearily.

‘Apparently not—for then I presume you would not have asked me to meet you.’

‘Why should you think I hate you?’

‘Because you have been treacherous to me.’

‘In talking to Geoffrey Brotherton? I do hate him. I hate him more than ever. I spoke the truth when I told you that.’

‘Then you do not hate me?’

‘No.’

‘And yet you delivered me over to my enemy bound hand and foot, as Delilah did Samson.—I heard what you said to Brotherton.’

She seemed to waver, but stood—speechless, as if waiting for more.

‘I heard you tell him that I had taken that sword—the sword you had always been urging me to take—the sword you unsheathed and laid on my bed that I might be tempted to take it—why I cannot understand, for I never did you a wrong to my poor knowledge. I fell into your snare, and you made use of the fact you had achieved to ruin my character, and drive me from the house in which I was foolish enough to regard myself as conferring favours rather than receiving them. You have caused me to be branded as a thief for taking—at your suggestion—that which was and still is my own!’

‘Does Charley know this?’ she asked, in a strangely altered voice.

‘He does. He learned it yesterday.’

‘O my God!’ she cried, and fell kneeling on the grass at my feet. ‘Wilfrid! Wilfrid! I will tell you all. It was to tell you all about this very thing that I asked you to come. I could not bear it longer. Only your tone made me angry. I did not know you knew so much.’

The very fancy of such submission from such a creature would have thrilled me with a wild compassion once; but now I thought of Charley and felt cold to her sorrow as well as her loveliness. When she lifted her eyes to mine, however—it was not so dark but I could see their sadness—I began to hope a little for my friend. I took her hand and raised her. She was now weeping with down-bent head.

‘Clara, you shall tell me all. God forbid I should be hard upon you! But you know I cannot understand it. I have no clue to it. How could you serve me so?’

‘It is very hard for me—but there is no help now: I must confess disgrace, in order to escape infamy. Listen to me, then—as kindly as you can, Wilfrid. I beg your pardon; I have no right to use any old familiarity with you. Had my father’s plans succeeded, I should still have had to make an apology to you, but under what different circumstances! I will be as brief as I can. My father believed you the rightful heir to Moldwarp Hall. Your own father believed it, and made my father believe it—that was in case your uncle should leave no heir behind him. But your uncle was a strange man, and would neither lay claim to the property himself, nor allow you to be told of your prospects. He did all he could to make you, like himself, indifferent to worldly things; and my father feared you would pride yourself on refusing to claim your rights, unless some counter-influence were used.’

‘But why should your father have taken any trouble in the matter?’ I asked.

‘Well, you know—one in his profession likes to see justice done; and, besides, to conduct such a case must, of course, be of professional advantage to him. You must not think him under obligation to the present family: my grandfather held the position he still occupies before they came into the property.—I am too unhappy to mind what I say now. My father was pleased when you and I—indeed I fancy he had a hand in our first meeting. But while your uncle lived he had to be cautious. Chance, however, seemed to favour his wishes. We met more than once, and you liked me, and my father thought I might wake you up to care about your rights, and—and—but—’

‘I see. And it might have been, Clara, but for—’

‘Only, you see, Mr Cumbermede,’ she interrupted with a half-smile, and a little return of her playful manner—‘I didn’t wish it.’

‘No. You preferred the man who had the property.’

It was a speech both cruel and rude. She stepped a pace back, and looked me proudly in the face.

Prefer that man to you, Wilfrid! No. I could never have fallen so low as that. But I confess I didn’t mind letting papa understand that Mr Brotherton was polite to me—just to keep him from urging me to—to—You will do me the justice that I did not try to make you—to make you—care for me, Wilfrid?’

‘I admit it heartily. I will be as honest as you, and confess that you might have done so—easily enough at one time. Indeed I am only half honest after all: I loved you once—after a boyish fashion.’

She half smiled again. ‘I am glad you are believing me now,’ she said.

‘Thoroughly,’ I answered. ‘When you speak the truth, I must believe you.’

‘I was afraid to let papa know the real state of things. I was always afraid of him, though I love him dearly, and he is very good to me. I dared not disappoint him by telling him that I loved Charley Osborne. That time—you remember—when we met in Switzerland, his strange ways interested me so much! I was only a girl—but—’

‘I understand well enough. I don’t wonder at any woman falling in love with my Charley.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, with a sigh which seemed to come from the bottom of her heart. ‘You were always generous. You will do what you can to right me with Charley—won’t you? He is very strange sometimes.’

‘I will indeed. But, Clara, why didn’t Charley let me know that you and he loved each other?’

‘Ah! there my shame comes in again! I wanted—for my father’s sake, not for my own—I need not tell you that—I wanted to keep my influence over you a little while—that is, until I could gain my father’s end. If I should succeed in rousing you to enter an action for the recovery of your rights, I thought my father might then be reconciled to my marrying Charley instead—’

‘Instead of me, Clara. Yes—I see. I begin to understand the whole thing. It’s not so bad as I thought—not by any means.’

‘Oh, Wilfrid! how good of you! I shall love you next to Charley all my life.’

She caught hold of my hand, and for a moment seemed on the point of raising it to her lips.

‘But I can’t easily get over the disgrace you have done me, Clara. Neither, I confess, can I get over your degrading yourself to a private interview with such a beast as I know—and can’t help suspecting you knew—Brotherton to be.’

She dropped my hand, and hid her face in both her own.

‘I did know what he was; but the thought of Charley made me able to go through with it.’

‘With the sacrifice of his friend to his enemy?’