Sandra Belloni (originally Emilia in England). Complete

Mrs. Chump remained on the field. When Adela begged her papa to tell her how long the lady was to stay, he replied: “Eh? By the way, I haven’t asked her;” and retreated from this almost too obvious piece of simplicity, with, “I want you to know her: I want you to like her—want you to get to understand her. Won’t talk about her going just yet.”

If they could have seen a limit to that wholesale slaughter of the Nice Feelings, they might have summoned patience to avoid the desperate step to immediate relief: but they saw none. Their father’s quaint kindness and Wilfrid’s treachery had fixed her there, perhaps for good. The choice was, to let London come and see them dragged through the mire by the monstrous woman, or to seek new homes. London, they contended, could not further be put off, and would come, especially now that the season was dying. After all, their parting from one another was the bitterest thing to bear, and as each seemed content to endure it for the good of all, and as, properly considered, they did not bury their ambition by separating, they said farewell to the young delicious dawn of it. By means of Fine Shades it was understood that Brookfield was to be abandoned. Not one direct word was uttered. There were expressions of regret that the village children of Ipley would miss the supervizing eyes that had watched over them—perchance! at any rate, would lose them. All went on in the household as before, and would have continued so, but that they had a chief among them. This was Adela Pole, who found her powers with the occasion.

Adela thought decisively: “People never move unless they are pushed.” And when you have got them to move ever so little, then propel; but by no means expect that a movement on their part means progression. Without propulsion nothing results. Adela saw what Cornelia meant to do. It was not to fly to Sir Twickenham, but to dismiss Mr. Barrett. Arabella consented to write to Edward Buxley, but would not speak of old days, and barely alluded to a misunderstanding; though if she loved one man, this was he. Adela was disengaged. She had moreover to do penance, for a wrong committed; and just as children will pinch themselves, pleased up to the verge of unendurable pain, so do sentimentalists find a keen relish in performing secret penance for self-accused offences. Thus they become righteous to their own hearts, and evade, as they hope, the public scourge. The wrong committed was (translated out of Fine Shades), that she had made love to her sister’s lover. In the original tongue—she had innocently played with the sacred fire of a strange affection; a child in the temple!—Our penitent child took a keen pinching pleasure in dictating words for Arabella to employ toward Edward.

And then, recurring to her interview with Wilfrid, it struck her: “Suppose that, after all, Money!…” Yes, Mammon has acted Hymen before now. Nothing else explained Mrs. Chump; so she thought, in one clear glimpse. Inveterate sentimental habit smeared the picture with two exclamations—“Impossible!” and “Papa!” I desire it to be credited that these simple interjections absolutely obscured her judgement. Little people think either what they are made to think, or what they choose to think; and the education of girls is to make them believe that facts are their enemies-a naughty spying race, upon whom the dogs of Pudeur are to be loosed, if they surprise them without note of warning. Adela silenced her suspicion, easily enough; but this did not prevent her taking a measure to satisfy it. Petting her papa one evening, she suddenly asked him for ninety pounds.

“Ninety!” said Mr. Pole, taking a sharp breath. He was as composed as possible.

“Is that too much, papa, darling?”

“Not if you want it—not if you want it, of course not.”

“You seemed astonished.”

“The sum! it’s an odd sum for a girl to want. Ten, twenty, fifty—a hundred; but you never hear of ninety, never! unless it’s to pay a debt; and I have all the bills, or your aunt has them.”

“Well, papa, if it excites you, I will do without it. It is for a charity, chiefly.”

Mr. Pole fumbled in his pocket, muttering, “No money here—cheque-book in town. I’ll give it you,” he said aloud, “to-morrow morning—morrow morning, early.”

“That will do, papa;” and Adela relieved him immediately by shooting far away from the topic.

The ladies retired early to their hall of council in the bedchamber of Arabella, and some time after midnight Cornelia went to her room; but she could not sleep. She affected, in her restlessness, to think that her spirits required an intellectual sedative, so she went down to the library for a book; where she skimmed many—a fashion that may be recommended, for assisting us to a sense of sovereign superiority to authors, and also of serene contempt for all mental difficulties. Fortified in this way, Cornelia took a Plutarch and an Encyclopaedia under her arm, to return to her room. But one volume fell, and as she stooped to recover it, her candle shared its fate. She had to find her way back in the dark. On the landing of the stairs, she fancied that she heard a step and a breath. The lady was of unshaken nerves. She moved on steadily, her hand stretched out a little before her. What it touched was long in travelling to her brain; but when her paralyzed heart beat again, she knew that her hand clasped another hand. Her nervous horror calmed as the feeling came to her of the palpable weakness of the hand.

“Who are you?” she asked. Some hoarse answer struck her ear. She asked again, making her voice distincter. The hand now returned her pressure with force. She could feel that the person, whoever it was, stood collecting strength to speak. Then the words came—

“What do you mean by imitating that woman’s brogue?”

“Papa!” said Cornelia.

“Why do you talk Irish in the dark? There, goodnight. I’ve just come up from the library; my candle dropped. I shouldn’t have been frightened, but you talked with such a twang.”

“But I have just come from the library myself,” said Cornelia.

“I mean from the dining-room,” her father corrected himself hastily. “I can’t sit in the library; shall have it altered—full of draughts. Don’t you think so, my dear? Good-night. What’s this in your arm? Books! Ah, you study! I can get a light for myself.”

The dialogue was sustained in the hard-whispered tones prescribed by darkness. Cornelia kissed her father’s forehead, and they parted.

At breakfast in the morning it was the habit of all the ladies to assemble, partly to countenance the decency of matin-prayers, and also to give the head of the household their dutiful society till business called him away. Adela, in earlier days, had maintained that early rising was not fashionable; but she soon grasped the idea that a great rivalry with Fashion, in minor matters (where the support of the satirist might be counted on), was the proper policy of Brookfield. Mrs. Chump was given to be extremely fashionable in her hours, and began her Brookfield career by coming downstairs at ten and eleven o’clock, when she found a desolate table, well stocked indeed, but without any of the exuberant smiles of nourishment which a morning repast should wear.

“You are a Protestant, ma’am, are you not?” Adela mildly questioned, after informing her that she missed family prayer by her late descent. Mrs. Chump assured her that she was a firm Protestant, and liked to see faces at the breakfast-table. The poor woman was reduced to submit to the rigour of the hour, coming down flustered, and endeavouring to look devout, while many uncertainties as to the condition of the hooks of her attire distracted her mind and fingers. On one occasion, Gainsford, the footman, had been seen with his eye on her; and while Mr. Pole read of sacred things, at a pace composed of slow march and amble, this unhappy man was heard struggling to keep under and extinguish a devil of laughter, by which his human weakness was shaken: He retired from the room with the speed of a voyager about to pay tribute on high seas. Mr. Pole cast a pregnant look at the servants’ row as he closed the book; but the expression of his daughters’ faces positively signified that no remark was to be made, and he contained himself. Later, the ladies told him that Gainsford had done no worse than any uneducated man would have been guilty of doing. Mrs. Chump had, it appeared, a mother’s feeling for one flat curl on her rugged forehead, which was often fondly caressed by her, for the sake of ascertaining its fixity. Doubts of the precision of outline and general welfare of this curl, apparently, caused her to straighten her back and furtively raise her head, with an easy upward motion, as of a cork alighted in water, above the level of the looking-glass on her left hand—an action she repeated, with a solemn aspect, four times; at which point Gainsford gave way. The ladies accorded him every extenuation for the offence. They themselves, but for the heroism of exalted natures, must have succumbed to the gross temptation. “It is difficult, dear papa, to bring one’s mind to religious thoughts in her company, even when she is quiescent,” they said. Thus, by the prettiest exercise of charity that can be conceived, they pleaded for the man Gainsford, while they struck a blow at Mrs. Chump; and in performing one of the virtues laid down by religion, proved their enemy to be hostile to its influences.

Mrs. Chump was this morning very late. The office of morning reader was new to Mr. Pole, who had undertaken it, when first Squire of Brookfield, at the dictate of the ladies his daughters; so that, waiting with the book before him and his audience expectant, he lacked composure, spoke irritably in an under-breath of ‘that woman,’ and asked twice whether she was coming or not. At last the clump of her feet was heard approaching. Mr. Pole commenced reading the instant she opened the door. She stood there, with a face like a petrified Irish outcry. An imploring sound of “Pole! Pole!” issued from her. Then she caught up one hand to her mouth, and rolled her head, in evident anguish at the necessitated silence. A convulsion passed along the row of maids, two of whom dipped to their aprons; but the ladies gazed with a sad consciousness of wicked glee at the disgust she was exciting in the bosom of their father.

“Will you shut the door?” Mr. Pole sternly addressed Mrs. Chump, at the conclusion of the first prayer.

“Pole! ye know that money ye gave me in notes? I must speak, Pole!”

“Shut the door.”

Mrs. Chump let go the door-handle with a moan. The door was closed by Gainsford, now one of the gravest of footmen. A chair was placed for her, and she sat down, desperately watching the reader for the fall of his voice. The period was singularly protracted. The ladies turned to one another, to question with an eyelid why it was that extra allowance was given that morning. Mr. Pole was in a third prayer, stumbling on and picking himself up, apparently unaware that he had passed the limit. This continued until the series of ejaculations which accompanied him waxed hotter—little muffled shrieks of: “Oh!—Deer—Oh, Lard!—When will he stop? Oh, mercy! Och! And me burrstin’ to speak!—Oh! what’ll I do? I can’t keep ‘t in!—Pole! ye’re kill’n me—Oh, deer! I’ll be sayin’ somethin’ to vex the prophets presently. Pole!”

If it was a race that he ran with Mrs. Chump, Mr. Pole was beaten. He came to a sudden stop.

Mrs. Chump had become too deeply absorbed in her impatience to notice the change in his tone; and when he said, “Now then, to breakfast, quick!” she was pursuing her lamentable interjections. At sight of the servants trooping forth, she jumped up and ran to the door.

“Ye don’t go.—Pole, they’re all here. And I’ve been robbed, I have. Avery note I had from ye, Pole, all gone. And my purse left behind, like the skin of a thing. Lord forbid I accuse annybody; but when I get up, my first rush is to feel in my pocket. And, ask ‘em!—If ye didn’t keep me so poor, Pole, they’d know I’m a generous woman, but I cann’t bear to be robbed. And pinmoney ‘s for spendin;’ annybody’ll tell you that. And I ask ye t’ examine ‘em, Pole; for last night I counted my notes, wantin’ change, and I thought of a salmon I bought on the banks of the Suir to make a present to Chump, which was our onnly visit to Waterford together: for he naver went t’ Ireland before or after—dyin’ as he did! and it’s not his ingrat’tude, with his talk of a Severrn salmon-to the deuce with ‘m! that makes me soft-poor fella!—I didn’t mean to the deuce;—but since he’s gone, his widde’s just unfit to bargain for a salmon at all, and averybody robs her, and she’s kept poor, and hatud!—D’ye heer, Pole? I’ve lost my money, my money! and I will speak, and ye shann’t interrupt me!”

During the delivery of this charge against the household, Mr. Pole had several times waved to the servants to begone; but as they had always the option to misunderstand authoritative gestures, they preferred remaining, and possibly he perceived that they might claim to do so under accusation.

“How can you bring this charge against the inmates of my house—eh? I guarantee the honesty of all who serve me. Martha! you must be mad, mad!—Money? why, you never have money; you waste it if you do.”

“Not money, Pole? Oh! and why? Becas ye keep me low o’ purpose, till I cringe like a slut o’ the scullery, and cry out for halfpence. But, oh! that seventy-five pounds in notes!”

Mr. Pole shook his head, as one who deals with a gross delusion: “I remember nothing about it.”

“Not about—?” Mrs. Chump dropped her chin. “Ye don’t remember the givin’ of me just that sum of seventy-five, in eight notes, Pole?”

“Eh? I daresay I have given you the amount, one time or other. Now, let’s be quiet about it.”

“Yesterday mornin’, Pole! And the night I go to bed I count my money, and, says I, I’ll not lock ut up, for I’ll onnly be unlockin’ again to-morrow; and doin’ a thing and undoin’ ut’s a sign of a brain that’s addled—like yours, Pole, if ye say ye didn’t go to give me the notes.”

Mr. Pole frowned at her sagaciously. “Must change your diet, Martha!”

“My dite? And what’s my dite to do with my money?”

“Who went into Mrs. Chump’s bedchamber this morning?” asked Mr. Pole generally.

A pretty little housemaid replied, with an indignant flush, that she was the person. Mrs. Chump acknowledged to being awake when the shutters were opened, and agreed that it was not possible her pockets could have been rifled then.

“So, you see, Martha, you’re talking nonsense,” said Mr. Pole. “Do you know the numbers of those notes?”

“The numbers at the sides, ye mean, Pole?”

“Ay, the numbers at the sides, if you like; the 21593, and so on?”

“The 21593! Oh! I can’t remember such a lot as that, if ever I leave off repeatin’ it.”

“There! you see, you’re not fit to have money in your possession, Martha. Everybody who has bank-notes looks at the numbers. You have a trick of fancying all sorts of sums in your pocket; and when you don’t find them there, of course they’re lost! Now, let’s have some breakfast.”

Arabella told the maids to go out. Mr. Pole turned to the breakfast-table, rubbing his hands. Seeing herself and her case abandoned, Mrs. Chump gave a deplorable shout. “Ye’re crool! and young women that look on at a fellow-woman’s mis’ry. Oh! how can ye do ut! But soft hearts can be the hardest. And all my seventy-five gone, gone! and no law out of annybody. And no frightenin’ of ‘em off from doin’ the like another time! Oh, I will, I will have my money!”

“Tush! Come to breakfast, Martha,” said Mr. Pole. “You shall have money, if you want it; you have only to ask. Now, will you promise to be quiet? and I’ll give you this money—the amount you’ve been dreaming about last night. I’ll fetch it. Now, let us have no scenes. Dry your eyes.”

Mr. Pole went to his private room, and returned just as Mrs. Chump had got upon a succession of quieter sobs with each one of which she addressed a pathetic roll of her eyes to the utterly unsympathetic ladies respectively.

“There, Martha; there’s exactly the sum for you—free gift. Say thank you, and eat a good breakfast to show your gratitude. Mind, you take this money on condition that you let the servants know you made a mistake.”