Sandra Belloni (originally Emilia in England). Complete

“Is he gone?” Mr. Pole burst forward. “You’re gone, sir? Wilfrid, have you gone to that girl? I ask you whether…(there’s one shot at my heart,” he added in a swift undertone to one of the heads near him, while he caught at his breast with both hands). “Wilfrid, will you stay here?”

“For God’s sake, go to him, Wilfrid,” murmured Adela. “I can’t.”

“Because if you do—if you don’t—I mean, if you go…” The old man gasped at the undertone. “Now I have got it in my throat.”

A quick physical fear caught hold of him. In a moment his voice changed to entreaty. “I beg you won’t go, my dear boy. Wilfrid, I tell you, don’t go. Because, you wouldn’t act like a d—d—I’m not angry; but it is like acting like a—Here’s company, Wilfrid; come to me, my boy; do come here. You mayn’t ha—have your poor old father long, now he’s got you u—up in the world. I mean accidents, for I’m sound enough; only a little nervous from brain—Is he gone?”

Wilfrid was then leaving the room.

Lady Gosstre had been speaking to Mr. Powys. She was about to say a word to Lady Charlotte, when the latter walked to the doorway, and. In a manner that smote his heart with a spasm of gratitude, said; “Don’t heed these people. He will bring on a fit if you don’t stop. His nerves are out, and the wine they have given him… Go to him: I will go to Emilia, and do as much for her as you could.”

Wilfrid reached his father in time to see him stagger back into the arms of Mrs. Chump, whose supplication was for the female stimulant known as ‘something.’

CHAPTER XXXIII

On reaching home that night, Arabella surprised herself thinking, in the midst of her anguish: “Whatever is said of us, it cannot be said that there is a house where the servants have been better cared for.” And this reflection continued to burn with an astounding brilliancy through all the revolutions of a mind contemplating the dread of a fallen fortune, the fact of a public exposure, and what was to her an ambition destroyed. Adela had no such thoughts. “I have been walking on a plank,” she gasped from time to time, as she gave startled glances into the abyss of poverty, and hurried to her bedchamber—a faint whisper of self-condemnation in her ears at the ‘I’ being foremost. The sisters were too proud to touch upon one another’s misery in complaints, or to be common by holding debate on it. They had not once let their eyes meet at Besworth, as the Tinleys wonderingly noticed. They said good night to their papa, who was well enough to reply, adding peremptorily, “Downstairs at half-past eight,”—an intimation that he would be at the break-fast table and read prayers as usual. Inexperienced in nervous disease, they were now filled with the idea that he was possibly acting—a notion that had never been kindled in them before; or, otherwise, how came these rapid, almost instantaneous, recoveries?

Cornelia alone sounded near the keynote. Since the night that she had met him in the passage, and the next morning when Mrs. Chump had raised the hubbub about her loss, Cornelia’s thoughts had been troubled by some haunting spectral relationship with money. It had helped to make her reckless in granting interviews to Purcell Barrett. “If we are poor, I am free;” and that she might then give herself to whomever she pleased, was her logical deduction. The exposure at Besworth, and the partial confirmation of her suspicions, were not without their secret comfort to her. In the carriage, coming home, Wilfrid had touched her hand by chance, and pressed it with good heart. She went to the library, imagining that if he wished to see her he would appear, and by exposing his own weakness learn to excuse hers. She was right in her guess; Wilfrid came. He came sauntering into the room with “Ah! you here?” Cornelia consented to play into his hypocrisy. “Yes, I generally think better here,” she replied.

“And what has this pretty head got to do with thinking?”

“Not much, I suppose, my lord,” she replied, affecting nobly to acknowledge the weakness of the female creature.

Wilfrid kissed her with an unaccustomed fervour. This delicate mumming was to his taste. It was yet more so when she spoke playfully to him of his going soon to be a married man. He could answer to that in a smiling negative, playing round the question, until she perceived that he really desired to have his feeling for the odd dark girl who had recently shot across their horizon touched, if only it were led to by the muffled ways of innuendo.

As a dog, that cannot ask you verbally to scratch his head, but wishes it, will again and again thrust his head into your hand, petitioning mutely that affection may divine him, so:—but we deal with a sentimentalist, and the simile is too gross to be exact. For no sooner was Wilfrid’s head scratched, than the operation stuck him as humiliating; in other words, the moment he felt his sisters fingers in the ticklish part, he flew to another theme, then returned, and so backward and forward—mystifying her not slightly, and making her think, “Then he has no heart.” She by no means intended to encourage love for Emilia, but she hoped for his sake, that the sentiment he had indulged was sincere. By-and-by he said, that though he had no particular affection for Lady Charlotte, he should probably marry her.

“Without loving her, Wilfrid? It is unfair to her; it is unfair to yourself.”

Wilfrid understood perfectly who it was for whom she pleaded thus vehemently. He let her continue: and when she had dwelt on the horrors of marriages without love, and the supreme duty of espousing one who has our ‘heart’s loyalty,’ he said, “You may be right. A man must not play with a girl. He must consider that he owes a duty to one who is more dependent;”—implying that a woman s duty was distinct and different in such a case.

Cornelia could not rise and plead for her sex. Had she pushed forth the ‘woman,’ she must have stood for her.

This is the game of Fine Shades and Nice Feelings, under whose empire you see this family, and from which they are to emerge considerably shorn, but purified—examples of One present passage of our civilization.

“At least, dear, if” (Cornelia desperately breathed the name) “—if Emilia were forced to give her hand…loving…you…we should be right in pitying her?”

The snare was almost too palpable. Wilfrid fell into it, from the simple passion that the name inspired; and now his hand tightened. “Poor child!” he moaned.

She praised his kind heart: “You cannot be unjust and harsh, I know that. You could not see her—me—any of us miserable. Women feel, dear. Ah! I need not tell you that. Their tears are not the witnesses. When they do not weep, but the hot drops stream inwardly:—and, oh! Wilfrid, let this never happen to me. I shall not disgrace you, because I intend to see you happy with…with her, whoever she is; and I would leave you happy. But I should not survive it. I can look on Death. A marriage without love is dishonour.”

Sentiment enjoys its splendid moods. Wilfrid having had the figure of his beloved given to him under nuptial benediction, cloaked, even as he wished it to be, could afford now to commiserate his sister, and he admired her at the same time. “I’ll take care you are not made a sacrifice of when the event is fixed,” he said—as if it had never been in contemplation.

“Oh! I have not known happiness for years, till this hour,” Cornelia whispered to him bashfully; and set him wondering why she should be happy when she had nothing but his sanction to reject a man.

On the other hand, her problem was to gain lost ground by letting him know that, of the pair, it was not she who would marry beneath her station. She tried it mentally in various ways. In the end she thought it best to give him this positive assurance. “No,” he rejoined, “a woman never should.” There was no admission of equality to be got out of him, so she kissed him. Of their father’s health a few words were said—of Emilia nothing further. She saw that Wilfrid’s mind was resolved upon some part to play, but shrank from asking his confidence, lest facts should be laid bare.

At the breakfast-table Mr. Pole was a little late. He wore some of his false air of briskness on a hazy face, and read prayers—drawing breath between each sentence and rubbing his forehead; but the work was done by a man in ordinary health, if you chose to think so, as Mrs. Chump did. She made favourable remarks on his appearance, begging the ladies to corroborate her. They were silent.

“Now take a chop, Pole, and show your appetite,” she said. “‘A Chump-chop, my love?’ my little man used to invite me of a mornin’; and that was the onnly joke he had, so it’s worth rememberin’.”

A chop was placed before Mr. Pole. He turned it in his plate, and wonderingly called to mind that he had once enjoyed chops. At a loss to account for the distressing change, he exclaimed to himself, “Chump! I wish the woman wouldn’t thrust her husband between one’s teeth. An egg!”

The chop was displaced for an egg, which he tapped until Mrs. Chump cried out, “Oh! if ye’re not like a postman, Pole; and d’ye think ye’ve got a letter for a chick inside there?”

This allusion scared Mr. Pole from the egg. He quitted the table, muttering, “Business! business!” and went to the library.

When he was gone Mrs. Chump gave a cry to know where Braintop was, but, forgetting him immediately, turned to the ladies and ejaculated, “Broth’m. It’s just brothin’ he wants. Broth, I say, for anny man that won’t eat his chop or his egg. And, my dears, now, what do ye say to me for bringing him home to ye? I expect to be thanked, I do; and then we’ll broth Pole together, till he’s lusty as a prize-ox, and capers like a monkey.”

Wretched woman! that could not see the ruin she had inflicted—that could not imagine how her bitter breath cut against those sensitive skins! During a short pause little Mrs. Lupin trotted to the door, and shot through it, in a paroxysm.

Then Wilfrid’s voice was heard. He leaned against a corner of the window, and spoke without directly looking at Mrs. Chump; so that she was some time in getting to understand the preliminary, “Madam, you must leave this house.” But presently her chin dropped; and after feeble efforts to interpose an exclamation, she sat quiet—overcome by the deliberate gravity of his manner, and motioning despairingly with her head, to relieve the swarm of unborn figure-less ideas suggested by his passing speech. The ladies were ranged like tribunal shapes. It could not be said of souls so afflicted that they felt pleasure in the scene; but to assist in the administration of a rigorous justice is sweet to them that are smarting. They scarcely approved his naked statement of things when he came to Mrs. Chump’s particular aspiration in the household—viz., to take a station and the dignity of their name. The effect he produced satisfied them that the measure was correct. Her back gave a sharp bend, as if an eternal support had snapped. “Oh! ye hit hard,” she moaned.

“I tell you kindly that we (who, you will acknowledge, must count for something here) do not sanction any change that revolutionizes our domestic relations,” said Wilfrid; while Mrs. Chump heaved and rolled on the swell of the big words like an overladen boat. “You have only to understand so much, and this—that if we resist it, as we do, you, by continuing to contemplate it, are provoking a contest which will probably injure neither you nor me, but will be death to ham in his present condition.”

Mrs. Chump was heard to mumble that she alone knew the secret of restoring him to health, and that he was rendered peaky and poky only by people supposing him so.

“An astonishin’ thing!” she burst out. “If I kiss ‘m and say ‘Poor Pole!’ he’s poor Pole on the spot. And, if onnly I—”

But Wilfrid’s stern voice flowed over her. “Listen, madam, and let this be finished between us. You know well that when a man has children, he may wish to call another woman wife—a woman not their mother; but the main question is, will his children consent to let her take that place? We are of one mind, and will allow no one—no one—to assume that position. And now, there’s an end. We’ll talk like friends. I have only spoken in that tone that you might clearly comprehend me on an important point. I know you entertain a true regard for my father, and it is that belief which makes me—”

“Friends!” cried Mrs. Chump, getting courage from the savour of cajolery in these words. “Friends! Oh, ye fox! ye fox!”

And now commenced a curious duett. Wilfrid merely wished to terminate his sentence; Mrs. Chump wantonly sought to prevent him. Each was burdened with serious matter; but they might have struck hands here, had not this petty accidental opposition interposed. —“Makes me feel confident…” Wilfrid resumed.

“And Pole’s promos, Mr. Wilfrud; ye’re forgettin’ that.”

“Confident, ma’am.”

“He was the first to be soft.”

“I say, ma’am, for his sake—”

“An’ it’s for his sake. And weak as he is on ‘s legs, poor fells; which marr’ge ‘ll cure, bein’ a certain rem’dy.”

“Mrs. Chump! I beg you to listen.”

“Mr. Wilfrud! and I can see too, and it’s three weeks and ye kissed little Belloni in the passage, outside this vary door, and out in the garden.”

The blow was entirely unexpected, and took Wilfrid’s breath, so that he was not ready for his turn in this singular piece of harmony.

“Ye did!” Mrs. Chump rejoiced to behold how her chance spark kindled flame in his cheeks. “It’s pos’tuv ye did. And ye’re the best blusher of the two, my dear; and no shame to ye, though it is a garl’s business. That little Belloni takes to ‘t like milk; but you—”

Wilfrid strode up to her, saying imperiously, “I tell you to listen!”

She succumbed at once to a show of physical ascendency, murmuring, “It’s sure he was seen kissin’ of her twice, and mayhap more; and hearty smacks of the lips, too—likin’ it.”

The ladies rewarded Wilfrid for his service to their cause by absolutely hearing nothing—a feat women can be capable of.