Sandra Belloni (originally Emilia in England). Complete

“I’ll be vary happy to represent ye at the forthcomin’ ‘lection,” Mrs. Chump gave a continuation in his tone.

“Why, won’t that do, ma’am?” Braintop asked in wonderment.

“Cap’tal for a circular, Mr. Braintop. And ye’ll allow me to say that I don’t think ye’ve been to church at all.”

This accusation containing a partial truth (that is, true if it referred to the afternoon, but not as to the morning), it was necessary for Braintop’s self-vindication that he should feel angry. The two were very soon recriminating, much in the manner of boy and girl shut up on a sunny afternoon; after which they, in like manner, made it up—the fact of both having a habit of consulting the glass, and the accident of their doing it at the same time, causing an encounter of glances there that could hardly fail to be succeeded by some affability. For a last effort, Mrs. Chump laid before Braintop a prospect of advancement in his office, if he so contrived as to write a letter that should land her in Brookfield among a scourged, repentant, and forgiven people. That he might understand the position, she went far modestly to reveal her weakness for Mr. Pole. She even consented to let ‘Ladies’ be the opening apostrophe, provided the word ‘Young’ went before it: “They’ll feel that sting,” she said. Braintop stipulated that she should not look till the letter was done; and, observing his pen travelling the lines in quick succession, Mrs. Chump became inspired by a great but uneasy hope. She was only to be restrained from peeping, by Braintop’s petulant “Pray, ma’am!” which sent her bouncing back to her chair, with a face upon one occasion too solemn for Braintop’s gravity. He had written himself into excellent spirits; and happening to look up as Mrs. Chump retreated from his shoulder, the woman’s comic reverence for his occupation—the prim movement of her lips while she repeated mutely the words she supposed he might be penning—touched him to laughter. At once Mrs. Chump seized on the paper. “Young ladus,” she read aloud, “yours of the 2nd, the 14th, and 21st ulto. The ‘ffection I bear to your onnly remaining parent.”

Her enunciation waxed slower and significantly staccato toward a pause. The composition might undoubtedly have issued from a merchant’s office, and would have done no discredit to the establishment. When the pause came, Braintop, half for an opinion, and to encourage progress, said, “Yes, ma’am;” and with “There, sir!” Mrs. Chump crumpled up the paper and flung it at him. “And there, sir!” she tossed a pen. Hearing Braintop mutter, “Lady-like behaviour,” Mrs. Chump came out in a fiery bloom. “Ye detestable young fella! Oh, ye young deceiver! Ye cann’t do the work of a man! Oh! and here’s another woman dis’pointed, and when she thought she’d got a man to write her letters!”

Braintop rose and retorted.

“Ye’re false, Mr. Braintop—ye’re offensuv, sir!” said Mrs. Chump; and Braintop instantly retired upon an expressive bow. When he was out of the room, Mrs. Chump appealed spitefully to an audience of chairs; but when she heard the front-door shut with a report, she jumped up in terror, crying incredulously, “Is the young man pos’tively one? Oh! and me alone in a rage!—” the contemplated horrors of which position set her shouting vociferously. “Mr. Braintop!” sounded over the stairs, and “Mr. Braintop!” into the street. The maid brought Mrs. Chump her bonnet. Night had fallen; and nothing but the greatest anxiety to recover Braintop would have tempted her from her house. She made half-a-dozen steps, and then stopped to mutter, “Oh! if ye’d onnly come, I’d forgive ye—indeed I would!”

“Well, here I am,” was instantaneously answered; her waist was clasped, and her forehead was kissed.

The madness of Braintop’s libertinism petrified her.

“Ye’ve taken such a liberty, sir ‘deed ye’ve forgotten yourself!”

While she was speaking; she grew confused with the thought that Braintop had mightily altered both his voice and shape. When on the doorstep he said; “Come out of the darkness or, upon my honour, I shall behave worse,” she recognized Wilfrid, and understood by his yachting costume in what manner he had come. He gave her no time to think of her dignity or her wrath. “Lady Charlotte is with me. I sleep at the hotel; but you have no objection to receive her, have you?” This set her mind upon her best bedroom, her linen, and the fitness of her roof to receive a title. Then, in a partial fit of gratitude for the honour, and immense thankfulness at being spared the task of the letter, she fell on Wilfrid’s shoulder, beginning to sob—till he, in alarm at his absurd position, suggested that Lady Charlotte awaited a welcome. Mrs. Chump immediately flew to her drawing-room and rang bells, appearing presently with a lamp, which she set on a garden-pillar. Together they stood by the lamp, a spectacle to ocean: but no Lady Charlotte drew near.

CHAPTER, XXXVI

Though Mrs. Chump and Wilfrid, as they stood by the light of the lamp, saw no one, they themselves were seen. Lady Charlotte had arranged to give him a moment in advance to make his peace. She had settled it with that air of practical sense which her title made graceful to him. “I will follow; and I dare say I can complete what you leave unfinished,” she said. Her humorous sense of the aristocratic prestige was conveyed to him in a very taking smile. He scarcely understood why she should have planned so decisively to bring about a reconciliation between Mrs. Chump and his family; still, as it now chimed perfectly with his own views and wishes, he acquiesced in her scheme, giving her at the same time credit for more than common wisdom.

While Lady Charlotte lingered on the beach, she became aware of a figure that hung about her; as she was moving away, a voice of one she knew well enough asked to be directed to the house inhabited by Mrs. Chump. The lady was more startled than it pleased her to admit to herself.

“Don’t you know me?” she said, bluntly.

“You!” went Emilia’s voice.

“Why on earth are you here? What brings you here? Are you alone?” returned the lady.

Emilia did not answer.

“What extraordinary expedition are you making? But, tell me one thing: are you here of your own accord, or at somebody else’s bidding?”

Impatient at the prospect of a continuation of silences, Lady Charlotte added, “Come with me.”

Emilia seemed to be refusing.

“The appointment was made at that house, I know,” said the lady; “but if you come with me, you will see him just as readily.”

At this instant, the lamp was placed on the pillar, showing Wilfrid, in his sailor’s hat and overcoat, beside the fluttering Irishwoman.

“Come, I must speak to you first,” said Lady Charlotte hurriedly, thinking that she saw Emilia’s hands stretch out. “Pray, don’t go into attitudes. There he is, as you perceive; and I don’t use witchcraft. Come with me; I will send for him. Haven’t you learnt by this time that there’s nothing he detests so much as a public display of the kind you’re trying to provoke?”

Emilia half comprehended her.

“He changes when he’s away from me,” she said, low toneless voice.

“Less than I fancied,” the lady thought.

Then she told Emilia that there was really no necessity for her to whine and be miserable; she was among friends, and so forth. The simplicity of her manner of speech found its way to Emilia’s reason quicker than her arguments; and, in the belief that Wilfrid was speaking to Mrs. Chump on urgent private matters (she had great awe of the word ‘business’), Emilia suffered herself to be led away. She uttered twice a little exclamation, as she looked back, that sounded exceedingly comical to Lady Charlotte’s ears. They were the repressions of a poignant outcry. “Doggies make that noise,” thought the lady, and succeeded in feeling contemptuous.

Wilfrid, when he found that Lady Charlotte was not coming, bestowed a remark upon her sex, and went indoors for his letter. He considered it politic not to read it there, Mrs. Chump having grown so friendly, and even motherly, that she might desire, out of pure affection, to share the contents. He put it by and talked gaily, till Mrs. Chump, partly to account for the defection of the lady, observed that she knew they had a quarrel. She was confirmed in this idea on a note being brought in to him, over which, before opening it, he frowned and flushed. Aware of the treachery of his countenance, he continued doing so after his eyes had taken in the words, though there was no special ground furnished by them for any such exhibition. Mrs. Chump immediately, with a gaze of mightiest tribulation, burst out: “I’ll help ye; ‘pon my honour, I’ll help ye. Oh! the arr’stocracy! Oh, their pride! But if I say, my dear, when I die (which it’s so horrud to think of), you’ll have a share, and the biggest—this vary cottage, and a good parrt o’ the Bank property—she’ll come down at that. And if ye marry a lady of title, I’ll be ‘s good as my word, I will.”

Wilfrid pressed her fingers. “Can you ever believe that, I have called you a ‘simmering pot of Emerald broth’?”

“My dear! annything that’s lots o’ words, Ye may call me,” returned Mrs. Chump, “as long as it’s no name. Ye won’t call me a name, will ye? Lots o’ words—it’s onnly as if ye peppered me, and I sneeze, and that’s all; but a name sticks to yer back like a bit o’ pinned paper. Don’t call me a name,” and she wriggled pathetically.

“Yes,” said Wilfrid, “I shall call you Pole.”

“Oh! ye sweetest of young fellas!”

Mrs. Chump threw out her arms. She was on the point of kissing him, but he fenced with the open letter; and learning that she might read it, she gave a cry of joy.

“Dear W.!” she begins; and it’s twice dear from a lady of title. She’s just a multiplication-table for annything she says and touches. “Dear W.!” and the shorter time a single you the better. I’ll have my joke, Mr. Wilfrud. “Dear W.!” Bless her heart now! I seem to like her next best to the Queen already.—“I have another plan. Ye’d better keep to the old; but it’s two paths, I suppose, to one point.—Another plan. Come to me at the Dolphin, where I am alone. Oh, Lord! ‘Alone,’ with a line under it, Mr. Wilfrud! But there—the arr’stocracy needn’t matter a bit.”

“It’s a very singular proceeding not the less,” said Wilfrid. “Why didn’t she go to the hotel where the others are, if she wouldn’t come here?”

“But the arr’stocracy, Mr. Wilfrud! And alone—alone! d’ye see? which couldn’t be among the others; becas of sweet whisperin’. ‘Alone,’” Mrs. Chump read on; “‘and to-morrow I’ll pay my respects to what you call your simmering pot of Emerald broth.’ Oh ye hussy! I’d say, if ye weren’t a borrn lady. And signs ut all, ‘Your faithful Charlotte.’ Mr. Wilfrud, I’d give five pounds for this letter if I didn’t know ye wouldn’t part with it under fifty. And ‘deed I am a simmerin’ pot; for she’ll be a relation, my dear! Go to ‘r. I’ll have your bed ready for ye here at the end of an hour; and to-morrrow perhaps, if Lady Charlotte can spare me, I’ll condescend to see Ad’la.”

Wilfrid fanned her cheek with the note, and then dropped it on her neck and left the room. He was soon hurrying on his way to the Dolphin: midway he stopped. “There may be a bad shot in Bella’s letter,” he thought. Shop-lights were ahead: a very luminous chemist sent a green ray into the darkness. Wilfrid fixed himself under it. “Confoundedly appropriate for a man reading that his wife has run away from him!” he muttered, and hard quickly plunged into matter quite as absorbing. When he had finished it he shivered. Thus it ran:

“My beloved brother,

“I bring myself to plain words. Happy those who can trifle with human language! Papa has at last taken us into his confidence. He has not spoken distinctly; he did us the credit to see that it was not necessary. If in our abyss of grief we loss delicacy, what is left?—what!

“The step he desired to take, Which We Opposed, he has anticipated, And Must Consummate.

“Oh, Wilfrid! you see it, do you not? You comprehend me I am surf! I should have said ‘had anticipated.’ How to convey to you! (but it would be unjust to him—to ourselves—were I to say emphatically what I have not yet a right to think). What I have hinted above is, after all; nothing but Cornelia’s conjecture, I wish I could not say confirmed by mine. We sat with Papa two hours before any idea of his meaning dawned upon us. He first scolded us. We both saw from this that more was to come.

“I hope there are not many in this world to whom the thought of honour being tied to money ever appears possible. If it is so there is wide suffering—deep, for it, must be silent. Cornelia suggests one comfort for them that they will think less of poverty.

“Why was Brookfield ever bought? Our old peaceful City-life—the vacant Sundays!—my ears are haunted by their bells for Evening Service. I said ‘There they go, the dowdy population of heaven!’ I remember it now. It should be almost punishment enough to be certain that of all those people going to church, there cannot be one more miserable than we who stood at the old window ridiculing them. They at least do not feel that everything they hope for in human life is dependent upon one human will—the will of a mortal weather-vane! It is the case, and it must be conciliated. There is no half-measure—no choice. Feel that nothing you have ever dreamed of can be a disgrace if it is undergone to forestall what positively impends, and act immediately. I shall expect to see you in three days. She is to have the South-west bedroom (mine), for which she expressed a preference. Prepare every mind for the ceremony:—an old man’s infatuation—money—we submit. It will take place in town. To have the Tinleys in the church! But this is certainly my experience, that misfortune makes me feel more and more superior to those whom I despise. I have even asked myself—was I so once? And, Apropos of Laura! We hear that their evenings are occupied in performing the scene at Besworth. They are still as distant as ever from Richford. Let me add that Albert Tinley requested my hand in marriage yesterday. I agree with Cornelia that this is the first palpable sign that we have sunk. Consequent upon the natural consequences came the interview with Papa.

“Dearest, dearest Wilfrid! can you, can I, can any one of us settle—that is, involve another life in doubt while doubt exists? Papa insists; his argument is, ‘Now, now, and no delay.’ I accuse nothing but his love. Excessive love is perilous for principle!

“You have understood me, I know, and forgiven me for writing so nakedly. I dare not reperuse it. You must satisfy him that Lady C. has fixed a date. Adela is incomprehensible. One day she sees a friend in Lady C., and again it is an enemy. Papa’s immediate state of health is not alarming. Above all things, do not let the girl come near him. Papa will send the cheque you required.”

“When?” Wilfrid burst out upon Arabella’s affectionate signature. “When will he send it? He doesn’t do me the honour to mention the time. And this is his reply to a third application!”

The truth was that Wilfrid was in dire want of tangible cash simply to provision his yacht. The light kindled in him by this unsatisfied need made him keen to comprehend all that Arabella’s attempt at plain writing designed to unfold.

“Good God, my father’s the woman’s trustee!” shaped itself in Wilfrid’s brain.

And next: “If he marries her we may all be as poor as before.” That is to say, “Honour may be saved without ruin being averted.”