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Wilfrid Cumbermede

G >> George MacDonald >> Wilfrid Cumbermede




'Oh! sha'n't I? I shall get fun enough out of it for that. They
are--all but Sir Giles--they are great fun. Of course they don't treat
me as an equal, but I take it out in amusement. You will find you have
to do the same.'

'Not I. I have nothing to do with them. I am here as a skilled
workman--one whose work is his sufficient reward. There is nothing
degrading in that--is there? If I thought there was, of course I
shouldn't come.'

'You _never_ did anything you felt degrading?'

'No.'

'Happy mortal!' she said, with a sigh--whether humorous or real, I
could not tell.

'I have had no occasion,' I returned.

'And yet, as I hear, you have made your mark in literature?'

'Who says that? I should not.'

'Never mind,' she rejoined, with, as I fancied, the look of having said
more than she ought. 'But,' she added, 'I wish you would tell me in
what periodicals you write.'

'You must excuse me. I do not wish to be first known in connection with
fugitive things. When first I publish a book, you may be assured my
name will be on the title-page. Meantime, I must fulfil the conditions
of my _entrée_.'

'And I must go and pay my respects to Lady Brotherton. I have only just
arrived.'

'Won't you find it dull? There's nobody of man-kind at home but Sir
Giles.'

'You are unjust. If Mr Brotherton had been here, I shouldn't have come.
I find him troublesome.'

I thought she blushed, notwithstanding the air of freedom with which
she spoke.

'If he should come into the property to-morrow,' she went on, 'I fear
you would have little chance of completing your work.'

'If he came into the property this day six months, I fear he would find
it unfinished. Certainly what was to do should remain undone.'

'Don't be too sure of that. He might win you over. He can talk.'

'I should not be so readily pleased as another might.'

She bent towards me, and said in an almost hissing whisper--

'Wilfrid, I hate him!'

I started. She looked what she said. The blood shot to my heart, and
again rushed to my face. But suddenly she retreated into her own room,
and noiselessly closed the door. The same moment I heard that of a
further room open, and presently Miss Brotherton peeped in.

'How do you do, Mr Cumbermede?' she said. 'You are already hard at
work, I see.'

I was, in fact, doing nothing. I explained that I could not make a
commencement without the use of another room.

'I will send the housekeeper, and you can arrange with her,' she said,
and left me.

In a few minutes Mrs Wilson entered. Her manner was more stiff and
formal than ever. We shook hands in a rather limp fashion.

'You've got your will at last, Mr Cumbermede,' she said, 'I suppose the
thing's to be done!'

'It is, Mrs Wilson, I am happy to say. Sir Giles kindly offered me the
use of the library, and I took the liberty of representing to him that
there was no library until the books were arranged.'

'Why couldn't you take a book away with you and read it in comfort at
home?'

'How could I take the book home if I couldn't find it?'

'You could find something worth reading, if that were all you wanted.'

'But that is not all. I have plenty of reading.'

'Then I don't see what's the good of it.'

'Books are very much like people, Mrs Wilson. There are not so many you
want to know all about; but most could tell you things you don't know.
I want certain books in order to question them about certain things.'

'Well, all I know is, it'll be more trouble than it's worth.'

'I am afraid it will--to you, Mrs Wilson; but though I am taking a
thousand times your trouble, I expect to be well repaid for it.'

'I have no doubt of that. Sir Giles is a liberal gentleman.'

'You don't suppose _he_ is going to pay me, Mrs Wilson?' 'Who else
should?'

'Why, the books themselves, of course.'

Evidently she thought I was making game of her, for she was silent.

'Will you show me which room I can have?' I said. 'It must be as near
this one as possible. Is the next particularly wanted?' I asked,
pointing to the door which led into Clara's room.

She went to it quickly, and opened it far enough to put her hand in and
take the key from the other side, which she then inserted on my side,
turned in the lock, drew out, and put in her pocket.

'That room is otherwise engaged,' she said. 'You must be content with
one across the corridor.'

'Very well--if it is not far. I should make slow work of it, if I had
to carry the books a long way.'

'You can have one of the footmen to help you,' she said, apparently
relenting.

'No, thank you,' I answered. 'I will have no one touch the books but
myself.'

'I will show you one which I think will suit your purpose,' she said,
leading the way.

It was nearly opposite--a bed-room, sparely furnished.

'Thank you. This will do--if you will order all the things to be piled
in that corner.'

She stood silent for a few moments, evidently annoyed, then turned and
left the room, saying,

'I will see to it, Mr Cumbermede.'

Returning to the books and pulling off my coat, I had soon compelled
such a cloud of very ancient and smothering dust, that when Miss
Brotherton again made her appearance, her figure showed dim through the
thick air, as she stood--dismayed, I hoped--in the doorway. I pretended
to be unaware of her presence, and went on beating and blowing, causing
yet thicker volumes of solid vapour to clothe my presence. She withdrew
without even an attempt at parley.

Having heaped several great piles near the door, each composed of books
of nearly the same size, the first rudimentary approach to arrangement,
I crossed to the other room to see what progress had been made. To my
surprise and annoyance, I found nothing had been done. Determined not
to have my work impeded by the remissness of the servants, and seeing I
must place myself at once on a proper footing in the house, I went to
the drawing-room to ascertain, if possible, where Sir Giles was. I had
of course put on my coat, but having no means of ablution at hand, I
must have presented a very unpresentable appearance when I entered.
Lady Brotherton half rose, in evident surprise at my intrusion, but at
once resumed her seat, saying, as she turned her chair half towards the
window where the other two ladies sat,

'The housekeeper will attend to you, Mr Cumbermede--or the butler.'

I could see that Clara was making some inward merriment over my
appearance and reception.

'Could you tell me, Lady Brotherton,' I said, 'where I should be likely
to find Sir Giles?'

'I can give you no information on that point,' she answered, with
consummate stiffness.

'I know where he is,' said Clara, rising. 'I will take you to him. He
is in the study.'

She took no heed of the glance broadly thrown at her, but approached
the door.

I opened it, and followed her out of the room. As soon as we were
beyond hearing, she burst out laughing. 'How dared you show your
workman's face in that drawing-room?' she said. 'I am afraid you have
much offended her ladyship.'

'I hope it is for the last time. When I am properly attended to, I
shall have no occasion to trouble her.'

She led me to Sir Giles's study. Except newspapers and reports of
companies, there was in it nothing printed. He rose when we entered,
and came towards us.

'Looking like your work already, Mr Cumbermede?' he said, holding out
his hand.

'I must not shake hands with you this time, Sir Giles,' I returned.
'But I am compelled to trouble you. I can't get on for want of
attendance. I _must_ have a little help.'

I told him how things were. His rosy face grew rosier, and he rang the
bell angrily. The butler answered it.

'Send Mrs Wilson here. And I beg, Hurst, you will see that Mr
Cumbermede has every attention.'

Mrs Wilson presently made her appearance, and stood with a flushed face
before her master.

'Let Mr Cumbermede's orders be attended to _at once_, Mrs Wilson.'

'Yes, Sir Giles,' she answered, and waited.

'I am greatly obliged to you for letting me know,' he added, turning to
me. 'Pray insist upon proper attention.'

'Thank you, Sir Giles. I shall not scruple.'

'That will do, Mrs Wilson. You must not let Mr Cumbermede be hampered
in his kind labours for my benefit by the idleness of my servants.'

The housekeeper left the room, and after a little chat with Sir Giles,
I went back to the books. Clara had followed Mrs Wilson, partly, I
suspect, for the sake of enjoying her confusion.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


ASSISTANCE.

I returned to my solitary house as soon as the evening began to grow
too dark for my work, which, from the lowness of the windows and the
age of the glass, was early. All the way as I went, I was thinking of
Clara. Not only had time somewhat obliterated the last impression she
had made upon me, but I had, partly from the infection of Charley's
manner, long ago stumbled upon various excuses for her conduct. Now I
said to myself that she had certainly a look of greater sedateness than
before. But her expression of dislike to Geoffrey Brotherton had more
effect upon me than anything else, inasmuch as there Vanity found room
for both the soles of her absurdly small feet; and that evening, when I
went wandering, after my custom, with a volume of Dante in my hand, the
book remained unopened, and from the form of Clara flowed influences
mingling with and gathering fresh power from those of Nature, whose
feminine front now brooded over me half-withdrawn in the dim, starry
night. I remember that night so well! I can recall it now with a
calmness equal to its own. Indeed in my memory it seems to belong to my
mind as much as to the outer world; or rather the night filled both,
forming the space in which my thoughts moved, as well as the space in
which the brilliant thread of the sun-lighted crescent hung clasping
the earth-lighted bulk of the moon. I wandered in the grass until
midnight was long by, feeling as quietly and peacefully at home as if
my head had been on the pillow and my soul out in a lovely dream of
cool delight. We lose much even by the good habits we form. What tender
and glorious changes pass over our sleeping heads unseen! What moons
rise and set in rippled seas of cloud, or behind hills of stormy
vapour, while we are blind! What storms roll thundering across the airy
vault, with no eyes for their keen lightnings to dazzle, while we dream
of the dead who will not speak to us! But ah! I little thought to what
a dungeon of gloom this lovely night was the jasmine-grown porch!

The next morning I was glad to think that there was no wolf at my door,
howling _work---work!_ Moldwarp Hall drew me with redoubled attraction;
and instead of waiting for the afternoon, which alone I had intended to
occupy with my new undertaking, I set out to cross the park the moment
I had finished my late breakfast. Nor could I conceal from myself that
it was quite as much for the chance of seeing Clara now and then as
from pleasure in the prospect of an ordered library that I repaired
thus early to the Hall. In the morning light, however, I began to
suspect, as I walked, that, although Clara's frankness was flattering,
it was rather a sign that she was heart-whole towards me than that she
was careless of Brotherton. I began to doubt also whether, after our
first meeting, which she had carried off so well--cool even to
kindness--she would care to remember that I was in the house, or derive
from it any satisfaction beyond what came of the increased chances of
studying the Brothertons from a humorous point of view. Then, after
all, why was she there?--and apparently on such familiar terms with a
family socially so far superior to her own? The result of my
cogitations was the resolution to take care of myself. But it had
vanished utterly before the day was two hours older. A youth's wise
talk to himself will not make him a wise man, any more than the
experience of the father will serve the son's need.

I was hard at work in my shirt-sleeves, carrying an armful of books
across the corridor, and thinking whether I had not better bring my
servant with me in the afternoon, when Clara came out of her room.

'Here already, Wilfrid!' she exclaimed. 'Why don't you have some of the
servants to help you? You're doing what any one might as well do for
you.'

'If these were handsomely bound,' I answered, 'I should not so much
mind; but being old and tattered, no one ought to touch them who does
not love them.'

'Then, I suppose, you wouldn't trust me with them either, for I cannot
pretend to anything beyond a second-hand respect for them.'

'What do you mean by a second-hand respect?' I asked.

'I mean such respect as comes from seeing that a scholar like you
respects them.'

'Then I think I could accord you a second-hand sort of trust--under my
own eye, that is,' I answered, laughing. 'But you can scarcely leave
your hostess to help me.'

'I will ask Miss Brotherton to come too. She will pretend all the
respect you desire.'

'I made three times the necessary dust in order to frighten her away
yesterday.'

'Ah! that's a pity. But I shall manage to overrule her objections--that
is, if you would really like two tolerably educated housemaids to help
you.'

'I will gladly endure one of them for the sake of the other,' I
replied.

'No compliments, please,' she returned, and left the room.

In about half an hour she re-appeared, accompanied by Miss Brotherton.
They were in white wrappers, with their dresses shortened a little, and
their hair tucked under mob caps. Miss Brotherton looked like a
lady's-maid, Clara like a lady acting a lady's-maid. I assumed the
command at once, pointing out to what heaps in the other room those I
had grouped in this were to be added, and giving strict injunctions as
to carrying only a few at once, and laying them down with care in
regularly ordered piles. Clara obeyed with a mock submission, Miss
Brotherton with a reserve which heightened the impression of her dress.
I was instinctively careful how I spoke to Clara, fearing to compromise
her, but she seemed all at once to change her _rôle_, and began to
propose, object, and even insist upon her own way, drawing from me the
threat of immediate dismission from my service, at which her companion
laughed with an awkwardness showing she regarded the pleasantry as a
presumption. Before one o'clock, the first room was almost empty. Then
the great bell rang, and Clara, coming from the auxiliary chamber, put
her head in at the door.

'Won't you come to luncheon?' she said, with a sly archness, looking
none the less bewitching for a smudge or two on her lovely face, or the
blackness of the delicate hands which she held up like two paws for my
admiration.

'In the servants' hall? Workmen don't sit down with ladies and
gentlemen. Did Miss Brotherton send you to ask me?'

She shook her head.

'Then you had better come and lunch with me.'

She shrugged her shoulders.

'I hope you will _some_ day honour my little fragment of a house. It is
a curious old place,' I said.

'I don't like musty old places,' she replied.

'But I have heard you speak with no little admiration of the Hall: some
parts of it are older than my sentry-box.'

'I can't say I admire it at all as a place to live in,' she answered
curtly.

'But I was not asking you to live in mine,' I said--foolishly arguing.

She looked annoyed, whether with herself or me I could not tell, but
instantly answered,

'Some day--when I can without--But I must go and make myself tidy, or
Miss Brotherton will be fancying I have been talking to you!'

'And what have you been doing, then?'

'Only asking you to come to lunch.'

'Will you tell her that?'

'Yes--if she says anything.'

'Then you _had_ better make haste, and be asked no questions.'

She glided away. I threw on my coat, and re-crossed the park.

But I was so eager to see again the fair face in the mob cap, that,
although not at all certain of its reappearance, I told my man to go at
once and bring the mare. He made haste, and by the time I had finished
my dinner she was at the door. I gave her the rein, and two or three
minutes brought me back to the Hall, where, having stabled her, I was
at my post again, I believe, before they had finished luncheon. I had a
great heap of books ready in the second room to carry into the first,
and had almost concluded they would not come, when I heard their
voices--and presently they entered, but not in their mob caps.

'What an unmerciful master you are!' said Clara, looking at the heap.
'I thought you had gone home to lunch.'

'I went home to dinner,' I said. 'I get more out of the day by dining
early.'

'How is that, Mr Cumbermede?' asked Miss Brotherton, with a nearer
approach to cordiality than she had yet shown.

'I think the evening the best part of the day--too good to spend in
eating and drinking.'

'But,' said Clara, quite gravely, 'are not those the chief ends of
existence?' 'Your friend is satirical, Miss Brotherton,' I remarked.

'At least, you are not of her opinion, to judge by the time you have
taken,' she returned.

'I have been back nearly an hour,' I said. 'Workmen don't take long
over their meals.'

'Well, I suppose you don't want any more of us now,' said Clara. 'You
will arrange the books you bring from the next room upon these empty
shelves, I presume?'

'No, not yet. I must not begin that until I have cleared the very last,
got it thoroughly cleaned, the shelves seen to, and others put up.'

'What a tremendous labour you have undertaken, Mr Cumbermede!' said
Miss Brotherton. 'I am quite ashamed you should do so much for us.'

'I, on the contrary, am delighted to be of any service to Sir Giles.'

'But you don't expect us to slave all day as we did in the morning?'
said Clara.

'Certainly not, Miss Coningham. I am too grateful to be exacting.'

'Thank you for that pretty speech. Come, then, Miss Brotherton, we must
have a walk. We haven't been out-of-doors to-day.'

'Really, Miss Coningham, I think the least we can do is to help Mr
Cumbermede to our small ability.'

'Nonsense!'--(Miss Brotherton positively started at the word.) 'Any two
of the maids or men would serve his purpose better, if he did not
affect fastidiousness. We sha'n't be allowed to come to-morrow if we
overdo it to-day.'

Miss Brotherton was evidently on the point of saying something
indignant, but yielded notwithstanding, and I was left alone once more.
Again I laboured until the shadows grew thick around the gloomy walls.
As I galloped home, I caught sight of my late companions coming across
the park; and I trust I shall not be hardly judged if I confess that I
did sit straighter in my saddle, and mind my seat better. Thus ended my
second day's work at the library of Moldwarp Hall.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


AN EXPOSTULATION.

Neither of the ladies came to me the next morning. As far as my work
was concerned, I was in considerably less need of their assistance, for
it lay only between two rooms opening into each other. Nor did I feel
any great disappointment, for so long as a man has something to do,
expectation is pleasure enough, and will continue such for a long time.
It is those who are unemployed to whom expectation becomes an agony. I
went home to my solitary dinner almost resolved to return to my
original plan of going only in the afternoons.

I was not thoroughly in love with Clara; but it was certainly the hope
of seeing her, and not the pleasure of handling the dusty books, that
drew me back to the library that afternoon. I had got rather tired of
the whole affair in the morning. It was very hot, and the dust was
choking, and of the volumes I opened as they passed through my hands,
not one was of the slightest interest to me. But for the chance of
seeing Clara I should have lain in the grass instead.

No one came. I grew weary, and for a change retreated into the armoury.
Evidently, not the slightest heed was paid to the weapons now, and I
was thinking with myself that, when I had got the books in order, I
might give a few days to furbishing and oiling them, when the door from
the gallery opened, and Clara entered.

'What! a truant?' she said.

'You take accusation at least by the forelock, Clara. Who is the real
truant now--if I may suggest a mistake?'

'_I_ never undertook anything. How many guesses have you made as to the
cause of your desertion to-day?'

'Well, three or four.'

'Have you made one as to the cause of Miss Brotherton's graciousness to
you yesterday?'

'At least I remarked the change.'

'I will tell you. There was a short notice of some of your writings in
a certain magazine which I contrived should fall in her way.'

'Impossible!' I exclaimed. 'I have never put my name to anything.'

'But you have put the same name to all your contributions.'

'How should the reviewer know it meant me?'

'Your own name was never mentioned.'

I thought she looked a little confused as she said this.

'Then how should Miss Brotherton know it meant me?'

She hesitated a moment--then answered:

'Perhaps from internal evidence.--I suppose I must confess I told her.'

'Then how did _you_ know?

'I have been one of your readers for a long time.'

'But how did you come to know my work?'

'That has oozed out.'

'Some one must have told you,' I said.

'That is my secret,' she replied, with the air of making it a mystery
in order to tease me.

'It must be all a mistake,' I said. 'Show me the magazine.'

'As you won't take my word for it, I won't.'

'Well, I shall soon find out. There is but one could have done it. It
is very kind of him, no doubt; but I don't like it. That kind of thing
should come of itself--not through friends.'

'Who do you fancy has done it?'

'If you have a secret, so have I.'

My answer seemed to relieve her, though I could not tell what gave me
the impression.

'You are welcome to yours, and I will keep mine,' she said. 'I only
wanted to explain Miss Brotherton's condescension yesterday.'

'I thought you were going to explain why you didn't come to-day.'

'That is only a re-action. I have no doubt she thinks she went too far
yesterday.'

'That is absurd. She was civil; that was all.'

'In reading your thermometer, you must know its zero first,' she
replied sententiously. 'Is the sword you call yours there still?'

'Yes, and I call it mine still.'

'Why don't you take it, then? I should have carried it off long ago.'

'To steal my own would be to prejudice my right,' I returned. 'But I
have often thought of telling Sir Giles about it.'

'Why don't you, then?'

'I hardly know. My head has been full of other things, and any time
will do. But I should like to see it in its own place once more.'

I had taken it from the wall, and now handed it to her.

'Is this it?' she said carelessly.

'It is--just as it was carried off my bed that night.'

'What room were you in?' she asked, trying to draw it from the sheath.

'I can't tell. I've never been in it since.'

'You don't seem to me to have the curiosity natural to a--'

'To a woman--no,' I said.

'To a man of spirit,' she retorted, with an appearance of indignation.
'I don't believe you can tell even how it came into your possession!'

'Why shouldn't it have been in the family from time immemorial?'

'So!--And you don't care either to recover it, or to find out how you
lost it!'

'How can I? Where is Mr Close?'

'Why, dead, years and years ago.'

'So I understood. I can't well apply to him, then, and I am certain no
one else knows.'

'Don't be too sure of that. Perhaps Sir Giles--'

'I am positive Sir Giles knows nothing about it.'

'I have reason to think the story is not altogether unknown in the
family.'

'Have you told it, then?'

'No, but I _have_ heard it alluded to.'

'By Sir Giles?'

'No.'

'By whom, then?'

'I will answer no more questions.'

'Geoffrey, I suppose?'

'You are not polite. Do you suppose I am bound to tell you all I know?'

'Not by any means. Only, you oughtn't to pique a curiosity you don't
mean to satisfy.'

'But if I'm not at liberty to say more?--All I meant to say was that,
if I were you, I _would_ get back that sword.'

'You hint at a secret, and yet suppose I could carry off its object as
I might a rusty nail, which any passer-by would be made welcome to!'

'You might take it first, and mention the thing to Sir Giles
afterwards.'

'Why not mention it first?'

'Only on the supposition you had not the courage to claim it.'

'In that case I certainly shouldn't have the courage to avow the deed
afterwards. I don't understand you, Clara.'

She laughed.

'That is always your way,' she said. 'You take everything so seriously!
Why couldn't I make a proposition without being supposed to mean it?'

[Illustration: "Glued," she echoed, "What do you mean?"]

I was not satisfied. There was something short of uprightness in the
whole tone of her attempted persuasion--which indeed I could hardly
believe to have been so lightly intended as she now suggested. The
effect of my feeling for her was that of a slight frost on the Spring
blossoms.

She had been examining the hilt with a look of interest, and was now
for the third time trying to draw the blade from the sheath.

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