Wilfrid Cumbermede

Over our wine Sir Giles introduced business. I professed myself ready, with a housemaid and carpenter at my orders when I should want them, to commence operations the following afternoon. He begged me to ask for whatever I might want, and after a little friendly chat, I took my leave, elated with the prospect of the work before me. About three o’clock the next afternoon I took my way to the Hall, to assume the temporary office of creative librarian.

CHAPTER XXXII. PREPARATIONS

It was a lovely afternoon, the air hot, and the shadows of the trees dark upon the green grass. The clear sun was shining sideways on the little oriel window of one of the rooms in which my labour awaited me. Never have I seen a picture of more stately repose than the huge pile of building presented, while the curious vane on the central square tower glittered like the outburning flame of its hidden life. The only objection I could find to it was that it stood isolated from its own park, although the portion next it was kept as trim as the smoothest lawn. There was not a door anywhere to be seen, except the two gateway entrances, and not a window upon the ground-floor. All the doors and low windows were either within the courts, or opened on the garden, which, with its terraced walks and avenues and one tiny lawn, surrounded the two further sides of the house, and was itself enclosed by walls.

I knew the readiest way to the library well enough: once admitted to the outer gate, I had no occasion to trouble the servants. The rooms containing the books were amongst the bed-rooms, and after crossing the great hall, I had to turn my back on the stair which led to the ball-room and drawing-room, and ascend another to the left, so that I could come and go with little chance of meeting any of the family.

The rooms, I have said, were six, none of them of any great size, and all ill-fitted for the purpose. In fact, there was such a sense of confinement about the whole arrangement as gave me the feeling that any difficult book read there would be unintelligible. Order, however, is only another kind of light, and would do much to destroy the impression. Having with practical intent surveyed the situation, I saw there was no space for action. I must have at least the temporary use of another room.

Observing that the last of the suite of book-rooms furthest from the armoury had still a door into the room beyond, I proceeded to try it, thinking to know at a glance whether it would suit me, and whether it was likely to be yielded for my purpose. It opened, and, to my dismay, there stood Clara Coningham, fastening her collar. She looked sharply round, and made a half-indignant step towards me. ‘I beg your pardon a thousand times, Miss Coningham,’ I exclaimed. ‘Will you allow me to explain, or must I retreat unheard?’

I was vexed indeed, for, notwithstanding a certain flutter at the heart, I had no wish to renew my acquaintance with her.

‘There must be some fatality about the place, Mr Cumbermede!’ she said, almost with her old merry laugh. ‘It frightens me.’

‘Precisely my own feeling, Miss Coningham. I had no idea you were in the neighbourhood.’

‘I cannot say so much as that, for I had heard you were at The Moat; but I had no expectation of seeing you—least of all in this house. I suppose you are on the scent of some musty old book or other,’ she added, approaching the door, where I stood with the handle in my hand.

‘My object is an invasion rather than a hunt,’ I said, drawing back that she might enter.

‘Just as it was the last time you and I were here!’ she went on, with scarcely a pause, and as easily as if there had never been any misunderstanding between us. I had thought myself beyond any further influence from her fascinations, but when I looked in her beautiful face, and heard her allude to the past with so much friendliness, and such apparent unconsciousness of any reason for forgetting it, a tremor ran through me from head to foot. I mastered myself sufficiently to reply, however.

‘It is the last time you will see it so,’ I said; ‘for here stands the Hercules of the stable—about to restore it to cleanliness, and what is of far more consequence in a library—to order.’

‘You don’t mean it!’ she exclaimed with genuine surprise. ‘I’m so glad I’m here!’

‘Are you on a visit, then?’

‘Indeed I am; though how it came about I don’t know. I dare say my father does. Lady Brotherton has invited me, stiffly of course, to spend a few weeks during their stay. Sir Giles must be in it: I believe I am rather a favourite with the good old man. But I have another fancy: my grandfather is getting old; I suspect my father has been making himself useful, and this invitation is an acknowledgment. Men always buttress their ill-built dignities by keeping poor women in the dark; by which means you drive us to infinite conjecture. That is how we come to be so much cleverer than you at putting two and two together, and making five.’

‘But,’ I ventured to remark, ‘under such circumstances, you will hardly enjoy your visit.’

‘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.