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Flaming June

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<h3>Chapter Twenty Two.</h3> When Guest drove round to the hotel next morning to escort Cornelia to the station, she was surprised to see his own bag on the roof, and to hear that he intended to accompany her all the way to Norton. “I want to make sure that you are safely housed once more,” he explained as they drove off. “I feel a certain responsibility for you, and I think perhaps your aunt would like to see me, and hear from a second person that everything is satisfactorily settled here.” “My aunt,” said Cornelia, demurely, “my aunt isn’t a mite disposed to acknowledge your responsibility. She thinks you’re ‘dashing’! She don’t approve of dashing young men. She warned me specially to avoid you.” “Humph! dashing, am I? The word has an Early Victorian sound that suggests side-whiskers and leg-of-mutton trousers. I’m not at all sure that I’m flattered!” returned Guest, as he alternately stared out of the window, and busied himself in arranging the bags on the front seat of the cab. There was an air of embarrassment in his manner this morning, and he talked against time, as if anxious not to let the conversation come to a pause. The afternoon on the river had been a delightful experience, abundantly proving the truth of his prophecy that it would be impossible to be bored in Cornelia’s society. She had looked very sweet in her softened mood, and as they drifted down the stream together, had prattled away in simple, confiding fashion, telling him the story of her life; of the ups and downs which she and her Poppar had known together; of her own individual adventures. He learnt that she was not engaged, and had never been in love, though there were always heaps of admirers “prancing” round. She intended to marry some day, however. Why, suttenly! Just as soon as ever the right man hove along. What was the good of being a woman, if you didn’t have your own home, and your own husband and children! Then she looked at him with her clear, golden eyes, and inquired how it was with himself. Was he in love? “No!” answered Guest, but, even as he spoke, he knew in his heart that he lied. In the guise of a Yankee stranger, who embodied in herself all the traits which he most condemned, the one woman of his life had appeared. He loved—and the woman whom he loved was Cornelia Briskett! After that, conversation languished. Guest was too much bewildered by the sudden realisation of his position to wish to talk, and Cornelia had developed a headache as a result of the morning’s emotion. She was glad to be quiet; to allow herself to be led about, and cared for, and told what she must do. “Just like a ‘nice young girl’!” she said, laughingly as they parted in the lounge of the hotel. “If I lived over here long enough—there’s no telling—I might grow into a Moss Rose myself!” “I wish you would! I wish you would! Won’t you try?” Guest cried eagerly. He, himself, did not know what he really meant by the inquiry, for the words had sprung to his lips almost without thought. He was as much startled by the sound of them as was Cornelia herself. He saw the dismay in her eyes, the dawning comprehension; he saw something else also—the first flicker of self-consciousness, the first tell-tale droop of the lids. She put him off with a light answer, and he went out to pace the streets until the night closed around him. ... What was this that had happened, and what was it going to mean? One week—a week to the day since he had first met this girl and conceived a violent dislike to her on the spot. Voice, accent, and manner had alike jarred on his nerves: she had appeared in every respect the opposite to the decorous, soft-voiced, highly-bred, if somewhat inane, damsel who represented his ideal of feminine charm. One week ago! What magic did she possess, this little red-haired, white-faced girl, to make such short work of the scruples of a lifetime? What was this mysterious feminine charm which blinded his senses to everything but just herself, and the dearness of her, and the longing to have her for his own? The jarring element had not disappeared, the difference of thought still existed, but for the moment he was oblivious of their existence. For the first time in his three-and-thirty years he was in love, and had room for no other thought. The morning brought colder reflections. When—supposing he ever married, it would be wormwood and gall to see his wife condemned by his friends! He had looked forward to espousing the daughter of some irreproachable county family, and returning to his old home to live in frugal state for the rest of his life; driving to church in the old barouche, attending a succession of dull, country-house dinners; taking the chair at village meetings. He tried to imagine Cornelia spending long, peaceful years as the squire’s wife, contentedly pottering about the village, superintending Dorcas meetings, and finding recreation in occasional garden parties, where the same people met the same people, attired in the same frocks, and sat meekly in rows, drinking claret cup and sour lemonade, but the effort failed. Cornelia obstinately refused to fit into the niche. He could summon up a vision of her, indeed, but it was a disconcerting vision, in which she “pranced round,” while the neighbourhood turned its back, and pursed disapproving lips. He was attracted by the girl—seriously attracted, but— It was a great big but, and he promised himself to be cautious, to think long and well before taking the plunge. All the same, it seemed imperative that he should return to Norton. His aunt was always delighted to put him up, and he could not be happy until he had satisfied himself that all was well with Cornelia once more. Incidentally also, he was interested to know what was happening at the Manor. On the journey to Norton the presence of fellow-travellers kept the conversation necessarily impersonal, and at the station Cornelia dismissed her escort, refusing point blank to drive with him to the Park. “I’m going back as a sorrowing penitent, and it don’t suit the part to drive up with a dashing young man. There are only two players in this act, and they are Aunt Soph and myself. You come round in the evening, when I’ve paved the way.” “Till to-night, then!” said Guest, raising his hat. Once again, as he looked at her through the window of the cab, the clear eyes wavered before his own; once again his scruples vanished. He loved, and the world held nothing but that glad fact. Cornelia exhibited much diplomacy in her interview with her aunt. Seated at the good lady’s feet in an attitude of childlike humility, she related the story of her adventures in simple, unexaggerated language, without any attempt at self-justification. “I ought to have guessed from the start; but it seems I’m not as smart as I thought. They had me, the whole way through. You were right, you see, and I was wrong. I should have taken your advice. Guess it will be a lesson to me!” “I trust it may prove so, my dear! a dearly-bought, but invaluable lesson!” quoth Miss Briskett, blandly. So far from being incensed, she actually purred with satisfaction, for had not the truant returned home in a humble and tractable spirit, ready to acknowledge and apologise for her error? Her good humour was such that she bore the shock of hearing of Guest’s rôle in the drama with comparative composure. “He seems,” she declared, “to have comported himself with considerable judgment, but, my dear Cornelia, if anything more were needed to demonstrate the necessity for caution and restraint in the future, it must surely be the remembrance that you were driven into such intimate relationship with a man whose acquaintance you had made but a few short days before! It seems to me that the recollection must be painfully embarrassing to any nice young girl.” “Yes, ’um!” said Cornelia, meekly. She lowered her eyelids, and her cheeks flushed to a vivid pink. Such a typical picture did she make of a modest and abashed young girl, that the spinster’s stern face relaxed into a smile, and she laid her hand affectionately upon the ruddy locks. “There! there! We will say no more about it— <blockquote> “‘Repentance is to leave     The sins we loved before; And show that we in earnest grieve     By doing so no more!’ </blockquote> “Another time you will be guided by wiser counsels!” ”...Have you missed me, Aunt Soph, while I’ve been away?” “Er—the house has seemed very quiet,” replied Miss Briskett, truthfully. “I am sorry that I am obliged to leave you this afternoon, my dear, but I have promised to attend a committee meeting at four o’clock. You will be glad to rest after your journey, and to unpack and get your things put neatly away.” “Has Elma come home?” “She returned yesterday morning. I saw the dog-cart from the Manor waiting outside the gate this morning. Mrs Ramsden told me the other day that Elma’s health was completely restored.” Cornelia pondered over these scanty items of news as she sat at her solitary tea an hour later. Elma was well; Elma had returned home. A dog-cart from the Manor had been observed waiting outside the gate of The Holt that morning. A dog-cart! Imagination failed to picture the picturesque figure of Madame perched on the high seat of that undignified vehicle. If the cart had not conveyed the mother, it must, in all probability, have conveyed the son. The dog-cart had been waiting! The deduction was obvious to the meanest intellect. Geoffrey Greville had driven down to see Elma the morning after her departure, and had spent a considerable time in her society! Suddenly Cornelia realised that her anxiety could brook no delay, and that it would be impossible to spend another night without discovering how the Moss Rose had fared during her absence. She despatched Mary to The Holt with a verbal message to the effect that she had returned from town, and, if convenient, would much like to see Miss Ramsden for a few minutes before six o’clock, and while she was still at tea the answer was received; a note this time, written in pencil, and bearing marks of haste and agitation. <blockquote> “Dearest Cornelia,—Yes, of course! I am thankful you are back. Come right up to my room. It’s perfectly wretched here, but I’m so happy! Elma.” </blockquote> Cornelia rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and indulged in an expressive whistle. Contradictory as Elma’s epistle might have appeared to an ordinary reader, she understood it readily enough. It was Mrs Ramsden who was wretched, Elma who was happy—“so happy,” despite the atmosphere of disapproval. The crisis had arrived! In five minutes’ time, Cornelia was in her friend’s room, holding her hands, gazing into her face, kissing her flaming cheeks. “Elma, is it? It is! I can see it in your face! Oh, you dear thing! When? How? I’m crazy to know. Tell me every single thing.” Elma laughed; a delicious little laugh of conscious happiness. “Yes, yes, it is! Oh, Cornelia, isn’t it wonderful? I can’t believe it! It’s partly your doing, you know, and I love you for that, but doesn’t it seem impossible that he can really care for—me!” She turned her exquisite, flower-like face towards her friend, with an expression of humility as sweet as it was sincere. “He might have had anybody, and he chooses—me! Oh, Cornelia, I never knew that one could live, and be so happy! It seems like a dream.” “Wake up, then, and get down to facts! I’m crazy to hear all about it. When was it settled?” “This morning.” “Only this morning! I calculated it would come off Monday at latest.” “No, it didn’t. Of course he was very—I mean, I knew—we both understood, but Geoffrey says he couldn’t possibly have spoken plainly while I was a guest under his own roof. It wouldn’t have been the right thing. He was obliged to wait till I got home!” “My! how mediaeval. I should have thought Geoffrey Greville had more snap to him, than to hang on to such worn-out notions. Fancy letting you go away, and driving down in cold blood next morning! It’s the dullest thing!” “It’s not dull at all!” contradicted Elma, hotly. “It’s noble, and manly, and self-sacrificing. I love him for it— <blockquote> “‘I could not love thee, dear, so much     Loved I not honour more!’” </blockquote> “Shucks!” sniffed Cornelia, scornfully. “I’d as lief have a little less high-falutin’, and a lot more push. I wouldn’t mind if it was his house ten times over, I’d want him to feel he couldn’t wait another five minutes, and settle it off, so’s we could have a good time together. If he let me come away, not knowing if he were in fun or earnest, I’d have led him a pretty dance for his pains. But you’re so meek; I bet you dropped into his mouth like a ripe plum!” Elma drew herself up with a charming dignity. “I told him the truth without any pretences, if that is what you mean,” she said quietly. “I am perfectly satisfied with Geoffrey’s behaviour, and I’d rather not discuss it, Cornelia, please. We may seem old-fashioned to you, but we understand each other, and there is not a thing—not a single thing—I would wish altered. I am perfectly, utterly happy!” “Bless you, you sweet thing, I see you are, and I’m happy for you! Never mind how it happened; it has happened, and that’s good enough. ... How’s Mrs Ramsden bearing up?” Elma’s face fell. For a person who had just proclaimed herself completely happy, she looked astonishingly worried and perturbed. “Oh, my dear, such a scene! I took Geoffrey in to see her, and she couldn’t have been more horrified if he had been the most desperate character in the world. She refused to listen to a word. You would not have recognised mother, she was so haughty and distant, and—rude! Some things she said were horribly rude. After he went, she cried! That was the worst of all. She cried, and said she had given her whole life for me for twenty-three years, and was I going to break her heart as a reward? I cried, too, and said, No, I should love her more, not less, but she wouldn’t listen. She said if I married Geoffrey it would be as bad as a public refutation of all the principles which I had professed since childhood. Then she called him names, and I got angry. We didn’t speak a word all through lunch, and as soon as it was over she sent for a fly to drive to the Manor. She’s there still!” “Shut up with Madame, hatching the plan of campaign! Madame won’t like it any better, I suppose!” Elma flushed miserably. “No; she’s against us, too! Geoffrey told her what he was coming for, and—isn’t it curious?—she was quite surprised! She had not suspected a bit, and I’m afraid she was pretty cross. Geoffrey wouldn’t let me say it, but I know she doesn’t think me good enough. I’m not; that’s quite true. No one knows it better than I.” “If you say that again, I’ll shake you! You’re a heap too good for the best man that ever lived. Mind now, Elma, don’t start out on this business by eating humble pie! You’ve got to hold up your end of the stick for all you’re worth, and let them see you won’t be sat upon. When you feel redooced, go and sit in front of the glass for a spell, and ask yourself if he won’t be a lucky man to have that vista across the table all the rest of his life. Don’t be humble with him, whatever happens! Make him believe he’s got the pick of the bundle!” “He—he does!” said Elma, and blushed again. “It makes me ashamed to hear him talk about me, for I know I am really so different. He would not have thought me so sweet if he had heard me scolding mother this morning. Poor mother! I’m so terribly sorry for her. It must be hard to care for a child for twenty-three years, as she says, and then have to step aside for a stranger. I sympathised with every word she said, and knew that I should have felt the same. My head was with her all the time, but my heart”—she clasped her hands to her side with the prettiest of gestures—“my heart was with Geoffrey! Reason’s not a bit of use, Cornelia, when you’re in love.” “Well!” said Cornelia, firmly, “my heart’s got to wait and behave itself, until my head goes along at the same pace. I’ve not kept it in order for twenty-three years to have it weaken at the last moment. I’ll stick to my guns, whatever it may cost.” Elma looked at her with surprised curiosity. “Why, you talk as if, as if you were in love, too! I wish you were! We could sympathise with each other so beautifully. Are you in love, Cornelia? You never said so before.” Cornelia turned to the window and gazed out on the forbidden grass of the Park. Her face was hidden from view, and she answered by another question, put in slow, thoughtful tones.—“What is love? You seem to feel pretty certain that yours is the genuine article. Define it for me! How do you feel when you are in dear Geoffrey’s society?” “Happy! so wonderfully happy that I seem to walk on air. Everything seems beautiful, and I love everybody, and long to make them as happy as myself. Nothing troubles me any more. It seems as if nothing could ever trouble me. Geoffrey’s there! He is like a great big rock, which will shelter me all my life.” “Do you feel one moment that it’s the cutest thing in the world to sit right there in the shade and be fussed over, and the next as if you wanted to knock the rock down flat, and march away down your own road? Do you feel blissful one moment and the next all worked up, and fit to scratch? When he’s kinder big and superior, and the natural protector, do you feel ugly; or inclined to cave in, and honour and obey?” Elma stared at her with shocked blue eyes. “Of course I’ll obey! Geoffrey is so wise and clever. He knows so much better than I. I’m only too thankful to let him decide for us both. You talk so strangely, Cornelia; I don’t understand—” Cornelia swung round quickly, and kissed her upon the cheek. “Never mind, sweetling!” she said fondly, “don’t try to understand! You are better off as you are. It is women like you who have the best time in the world, and are the most loved. I wish I were like you, but I’m not, so what’s the use of repining. I am as I wor’ created!” She laughed, but the laugh had a forced, unnatural sound. Elma saw with dismay a glimmer of tears in the golden eyes. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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