Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1769 page)

‘Do
you
care what becomes of you?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘Then I care too.’

There was an interval of silence. Mabel was considering what she should say next. She decided on speaking plainly, come what might of it.

‘This is serious,’ she resumed.

The major was glad to hear it.

‘I’m only afraid of one thing — I’m afraid I shall offend you.’

The major declared that it was impossible to offend him.

‘Remember what you have said, uncle! I have just had an offer of marriage.’

‘From my ugly publisher?’

‘No; from Sir John Bosworth.’

Major Evergreen — usually the laziest of men — jumped out of his chair, and walked up and down the room, transformed from a pleasant uncle who wrote poetry to a disagreeable old bachelor who was angry with his niece.

And for what reason? For this excellent reason: she had mentioned the name of the enemy whom he abhorred.

Sir John Bosworth was a gentleman who indulged in the hazardous speculations of modern life. He owned racehorses, and he built theatres; he was also proprietor of a weekly journal. In that newspaper had appeared the only review of Major Evergreen’s poems which had ever noticed them at any length. Of the tone adopted by the critic, it is merely necessary to say that it hurried away the easy-tempered major to his lawyer’s office, to bring an action for libel against Sir John Bosworth. The wise lawyer pronounced the article to be simply inhuman, but not libellous. Sir John (already under the influence of Mabel) expressed his regret in the handsomest manner; and declared that the article had been published by his editor without his knowledge. Major Evergreen submitted to circumstances — recovered his customary good spirits — and went on writing poetry more industriously than ever. But what author has succeeded in forgetting an inhuman review? To mention the name of the proprietor of the paper was to wound the poet in his tenderest place. When Sir John Bosworth paid visits to the charming niece, the unforgiving uncle was never in his way. Major Evergreen was ‘engaged in his study.’

‘I couldn’t help mentioning the name, uncle,’ Mabel pleaded. ‘I was obliged to tell you who it was that had asked me to marry him.’

The major received this apology with a word of serious advice. ‘You might have spared me the name, my dear — you might have said, That Man. I should have known whom you meant.’

Mabel accepted the suggestion. ‘I wished to tell you that I didn’t engage to marry That Man,’ she proceeded; ‘I only said I wanted time to consider. I don’t think I like him. I rather believe I want to get away from him, before he calls again.’

The major returned quietly to his chair.

‘Very right indeed,’ he said — and looked at his pen and ink. He was longing to get rid of his niece and go back to his poetry.

‘This is about the time of year,’ Mabel persisted, ‘when we go to the country.’

The major was quite willing. ‘Just as you please; they’re ready for us at Stillbrook.’

‘Stillbrook won’t do, uncle. If we go to your country house That Man will follow us. Suppose we take refuge at Oakapple Hall?’

‘With all my heart.’

‘Then I may write to Mrs Corydon?’

‘Certainly.’

Mabel went away to write a letter; and Mabel’s uncle remained, to write poetry.

I
I

A widow of mild and retiring character, married late in life; and possessed of one son who exactly resembled her in disposition: there is the briefly sufficient description of Mrs Corydon.

Arriving at Oakapple Hall, Major Evergreen and his niece encountered a surprise held in reserve for them by their amiable hostess. They were received at the housedoor by Mrs Corydon’s son. On the last two occasions when they had enjoyed the widow’s hospitality, Mr Cyril Corydon had been absent, pursuing his studies at Oxford. Mabel had not seen him since he had left school.

Cyril had greatly improved in the interval. Still modest and a little reserved, he was no longer awkward; he kept his hands out of his pockets, and his nails exhibited no black rims; his fair complexion was without pimples; his vacant smile of former days had meaning in it now; and, to complete the transformation, Mabel saw a slim young man who fed delicately, in place of a devouring fat boy who approached his dinner as a pig approaches a trough. She also noticed his pretty little flaxen moustache, and shy tenderness in the expression of his gentle blue eyes. Upon the whole, he reminded her of a description of a Troubadour, in one of her uncle’s poems.

Oakapple Hall, in one respect, resembled the famous abbey described by Rabelais — the inhabitants did as they pleased. When luncheon was over Major Evergreen retired to his room and his pen and ink. Mrs Corydon resumed work on an immense embroidered counterpane, which had already occupied her patient fingers for the greater part of her life. The two young people took a walk in the park: Cyril offered his arm, and Mabel started the conversation.

‘Have you really left Oxford for good?’ she began. ‘And are you sorry for it?’

‘I was sorry for it, until to-day.’

Cyril laid a strong emphasis on the last three words, and ventured on a look which sent his artful compliment straight to its right address. Mabel acknowledged the look by an innocent little question: ‘Do you think I am improved, since you saw me last?’

Cyril burst into an exclamation. Expressed in letters, it was only, ‘Oh!’ The manner and the tone made it eloquent, and ought to be described. But description requires appropriate words. Where, in this case, are the words? Mabel’s innocence, requiring no description, pursued its artless way: ‘Mr Corydon, you mustn’t flatter me.’ Mr Corydon immediately proceeded to flatter her.

‘Don’t call me “Mr!” You used to call me “Cyril,” in the days when I was insensible to that honour and happiness. My one ambition is to hear you call me “Cyril” now.’

‘You were a boy then, Mr Corydon: you are a young man now. I am afraid it wouldn’t be quite right.’

Cyril hit on a poetical allusion which might have fallen from the lips of the major himself. ‘Juliet didn’t hesitate,’ he remarked, ‘to call Romeo by his Christian name.’

This — for a shy man — was, as Mabel thought, getting on at rather too rapid a rate. She turned the talk back into the prosaic channels of modern life. ‘I thought your mother and you were serious people,’ she said. ‘Have you really been to the play?’

‘Only to Shakespeare,’ Cyril reminded her. ‘I was taken to the theatre, in the last vacation, by a man of high position, and large experience, whom I am proud to call my friend. His younger brother read with me under the same tutor — and I first came to know him in that way.’

‘Who is this remarkable gentleman?’

‘Sir John Bosworth.’

Mabel stood stock-still, and looked at the unsuspecting heir of Oakapple Hall. That good fellow was honestly pleased. ‘Sir John’s fame has reached you,’ he said. ‘And perhaps you may have met him in society?’

Mabel acknowledged that she had met him, and said no more. Cyril sang his praises.

‘What a man! He builds places of public amusement, he wins money on racecourses, he sits on the throne of the Press and dictates the policy of Europe — and, only think, he is My Friend!’

But Mabel’s thoughts were otherwise employed. A young person, hitherto free from any weak leanings towards superstition, she now dimly perceived the hand of Fate, mysteriously pointing to Sir John, at the very time when she had determined to dismiss him from her mind and from her list of visitors. What would be the next event? Would he discover Oakapple Hall? Preceded by his celebrity, would he obtain an introduction to Mrs Corydon, and renew his offer of marriage? With the ready inconsistency of her sex and age, Mabel began to feel a certain reluctant interest in Sir John. He assumed romantic proportions in his absence. She had left him a shadowy figure disappearing, as it were, in the background. And here he was in the front of the picture again; presenting himself through the innocent medium of this nice boy — so proud of him, so grateful to him! Her curiosity was excited by the very man whom she had despised not three days since. She encouraged poor Cyril to talk of Sir John. One of Eve’s daughters — there is nothing else to be said for her: one of Eve’s daughters.

The course of their walk had brought them back, by this time, to the house. Cyril suddenly made an apology.

‘Excuse me for one moment; I have something to show you.’ He ran into the house, and ran out again with the local newspaper in his hand.

‘Nothing that I can say of our gifted friend will be as interesting to you as this,’ he announced, and pointed to the column of the newspaper filled by the London correspondent with news from the fashionable world. There was Sir John again! ‘A brilliant circle had assembled’ at the country seat of a great nobleman, situated within an hour’s drive of Oakapple Hall — and in two days more Sir John Bosworth was expected as a welcome addition to the number of his lordship’s guests.

Mabel made the first excuse that occurred to her, and escaped from Cyril to the solitude of her own room. It was high time to consider what she had better do next.

I
II

Decision of character is, generally speaking, a plant of slow growth, in the human constitution. When the age is seventeen, the sex female, and the question: What am I to do next? — perplexing circumstances wait for an answer, and seldom get it. Mabel could not venture to consult her uncle — and if Mrs Corydon had an amiable weakness, it took the form of habitual reliance on other people’s advice. In this emergency, Mabel’s temper escaped from control; and Cyril’s position in the estimation of his charming friend receded, without any reason for that deplorable event which it was possible to discover. Ignorant of the ways of women — in love, with the ready inflammability of a young man who has led an innocent life — Cyril was foolish enough to ask if he had offended Mabel. He made the mistake with the utmost humility of manner and language — and was received with a toss of the head, and a reply which expressed surprise that a member of an English University should prove to be an ill-bred man.

Three days passed. Sir John Bosworth (if the newspaper could be trusted) was already established as a guest at the country seat of his noble friend. In sheer despair of recovering the ground that he had lost by any effort of his own, Cyril decided on asking the advice of the one competent and trustworthy person within his reach.

Sir John was in the house; Sir John hurried into the room in which Cyril was waiting for him, and shook hands with a cordial squeeze. This inestimable friend of Cyril’s was a tall finely-made man, rather dark than light in complexion, and a little bald; otherwise remarkable for bushy eyebrows, a strong Roman nose, and magnificent whiskers; eyes bright and striking in themselves, but a little shifty in expression at times: in one word, a most agreeable person — with a false nature, concealed from the mass of mankind under a surface of easy humour and hearty good spirits.

‘My dear boy, how glad I am to see you! You are one of
us
, of course? and you have come to luncheon? No? You are not invited by my lord? Come along and see him. Between ourselves, he’s a bit of a bore — and a bright young fellow like you will be a perfect godsend to the rest of us. You won’t? Now I look at you again, I see signs of something wrong. Am I rushing at rash conclusions if I suspect that my young friend is in a scrape? No explanations! At your age there is only one scrape — a woman.’

‘The loveliest girl in the world, Sir John. I am in sore need of your advice. Can we speak here without interruption?’

‘Of course we can!’

He rang the bell as he replied, and gave his orders to the servant as coolly as if he had been in his own house. He was obsequiously obeyed. The servant knew him to be the proprietor of a newspaper; and, like his betters (including some of the highest personages in the land) the footman was afraid of the Press.