Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1771 page)

‘May I ask what that is?’

‘May I ask if you object to the form of vulgarity which is called — Slang?’

‘I object to nothing from You. Pray tell me in what I am deficient.’

‘Pluck!’

She looked at him with a moment’s saucy attention — bowed, and returned to the house. Even Cyril discovered that she was not positively angry this time.

V
I

Sir John Bosworth appeared again on the next day — with an excellent reason for returning so soon. He had not yet been shown over Oakapple Hall.

On this occasion, the servant conducted him to the music-room. Mabel was at the piano; and Cyril was turning the leaves of the music for her. Sir John had only to look at them, and to suspect that his modest young friend had been gaining ground in his absence. He approached the piano with his genial smile, and examined the music. ‘Maiden Musings’ was the title; and, in one respect at least, the composer had deserved well of the public of the present day — he had given them plenty of notes for their money. ‘Go on, please,’ said the amiable visitor. Mabel went on. Notes that thundered, notes that shrieked, notes in cataracts of sound represented the maiden’s musings. ‘What were those remarks,’ Sir John asked when it was over, ‘that Mozart made on the subject of melody? Cyril, my dear fellow, have you got Kelly’s
Reminiscences
in the library? Kelly was Mozart’s pupil. Do try to find the book.’

Before he complied with this request, Cyril looked at Mabel, and received a look in return. Then, and only then, he left the room. Sir John saw that he had not a moment to lose. The door was barely closed on his young rival, before he possessed himself of Mabel’s hand, and said, ‘Oh, forgive me!’

She released her hand, and assumed an icy composure. ‘I confess I am a little surprised to see you again,’ she remarked.

‘You see a man crushed by sorrow and shame,’ Sir John proceeded. ‘Some devil must have possessed me when I spoke to you yesterday. I have not had one quiet moment since. You are literally the one hope of my life. Try, pray try to imagine what I felt, when I had every reason to fear that I had lost you — and to what a man!’

‘A very agreeable man, Sir John.’

‘Torture me, if you like; I have deserved it. But don’t tell me that you — with your bright intelligence, your tact and delicacy, your superiority to the little weaknesses and vanities of ordinary women — can feel a serious attachment to such a person as Cyril Corydon. No! Despise me as you may, Mabel; destroy all the hopes that I have centred in you; doom me to be a wretched man for the rest of my life — there is one thing you can
not
do: I defy you to lower yourself in my estimation. You have been the one woman in the world to me since I first saw you; and the one woman you will remain to the day of my death!’

He caught her by the hand again: it trembled in his hand; her ready tongue had literally nothing to say. The power of nonsense, in every form which it can take, is one of the great moral forces to which humanity instinctively submits. When Cyril returned (without having discovered the book) Sir John’s nonsense, admirably spoken, had answered Sir John’s purpose. Placed between her two admirers, Mabel was not able to determine which she really preferred.

‘There’s no such book in the library,’ Cyril announced. ‘If he wanted to get rid of me, don’t you think , Miss Mabel, he might have said so plainly?’

For the moment Sir John was thunderstruck. Was this the same confiding helpless young gentleman who had brought him to Oakapple Hall? He recovered himself directly.

‘My dear boy, is there gout in your family?’ he asked. ‘I am at a loss to understand this extraordinary outbreak of temper — unless there is a first fit coming on, at an unusually early age.’

Cyril passed this question over without notice. His fair complexion reddened with anger. Never had love wrought such a transformation in a man since the time of Cymon.

‘I saw you take Miss Mabel’s hand just now, when I came in,’ he declared stoutly. ‘I consider that to be a liberty.’

Sir John’s satirical composure was not disturbed even by this . ‘May I inquire, merely as a matter of curiosity, whether you claim a right of property in this young lady’s hand?’

‘Yes, I do! I have reason to hope that this young lady will do me the honour of marrying me.’

‘So have I!’

‘I have a prior claim on her, Sir John.’

‘Nothing of the sort. I asked Miss Mabel to marry me last week.’

Cyril turned indignantly to Mabel. ‘Is that true?’

Sir John cautioned her. ‘You’re not bound to answer,’ he said.

‘She
is
bound!’

‘No, Cyril — no.’

‘Do you hear him, Mabel?’

Sir John pointed to Cyril’s flaming cheeks. ‘Do you see him, Mabel?’

She burst out laughing. This disconcerted both the men: there was an awful pause. ‘Must I decide between you,’ she asked, ‘without any time to think first?’ Neither the one nor the other offered her time to think first. Mabel’s eyes suddenly brightened: a new idea had occurred to her. She turned to Sir John.

‘I see a way out of the difficulty,’ she said. ‘Do you remember my uncle’s poem — the
Contest of the Minstrels?
Suppose you and Mr Corydon each address me in a little poem of your own composing — and suppose I imitate the fair lady of the ballad, and choose the minstrel whose verse I like best?’

Cyril was reduced to silence. Even Sir John could only say: ‘You’re joking.’

She
was
joking. But the consternation visible in the faces of the two men roused the spirit of mischief in her. ‘I’m quite in earnest,’ she answered. ‘If you wish me to decide between you, you have heard the only terms on which I consent. The day is before you: do your best.’

As she opened the door to leave them, Mrs Corydon came in. The amiable old lady said she was at Sir John’s service when he wished to see the house.

V
II

Major Evergreen proved to be useless, on this occasion, as a means for making an excuse; he had gone out for a walk. All the rooms to Oakapple Hall were open to Sir John. He heard how the two Kings had slept in the house, how Oliver Cromwell had battered the house, how one part of it was built in one century, and another part in another. He was not even spared the interesting spectacle of Major Evergreen’s study. ‘So characteristic of a poet,’ Mrs Corydon said; ‘look at the manuscripts all scattered about!’ Sir John looked at the manuscripts. Mrs Corydon left him, and led the way to the window. ‘And now look at the view!’ Sir John looked at the view.

Released at last, he had leisure to consider whether he should humour Mabel’s absurd caprice, or decline to make himself ridiculous, and leave her to recover her senses. He was a man greedy for money, as well as a man in love. Remembering that she had a handsome fortune, and that a rival younger than himself was also courting her, he made his way to the library.

At one of the writing-tables, Cyril was sitting forlorn, surrounded by morsels of torn paper. ‘What have you done?’ the elder minstrel asked of the younger. The melancholy answer was, ‘Nothing!’ Cyril’s voice sounded as if he was a child again, and was ready to cry.

Sir John sat down at a second table, in a distant part of the room, and began to write. The quiet in the library was only disturbed, now and then, by the heavy sighs of Cyril, and the sound of paper being torn up.

V
III

There was a knock at the door. A fresh young voice asked gaily: ‘May I come in?’

‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ said Mabel. ‘The fair ladies of past times were remarkable for their patience — especially with minstrels. I can wait.’

She looked at Cyril, who was seated nearest to her. Too cruelly mortified to speak, he took her hand, and put it on his hot forehead: he pointed to the mass of torn paper all round him. The tears rose in his eyes — he opened the door and went out.

Mabel’s face lost its expression of malicious enjoyment. She looked ashamed of herself; and she said softly: ‘Poor fellow!’

Sir John crossed the room, with a smile of conscious superiority. He was not a man who did anything by halves. Having decided on humouring the young lady, he presented his poetic offering with chivalrous humility, dropping on one knee.

Mabel read his verses. They had one great merit — there were very few of them.

They say she’s dark; yes, like the night
      Whose beauty shines from starry skies:
Oh, my sweet saint, how darkly bright  
The mellow radiance of those eyes!
I love in you the tender light —            
The light the gaudy day denies.        

‘Very pretty,’ Mabel said — ’and reminds me of Byron. Did you ever read his Hebrew Melodies?’

‘Never!’ Sir John declared fervently. ‘Allow me, my angel, to kiss your hand, and claim your promise.’

At that critical moment, Major Evergreen returned from his walk, and entered the library in search of a book. He stood petrified at the sight of the enemy whom he abhorred. ‘That Man!’ he cried — and ran out of the room with a furious look at his niece.

She ran out after him. Sir John followed on tiptoe, and listened at the half-opened door.

‘There’s more excuse for me, uncle, than you think,’ Mabel pleaded. ‘Sir John Bosworth has one merit which you really ought to allow. He is a poet like yourself — he has just written this.’

She began to read the verses:

They say she’s dark; yes, like the night
        Whose beauty shines from starry skies —

Her uncle snatched the paper out of her hand. ‘My Poetry!’ he shouted.

Before his niece could stop him, he was back again in the library. ‘Thief!’ he called out at the top of his voice.

Mabel made a vain attempt to quiet him. She had forgotten the inhuman review. Not so the major. Even at that trying moment he could have repeated the most atrocious insults inflicted on him in the newspaper without missing a word.

‘The scoundrel has been among My Manuscripts!’ cried the infuriated poet. ‘I’ve longed to murder him for the last six months. And now I’ll do it!’

It was useless to search the room. Sir John Bosworth had made his escape.

At a later period, when Mabel was asked why she had married Cyril instead of Sir John, she used to answer —

‘The Poetry did it.’