Wilfrid Cumbermede Part 22

Neither was pretty, but both looked womanly and good. The daughter had the attraction of youth and bright eyes; the mother of goodwill and experience; but both were sallow, and the mother very wrinkled for what seemed her years.

'Now,' I said, summoning my German, 'you've almost finished your work.

Make my short hair as like your long hair as you can, and then I shall be a Swiss girl.'

I was but a boy, and had no scruple concerning a bit of fun of which I might have been ashamed a few years later. The girl took a comb from her own hair and arranged mine. When she had finished, 'One girl may kiss another,' I said; and doubtless she understood me, for she returned my kiss with a fresh laugh. I sat down by the fire, and as its warmth crept into my limbs, I rejoiced over comforts which yesterday had been a matter of course.

Meantime they were busy getting me something to eat. Just as they were setting it on the table, however, a loud call outside took them both away. In a few moments two other guests entered, and then first I found myself ashamed of my costume. With them the mother re-entered, calling behind her, 'There's n.o.body at home; you must put the horses up yourself, Annel.' Then she moved the little table towards me, and proceeded to set out the meal.

'Ah! I see you have got something to eat,' said one of the strangers, in a voice I fancied I had heard before.

'Will you please to share it?' returned the woman, moving the table again towards the middle of the room.

I thought with myself that, if I kept silent, no one could tell I was not a girl; and, the table being finally adjusted, I moved my seat towards it. Meantime the man was helping his companion to take off her outer garments, and put them before the fire. I saw the face of neither until they approached the table and sat down. Great was my surprise to discover that the man was the same I had met in the wood on my way to Moldwarp Hall, and that the girl was Clara--a good deal grown--in fact, looking almost a woman. From after facts, the meeting became less marvellous in my eyes than it then appeared.

I felt myself in an awkward position--indeed, I felt almost guilty, although any notion of having the advantage of them never entered my head. I was more than half inclined to run out and help Annel with the horses, but I was very hungry, and not at all willing to postpone my meal, simple as it was--bread and b.u.t.ter, eggs, cheese, milk, and a bottle of the stronger wine of the country, tasting like a coa.r.s.e sherry. The two--father and daughter evidently--talked about their journey, and hoped they should reach the Grindelwald without more rain.

'By the way,' said the gentleman, 'it's somewhere not far from here young c.u.mbermede is at school. I know Mr Forest well enough--used to know him, at least. We may as well call upon him.'

'c.u.mbermede,' said Clara; 'who is he?'

'A nephew of Mrs Wilson's--no, not nephew--second or third cousin--or something of the sort, I believe.--Didn't somebody tell me you met him at the Hall one day?'

'Oh, that boy--Wilfrid. Yes; I told you myself. Don't you remember what a bit of fun we had the night of the ball? We were shut out on the leads, you know.'

'Yes, to be sure, you did tell me. What sort of a boy is he?'

'Oh! I don't know. Much like other boys. I did think he was a coward at first, but he showed some pluck at last. I shouldn't wonder if he turns out a good sort of fellow! We _were_ in a fix!'

'You're a terrible madcap, Clara! If you don't settle down as you grow, you'll be getting yourself into worse sc.r.a.pes.'

'Not with you to look after me, papa dear,' answered Clara, smiling.

'It was the fun of cheating old Goody Wilson, you know!'

Her father grinned with his whole mouthful of teeth, and looked at her with amus.e.m.e.nt--almost sympathetic roguery, which she evidently appreciated, for she laughed heartily.

Meantime I was feeling very uncomfortable. Something within told me I had no right to overhear remarks about myself; and, in my slow way, I was meditating how to get out of the sc.r.a.pe.

'What a nice-looking girl that is!' said Clara, without lifting her eyes from her plate--'I mean for a Swiss, you know. But I do like the dress. I wish you would buy me a collar and chains like those, papa.'

'Always wanting to get something out of your old dad, Clara! Just like the rest of you, always wanting something--eh?'

'No, papa; it's you gentlemen always want to keep everything for yourselves. We only want you to share.'

'Well, you shall have the collar, and I shall have the chains.--Will that do?'

'Yes, thank you, papa,' she returned, nodding her head. 'Meantime, hadn't you better give me your diamond pin? It would fasten this troublesome collar so nicely!'

'There, child!' he answered, proceeding to take it from his shirt.

'Anything else?'

'No, no, papa dear. I didn't want it. I expected you, like everybody else, to decline carrying out your professed principles.'

'What a nice girl she is,' I thought, 'after all!'

'My love,' said her father, 'you will know some day that I would do more for you even than give you my pet diamond. If you are a good girl, and do as I tell you, there will be grander things than diamond pins in store for you. But you may have this if you like.'

He looked fondly at her as he spoke.

'Oh no, papa!--not now at least. I should not know what to do with it.

I should be sure to lose it.'

If my clothes had been dry, I would have slipped away, put them on, and appeared in my proper guise. As it was, I was getting more and more miserable--ashamed of revealing who I was, and ashamed of hearing what the speakers supposed I did not understand. I sat on irresolute. In a little while, however, either the wine having got into my head, or the food and warmth having restored my courage, I began to contemplate the bolder stroke of suddenly revealing myself by some unexpected remark.

They went on talking about the country, and the road they had come.

'But we have hardly seen anything worth calling a precipice,' said Clara.

'You'll see hundreds of them if you look out of the window,' said her father.

'Oh! but I don't mean that,' she returned. 'It's nothing to look at them like that. I mean from the top of them--to look down, you know.'

'Like from the flying b.u.t.tress at Moldwarp Hall, Clara?' I said.

The moment I began to speak, they began to stare. Clara's hand was arrested on its way towards the bread, and her father's wine-gla.s.s hung suspended between the table and his lips. I laughed.

'By Jove!' said Mr Coningham--and added nothing, for amazement, but looked uneasily at his daughter, as if asking whether they had not said something awkward about me.

'It's Wilfrid!' exclaimed Clara, in the tone of one talking in her sleep. Then she laid down her knife, and laughed aloud.

'What a guy you are!' she exclaimed. 'Who would have thought of finding you in a Swiss girl? Really it was too bad of you to sit there and let us go on as we did. I do believe we were talking about your precious self! At least papa was.'

Again her merry laugh rang out. She could not have taken a better way of relieving us.

'I'm very sorry,' I said; 'but I felt so awkward in this costume that I couldn't bring myself to speak before. I tried very hard.'

'Poor boy!' she returned, rather more mockingly than I liked, her violets swimming in the dews of laughter.

By this time Mr Coningham had apparently recovered his self-possession.

I say _apparently_, for I doubt if he had ever lost it. He had only, I think, been running over their talk in his mind to see if he had said anything unpleasant, and now, re-a.s.sured, I think, he stretched his hand across the table.

'At all events, Mr c.u.mbermede,' he said, '_we_ owe _you_ an apology. I am sure we can't have said anything we should mind you hearing; but--'

'Oh!' I interrupted, 'you have told me nothing I did not know already, except that Mrs Wilson was a relation, of which I was quite ignorant.'

'It is true enough, though.'

'What relation is she, then?'

'I think, when I gather my recollections of the matter--I think she was first cousin to your mother--perhaps it was only second cousin.'