Vainly Mrs. Chump employed alternately innuendo and outcry to make him perceive that her coming involved a softer business, and that to money, she having it now, she gave not a thought.  He assured her that in future she must; that such was his express desire; that it was her duty to herself and others.  And while saying this, which seemed to indicate that widowhood would be her state as far as he was concerned, he pressed her hand with extreme sweetness, and his bird’s-eyes twinkled obligingly.  It is to be feared that Mr. Pole had passed the age of improvement, save in his peculiar art.  After a time Nature stops, and says to us ’thou art now what thou wilt be.’

Cornelia was in black from neck to foot.  She joined the conversation as the others did, and indeed more flowingly than Adela, whose visage was soured.  It was Cornelia to whom Merthyr explained his temporary subjection to the piteous appeals of Mrs. Chump.  She smiled humorously to reassure him of her perfect comprehension of the apology for his visit, and of his welcome:  and they talked, argued a little, differed,, until the terrible thought that he talked, and even looked like some one else, drew the blood from her lips, and robbed her pulses of their play.  She spoke of Emilia, saying plainly and humbly:  “All we have is owing to her.”  Arabella spoke of Emilia likewise, but with a shade of the foregone tone of patronage.  “She will always be our dear little sister.”  Adela continued silent, as with ears awake for the opening of a door.  Was it in ever-thwarted anticipation of the coming of Sir Twickenham?

Merthyr’s inquiry after Wilfrid produced a momentary hesitation on Cornelia’s Part—­“He has gone to Verona.  We have an uncle in the Austrian service,” she said; and Merthyr bowed.

What was this tale of Emilia, that grew more and more perplexing as he heard it bit by bit?  The explanation awaited him at Richford.  There, when Georgiana had clasped her brother in one last jealous embrace, she gave him the following letter straightway, to save him, haply, from the false shame of that eager demand for one, which she saw ready to leap to words in his eyes.  He read it, sitting in the Richford library alone, while the great rhododendron bloomed outside, above the shaven sunny sward, looking like a monstrous tropic bird alighted to brood an hour in full sunlight.

“My Friend!”

“I would say my Beloved!  I will not write it, for it would be false.  I have read of the defeat.  Why was a battle risked at that cruel place!  Here are we to be again for so many years before we can win God to be on our side!  And I—­do you not know? we used to talk of it!—­I never can think it the Devil who has got the upper hand.  What succeeds, I always think should succeed—­was meant to, because the sky looks clear over it.  This knocks a blow at my heart and keeps it silent and only just beating.  I feel that you are safe.  That, I am thankful for.  If you were not, God would warn me, and not let me mock him with thanks when I pray.  I pray till my eyelids burn, on purpose to get a warning if there is any black messenger to be sent to me.  I do not believe it.