The Complete Novels of Charlotte Brontë

by Charlotte Bronte

  “Then he could give her no information?”

  “Not much; only this, indeed — Conway Fitzgibbon was a man of straw; May Park a house of cards. there was no vestige of such man or mansion in Midland County, or in any other shire in England. Tradition herself had nothing to say about either name or the place. The oracle of old deeds and registers, when consulted, had not responded.”

  “Who can he be, then, that came here, and who is this child?”

  “That’s just what I can’t tell you; — an incapacity which makes me say I have done nothing.”

  “And how am I to get paid?”

  “Can’t tell you that either.”

  “A quarter’s board and education owing, and master’s terms besides,” pursued Miss Wilcox. “How infamous! I can’t afford the loss.”

  “And if we were only in the good old times,” said Mr. Ellin, “where we ought to be, you might just send Miss Matilda out to the plantations in Virginia, sell her for what she is worth, and pay yourself.”

  “Matilda, indeed, and Fitzgibbon! A little impostor. I wonder what her real name is?”

  “Betty Hodge? Poll Smith? Hannah Jones?” suggested Mr. Ellin.

  “Now,” cried Miss Wilcox, “give me credit for sagacity. It’s very odd, but try as I would, — and I made every effort, — I never could really like that child. She has had every indulgence in this house; and I am sure I made great sacrifice of feeling to principle in showing her much attention, for I could not make any one believe the degree of antipathy I have all along felt towards her.”

  “Yes. I can believe it. I saw it.”

  “Did you? Well, it proves that my discernment is rarely at fault. Her game is now up, however; and time it was. I have said nothing to her yet; but now — “

  “Have her in whilst I am here,” said Mr. Ellin. “Has she known of this business? Is she in the secret? Is she herself an accomplice, or a mere tool? Have her in.”

  Miss Wilcox rang the bell, demanded Matilda Fitzgibbon, and the false heiress soon appeared. She came in her ringlets, her sash, and her furbelowed dress adornments, alas! no longer acceptable.

  “Stand there!” said Miss Wilcox sternly, checking her as she approached the hearth. “Stand there on the further side of the table. I have a few questions to put to you, and your business will be to answer them. And mind, let us have the truth. We will not endure lies.”

  Ever since Miss Fitzgibbon had been found in the fit, her face had retained a peculiar paleness and her eyes a dark orbit. When thus addressed, she began to shake and blanch like conscious guilt personified.

  “Who are you?” demanded Miss Wilcox. “What do you know about yourself?”

  A sort of half-interjection escaped the girl’s lips; it was a sound expressing partly fear, and partly the shock which the nerves feel when an evil, very long expected, at last and suddenly arrives.

  “Keep yourself still, and reply, if you please,” said Miss Wilcox, whom nobody should blame for lacking pity, because nature had not made her compassionate. “What is your name? We know you have no right to that of Matilda Fitzgibbon.”

  She gave no answer.

  “I do insist upon a reply. Speak you shall, sooner or later. So you had better do it at once.

  This inquisition had evidently a very strong effect upon the subject of it. She stood as if palsied, trying to speak, but apparently not competent to articulate.

  Miss Wilcox did not fly into a passion, but she grew very stern and urgent, spoke a little loud, and there was a dry clamor in her raised voice which seemed to beat upon the ear and bewilder the brain. Her interest had been injured — her pocket wounded. She was vindicating her rights, and she had no eye to see, and no nerve to feel, but for the point in hand. Mr. Ellin appeared to consider himself strictly a looker-on; he stood on the hearth very quiet.

  At last the culprit spoke. A low voice escaped her lips. “Oh, my head!” she cried, lifting her hands to her forehead. She staggered, but caught the door and did not fall. Some accusers might have been startled by such a cry — even silenced; not so Miss Wilcox. She was neither cruel nor violent; but she was coarse because insensible. Having just drawn breath, she went on, harsh as ever.

  Mr. Ellin, leaving the hearth, deliberately paced up the room, as if he were tired of standing still, and would walk a little for a change. In returning and passing near the door an the criminal, a faint breath seemed to seek his ear, whispering his name, —

  “Oh, Mr. Ellin!”

  The child dropped as she spoke. A curious voice — not like Mr. Ellin’s though it came from his lips — asked Miss Wilcox to cease speaking, and say no more. He gathered from the floor what had fallen on it. She seemed overcome, but not unconscious. Resting beside Mr. Ellin, in a few minutes she again drew breath. She raised her eyes to him.

  “Come, my little one; have no fear,” said he.

  Reposing her head against him, she gradually became assured. It did not cost him another word to bring her round; even strong trembling was calmed by the mere effects of his protection. He told Miss Wilcox with remarkable tranquillity, but still with a certain decision, that the little girl must be put to bed. He carried her up stairs, and saw her laid there himself. Returning to Miss Wilcox, he said, “Say no more to her. Beware, or you will do more mischief than you think or wish. That kind of nature is very different from yours. It is not possible that you should like it; but let it alone. We will talk more on the subject tomorrow. Let me question her.”