# The Two Magics (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1898)/Covering End/Chapter 1

COVERING END
I
At the foot of the staircase he waited and listened, thinking he had heard her call to him from the gallery, high aloft but out of view, to which he had allowed her independent access and whence indeed, on her first going up, the sound of her appreciation had reached him in rapid movements, evident rushes and dashes, and in droll, charming cries that echoed through the place. He had afterwards, expectant and restless, been, for another look, to the house-door, and then had fidgeted back into the hall, where her voice again caught him. It was many a day since such a voice had sounded in those empty chambers, and never perhaps, in all the years, for poor Chivers, had any voice at all launched a note so friendly and so free.
"Oh, no, mum, there ain't no one whatever come yet. It's quite all right, mum,—you can please yourself!" If he left her to range, all ​his pensive little economy seemed to say, wasn't it just his poor pickings? He quitted the stairs, but stopped again, with his hand to his ear, as he heard her once more appeal to him. "Lots of lovely———? Lovely what, mum? Little ups and downs?" he quavered aloft. "Oh, as you say, mum: as many as in a poor man's life!" She was clearly disposed, as she roamed in delight from point to point, to continue to talk, and, with his better ear and his scooped hand, he continued to listen hard. "'Dear little crooked steps'? Yes, mum; please mind 'em, mum: they be cruel in the dark corners!" She appeared to take another of her light scampers, the sign of a fresh discovery and a fresh response; at which he felt his heart warm with the success of a trust of her that might after all have been rash. Once more her voice reached him and once more he gossiped back. "Coming up too? Not if you'll kindly indulge me, mum—I must be where I can watch the bell. It takes watching as well as hearing!"—he dropped, as he resumed his round, to a murmur of great patience. This was taken up the next moment by the husky plaint of the signal itself, which seemed to confess equally to short wind and creaking joints. It moved, however, distinguishably, and its ​motion made him start much more as if he had been guilty of sleeping at his post than as if he had waited half the day. "Mercy, if I didn't watch———!" He shuffled across the wide stone-paved hall and, losing himself beneath the great arch of the short passage to the entrance-front, hastened to admit his new visitor. He gives us thereby the use of his momentary absence for a look at the place he has left.
This is the central hall, high and square, brown and grey, flagged beneath and timbered above, of an old English country-house; an apartment in which a single survey is a perception of long and lucky continuities. It would have been difficult to find elsewhere anything at once so old and so actual, anything that had plainly come so far, far down without, at any moment of the endless journey, losing its way. To stand there and look round was to wonder a good deal—yet without arriving at an answer—whether it had been most neglected or most cherished; there was such resignation in its long survival and yet such bravery in its high polish. If it had never been spoiled, this was partly, no doubt, because it had been, for a century, given up; but what it had been given up to was, after all, homely and familiar use. It had in it at the present moment ​indeed much of the chill of fallen fortunes; but there was no concession in its humility and no hypocrisy in its welcome. It was magnificent and shabby, and the eyes of the dozen dark old portraits seemed, in their eternal attention, to count the cracks in the pavement, the rents in the seats of the chairs, and the missing tones in the Flemish tapestry. Above the tapestry, which, in its turn, was above the high oak wainscot, most of these stiff images—on the side on which it principally reigned—were placed; and they held up their heads to assure all comers that a tone or two was all that was missing, and that they had never waked up in winter dawns to any glimmer of bereavement, in the long night, of any relic or any feature. Such as it was, the company was all there; every inch of old oak, every yard of old arras, every object of ornament or of use to which these surfaces formed so rare a background. If the watchers on the walls had ever found a gap in their own rank, the ancient roof, of a certainty, would have been shaken by their collective gasp. As a matter of fact it was rich and firm—it had almost the dignity of the vault of a church. On this Saturday afternoon in August, a hot, still day, such of the casements as freely worked in the discoloured glass of the ​windows stood open in one quarter to a terrace that overlooked a park and in another to a wonderful old empty court that communicated with a wonderful old empty garden. The staircase, wide and straight, mounted, full in sight, to a landing that was half-way up; and on the right, as you faced this staircase, a door opened out of the brown panelling into a glimpse of a little morning-room, where, in a slanted, gilded light, there was brownness too, mixed with notes of old yellow. On the left, toward court and garden, another door stood open to the warm air. Still as you faced the staircase you had at your right, between that monument and the morning-room, the arch through which Chivers had disappeared.
His reappearance interrupts and yet in a manner, after all, quickens our intense impression; Chivers on the spot, and in this severe but spacious setting, was so perfect an image of immemorial domesticity. It would have been impossible perhaps, however, either to tell his age or to name his use: he was of the age of all the history that lurked in all the corners and of any use whatever you might be so good as still to find for him. Considerably shrunken and completely silvered, he had perpetual agreement in the droop of his kind white head and ​perpetual inquiry in the jerk of the idle old hands now almost covered by the sleeves of the black dress-coat which, twenty years before, must have been by a century or two the newest thing in the house and into which his years appeared to have declined very much as a shrunken family moves into a part of its habitation. This attire was completed by a white necktie that, in honour of the day, he himself had this morning done up. The humility he betrayed and the oddity he concealed were alike brought out by his juxtaposition with the gentleman he had admitted.
To admit Mr. Prodmore was anywhere and at any time, as you would immediately have recognised, an immense admission. He was a personage of great presence and weight, with a large smooth face in which a small sharp meaning was planted like a single pin in the tight red toilet-cushion of a guest-chamber. He wore a blue frock-coat and a stiff white waistcoat and a high white hat that he kept on his head with a kind of protesting cock, while in his buttonhole nestled a bold prize plant on which he occasionally lowered a proprietary eye that seemed to remind it of its being born to a public career. Mr. Prodmore's appearance had ​evidently been thought out, but it might have struck you that the old portraits took it in with a sterner stare, with a fixedness indeed in which a visitor more sensitive would have read a consciousness of his remaining, in their presence, so jauntily, so vulgarly covered. He had never a glance for them, and it would have been easy after a minute to see that this was an old story between them. Their manner, as it were, sensibly increased the coolness. This coolness became a high rigour as Mr. Prodmore encountered, from the very threshold, a disappointment.
"No one here?" he indignantly demanded.
"I'm sorry to say no one has come, sir," Chivers replied; "but I've had a telegram from Captain Yule."
Mr. Prodmore's apprehension flared out. "Not to say he ain't coming?"
"He was to take the 2.20 from Paddington; he certainly should be here!" The old man spoke as if his non-arrival were the most unaccountable thing in the world, especially for a poor person ever respectful of the mystery of causes.
"He should have been here this hour or more. And so should my fly-away daughter!"
Chivers surrounded this description of Miss ​Prodmore with the deep discretion of silence, and then, after a moment, evidently reflected that silence, in a world bestrewn with traps to irreverence, might be as rash as speech. "Were they coming—a—together, sir?"
He had scarcely mended the matter, for his visitor gave an inconsequent stare. "Together?—for what do you take Miss Prodmore?" This young lady's parent glared about him again as if to alight on something else that was out of place; but the good intentions expressed in the attitude of every object might presently have been presumed to soothe his irritation. It had at any rate the effect of bridging, for poor Chivers, some of his gaps. "It is in a sense true that their 'coming together,' as you call it, is exactly what I've made my plans for today: my calculation was that we should all punctually converge on this spot. Attended by her trusty maid, Miss Prodmore, who happens to be on a week's visit to her grandmother at Bellborough, was to take the 1.40 from that place. I was to drive over—ten miles—from the most convenient of my seats. Captain Yule"—the speaker wound up his statement as with the mention of the last touch in a masterpiece of his own sketching—"was finally to shake off for a few hours the peculiar occupations that engage him."
​The old man listened with his head askance to favour his good ear, but his visible attention all on a sad spot in one of the half-dozen worn rugs. "They must be peculiar, sir, when a gentleman comes into a property like this and goes three months without so much as a nat'ral curiosity———! I don't speak of anything but what is nat'ral, sir; but there have been people here———"
"There have repeatedly been people here!" Mr. Prodmore complacently interrupted.
"As you say, sir—to be shown over. With the master himself never shown!" Chivers dismally commented.
"He shall be, so that nobody can miss him!" Mr. Prodmore, for his own reassurance as well, hastened to retort.
His companion risked a tiny explanation. "It will be a mercy indeed to look on him; but I meant that he has not been taken round."
"That's what I meant too. I'll take him—round and round: it's exactly what I've come for!" Mr. Prodmore rang out; and his eyes made the lower circuit again, looking as pleased as such a pair of eyes could look with nobody as yet quite good enough either to terrify or to tickle. "He can't fail to be affected, though ​he has been up to his neck in such a different class of thing."
Chivers clearly wondered awhile what class of thing it could be. Then he expressed a timid hope. "In nothing, I dare say, but what's right, sir———?"
"In everything," Mr. Prodmore distinctly informed him, "that's wrong! But here he is!" that gentleman added with elation as the doorbell again sounded. Chivers, under the double agitation of the appeal and the disclosure, proceeded to the front as fast as circumstances allowed; while Mr. Prodmore, left alone, would have been observed—had not his solitude been so bleak—to recover a degree of cheerfulness. Cheerfulness in solitude at Covering End was certainly not irresistible, but particular feelings and reasons had pitched, for their campaign, the starched, if now somewhat ruffled, tent of his large white waistcoat. If they had issued audibly from that pavilion, they would have represented to us his consciousness of the reinforcement he might bring up for attack should Captain Yule really resist the house. The sound he next heard from the front caused him none the less, for that matter, to articulate a certain drop. "Only Cora?—Well," he added in a ​tone somewhat at variance with his "only," "he shan't, at any rate, resist her!" This announcement would have quickened a spectator's interest in the young lady whom Chivers now introduced and followed, a young lady who straightway found herself the subject of traditionary discipline. "I've waited. What do you mean?"
Cora Prodmore, who had a great deal of colour in her cheeks and a great deal more—a bold variety of kinds—in the extremely high pitch of her new, smart clothes, meant, on the whole, it was easy to see, very little, and met this challenge with still less show of support either from the sources I have mentioned or from any others. A dull, fresh, honest, overdressed damsel of two-and-twenty, she was too much out of breath, too much flurried and frightened, to do more than stammer: "Waited, papa? Oh, I'm sorry!"
Her regret appeared to strike her father still more as an impertinence than as a vanity. "Would you then, if I had not had patience for you, have wished not to find me? Why the dickens are you so late?"
Agitated, embarrassed, the girl was at a loss. "I'll tell you, papa!" But she followed up her pledge with an air of vacuity and then, dropping ​into the nearest seat, simply closed her eyes to her danger. If she desired relief, she had caught at the one way to get it. "I feel rather faint. Could I have some tea?"
Mr. Prodmore considered both the idea and his daughter's substantial form. "Well, as I shall expect you to put forth all your powers—yes!" He turned to Chivers. "Some tea."
The old man's eyes had attached themselves to Miss Prodmore's symptoms with more solicitude than those of her parent. "I did think it might be required!" Then as he gained the door of the morning-room: "I'll lay it out here."
The young lady, on his withdrawal, recovered herself sufficiently to rise again. "It was my train, papa—so very awfully behind. I walked up, you know, also, from the station—there's such a lovely footpath across the park."
"You've been roaming the country then alone?" Mr. Prodmore inquired.
The girl protested with instant eagerness against any such picture. "Oh, dear no, not alone!" She spoke, absurdly, as if she had had a train of attendants; but it was an instant before she could complete the assurance. "There were ever so many people about."
"Nothing is more possible than that there ​should be too many!" said her father, speaking as for his personal convenience, but presenting that as enough. "But where, among them all," he demanded, "is your trusty maid?"
Cora's reply made up in promptitude what it lacked in felicity. "I didn't bring her." She looked at the old portraits as if to appeal to them to help her to remember why. Apparently indeed they gave a sign, for she presently went on: "She was so extremely unwell."
Mr. Prodmore met this with reprobation. "Wasn't she to understand from the first that we don't permit———"
"Anything of that sort?"—the girl recalled it at least as a familiar law. "Oh, yes, papa—I thought she did."
"But she doesn't?"—Mr. Prodmore pressed the point. Poor Cora, at a loss again, appeared to wonder if the point had better be a failure of brain or of propriety, but her companion continued to press. "What on earth's the matter with her?"
She again communed with their silent witnesses. "I really don't quite know, but I think that at Granny's she eats too much."
"I'll soon put an end to that!" Mr. Prodmore returned with decision. "You expect then to ​pursue your adventures quite into the night—to return to Bellborough as you came?"
The girl had by this time begun a little to find her feet. "Exactly as I came, papa dear,—under the protection of a new friend I've just made, a lady whom I met in the train and who is also going back by the 6.19. She was, like myself, on her way to this place, and I expected to find her here."
Mr. Prodmore chilled on the spot any such expectations. "What does she want at this place?"
Cora was clearly stronger for her new friend than for herself. "She wants to see it."
Mr. Prodmore reflected on this complication. "Today?" It was practically presumptuous. "Today won't do."
"So I suggested," the girl declared. "But do you know what she said?"
"How should I know," he coldly demanded, "what a nobody says?"
But on this, as if with the returning taste of a new strength, his daughter could categorically meet him. "She's not a nobody. She's an American."
Mr. Prodmore, for a moment, was struck: he embraced the place, instinctively, in a flash of calculation. "An American?"
​"Yes, and she's wild———"
He knew all about that. "Americans mostly are!"
"I mean," said Cora, "to see this place. 'Wild' was what she herself called it—and I think she also said she was 'mad.'"
"She gave"—Mr. Prodmore reviewed the affair—"a fine account of herself! But she won't do."
The effect of her new acquaintance on his companion had been such that she could, after an instant, react against this sentence. "Well, when I told her that this particular day perhaps wouldn't, she said it would just have to."
"Have to do?" Mr. Prodmore showed again, through a chink, his speculative eye. "For what, then, with such grand airs?"
"Why, I suppose, for what Americans want."
He measured the quantity. "They want everything."
"Then I wonder," said Cora, "that she hasn't arrived."
"When she does arrive," he answered, "I'll tackle her; and I shall thank you, in future, not to take up, in trains, with indelicate women of whom you know nothing."
"Oh, I did know something," his daughter ​pleaded; "for I saw her yesterday at Bellborough."
Mr. Prodmore contested even this freedom. "And what was she doing at Bellborough?"
"Staying at the Blue Dragon, to see the old abbey. She says she just loves old abbeys. It seems to be the same feeling," the girl went on, "that brought her over, today, to see this old house."
"She 'just loves' old houses? Then why the deuce didn't she accompany you properly, since she is so pushing, to the door?"
"Because she went off in a fly," Cora explained, "to see, first, the old hospital. She just loves old hospitals. She asked me if this isn't a show-house. I told her"—the girl was anxious to disclaim responsibility—"that I hadn't the least idea."
"It is!" Mr. Prodmore cried almost with ferocity. "I wonder, on such a speech, what she thought of you!"
Miss Prodmore meditated with distinct humbleness. "I know. She told me."
He had looked her up and down. "That you're really a hopeless frump?"
Cora, oddly enough, seemed almost to court this description. "That I'm not, as she rather funnily called it, a show-girl."
​"Think of your having to be reminded—by the very strangers you pick up," Mr. Prodmore groaned, "of what my daughter should pre-eminently be! Your friend, all the same," he bethought himself, "is evidently loud."
"Well, when she comes," the girl again so far agreed as to reply, "you'll certainly hear her. But don't judge her, papa, till you do. She's tremendously clever," she risked—"there seems to be nothing she doesn't know."
"And there seems to be nothing you do! You're not tremendously clever," Mr. Prodmore pursued; "so you'll permit me to demand of you a slight effort of intelligence." Then, as for the benefit of the listening walls themselves, he struck the high note. "I'm expecting Captain Yule."
Cora's consciousness blinked. "The owner of this property?"
Her father's tone showed his reserves. "That's what it depends on you to make him!"
"On me?" the girl gasped.
"He came into it three months ago by the death of his great-uncle, who had lived to ninety-three, but who, having quarrelled mortally with his father, had always refused to receive either sire or son."
​Our young lady bent her eyes on this page of family history, then raised them but dimly lighted. "But now, at least, doesn't he live here?"
"So little," her companion replied, "that he comes here today for the very first time. I've some business to discuss with him that can best be discussed on this spot; and it's a vital part of that business that you too should take pains to make him welcome."
Miss Prodmore failed to ignite. "In his own house?"
"That it's not his own house is just the point I seek to make! The way I look at it is that it's my house! The way I look at it even, my dear"—in his demonstration of his ways of looking Mr. Prodmore literally expanded—"is that it's our house. The whole thing is mortgaged, as it stands, for every penny of its value; and I'm in the pleasant position—do you follow me?" he trumpeted.
Cora jumped. "Of holding the mortgages?"
He caught her with a smile of approval and indeed of surprise. "You keep up with me better than I hoped. I hold every scrap of paper, and it's a precious collection."
She smothered, perceptibly, a vague female ​sigh, glancing over the place more attentively than she had yet done. "Do you mean that you can come down on him?"
"I don't need to 'come,' my dear—I am 'down.' This is down!"—and the iron point of Mr. Prodmore's stick fairly struck, as he rapped it, a spark from the cold pavement. "I came many weeks ago—commercially speaking—and haven't since budged from the place."
The girl moved a little about the hall, then turned with a spasm of courage. "Are you going to be very hard?"
If she read the eyes with which he met her she found in them, in spite of a certain accompanying show of pleasantry, her answer. "Hard with you?"
"No—that doesn't matter. Hard with the Captain."
Mr. Prodmore thought an instant. "'Hard' is a stupid, shuffling term. What do you mean by it?"
"Well, I don't understand business," Cora said; "but I think I understand you, papa, enough to gather that you've got, as usual, a striking advantage."
"As usual, I have scored; but my advantage won't be striking perhaps till I have sent the ​blow home. What I appeal to you, as a father, at present to do"—he continued broadly to demonstrate—"is to nerve my arm. I look to you to see me through."
"Through what, then?"
"Through this most important transaction. Through the speculation of which you've been the barely dissimulated subject. I've brought you here to receive an impression, and I've brought you, even more, to make one."
The girl turned honestly flat. "But on whom?"
"On me, to begin with—by not being a fool. And then, Miss, on him."
Erect, but as if paralysed, she had the air of facing the worst. "On Captain Yule?"
"By bringing him to the point."
"But, father," she asked in evident anguish—"to what point?"
"The point where a gentleman has to."
Miss Prodmore faltered. "Go down on his knees?"
Her father considered. "No—they don't do that now."
"What do they do?"
Mr. Prodmore carried his eyes with a certain sustained majesty to a remote point. "He will know himself."
​"Oh, no, indeed, he won't," the girl cried; "they don't ever!"
"Then the sooner they learn—whoever teaches 'em!—the better: the better: I mean in particular," Mr. Prodmore added with an intention discernibly vicious, "for the master of this house. I'll guarantee that he shall understand that," he concluded, "for I shall do my part."
She looked at him as if his part were really to be hated. "But how on earth, sir, can I ever do mine? To begin with, you know, I've never even seen him."
Mr. Prodmore took out his watch; then, having consulted it, put it back with a gesture that seemed to dispose at the same time and in the same manner of the objection. "You'll see him now—from one moment to the other. He's remarkably handsome, remarkably young, remarkably ambitious, and remarkably clever. He has one of the best and oldest names in this part of the country—a name that, far and wide here, one could do so much with that I'm simply indignant to see him do so little. I propose, my dear, to do with it all he hasn't, and I further propose, to that end, first to get hold of it. It's you, Miss Prodmore, who shall take it out of the fire."
"The fire?"—he had terrible figures.
​"Out of the mud, if you prefer. You must pick it up, do you see? My plan is, in short," Mr. Prodmore pursued, "that when we've brushed it off and rubbed it down a bit, blown away the dust and touched up the rust, my daughter shall gracefully bear it."
She could only oppose, now, a stiff, thick transparency that yielded a view of the course in her own veins, after all, however, mingled with a feebler fluid, of the passionate blood of the Prodmores. "And pray is it also Captain Yule's plan?"
Her father's face warned her off the ground of irony, but he replied without violence. "His plans have not yet quite matured. But nothing is more natural," he added with an ominous smile, "than that they shall do so on the sunny south wall of Miss Prodmore's best manner."
Miss Prodmore's spirit was visibly rising, and a note that might have meant warning for warning sounded in the laugh produced by this sally. "You speak of them, papa, as if they were sour little plums! You exaggerate, I think, the warmth of Miss Prodmore's nature. It has always been thought remarkably cold."
"Then you'll be so good, my dear, as to confound—it mightn't be amiss even a little to ​scandalise—that opinion. I've spent twenty years in giving you what your poor mother used to call advantages, and they've cost me hundreds and hundreds of pounds. It's now time that, both as a parent and as a man of business, I should get my money back. I couldn't help your temper," Mr. Prodmore conceded, "nor your taste, nor even your unfortunate resemblance to the estimable, but far from ornamental, woman who brought you forth; but I paid out a small fortune that you should have, damn you, don't you know? a good manner. You never show it to me, certainly; but do you mean to tell me that, at this time of day—for other persons you haven't got one?"
This pulled our young lady perceptibly up; there was a directness in the argument that was like the ache of old pinches. "If you mean by 'other persons' persons who are particularly civil—well, Captain Yule may not see his way to be one of them. He may not think—don't you see?—that I've a good manner."
"Do your duty, Miss, and never mind what he thinks!" Her father's conception of her duty momentarily sharpened. "Don't look at him like a sick turkey, and he'll be sure to think right."
​The colour that sprang into Cora's face at this rude comparison was such, unfortunately, as perhaps a little to justify it. Yet she retained, in spite of her emotion, some remnant of presence of mind. "I remember your saying once, some time ago, that that was just what he would be sure not to do: I mean when he began to go in for his dreadful ideas———"
Mr. Prodmore took her boldly up. "About the 'radical programme,' the 'social revolution,' the spoliation of everyone, and the destruction of everything? Why, you stupid thing, I've worked round to a complete agreement with him. The taking from those who have by those who haven't———"
"Well?" said the girl, with some impatience, as he sought the right way of expressing his notion.
"What is it but to receive, from consenting hands, the principal treasure of the rich? If I'm rich, my daughter is my largest property, and I freely make her over. I shall, in other words, forgive my young friend his low opinions if he renounces them for you."
Cora, at this, started as with a glimpse of delight. "He won't renounce them! He shan't!"
Her father appeared still to enjoy the ingenious ​way he had put it, so that he had good humour to spare. "If you suggest that you're in political sympathy with him, you mean then that you'll take him as he is?"
"I won't take him at all!" she protested with her head very high; but she had no sooner uttered the words than the sound of the approach of wheels caused her dignity to drop. "A fly?—it must be he!" She turned right and left, for a retreat or an escape, but her father had already caught her by the wrist. "Surely," she pitifully panted, "you don't want me to bounce on him thus?"
Mr. Prodmore, as he held her, estimated the effect. "Your frock won't do—with what it cost me?"
"It's not my frock, papa,—it's his thinking I've come here for him to see me!"
He let her go and, as she moved away, had another look for the social value of the view of her stout back. It appeared to determine him, for, with a touch of mercy, he passed his word. "He doesn't think it, and he shan't know it."
The girl had made for the door of the morning-room, before reaching which she flirted breathlessly round. "But he knows you want me to hook him!"
​Mr. Prodmore was already in the parliamentary attitude the occasion had suggested to him for the reception of his visitor. "The way to 'hook' him will be not to be hopelessly vulgar. He doesn't know that you know anything." The house-bell clinked, and he waved his companion away. "Await us there with tea, and mind you toe the mark!"
Chivers, at this moment, summoned by the bell, reappeared in the morning-room doorway, and Cora's dismay brushed him as he sidled past her and off into the passage to the front. Then, from the threshold of her refuge, she launched a last appeal. "Don't kill me, father: give me time!" With which she dashed into the room, closing the door with a bang.