CHAPTER XL

Emilia stretched out her hand and said, “Good-bye.”  Seeing that the hardened girl, with her dead eyelids, did not appear to feel herself at his mercy, and also that Sir Purcell’s forehead looked threatening, Mr. Pericles stopped his sardonic noise.  He went straight to the door, which he opened with alacrity, and mimicking very wretchedly her words of adieu, stood prepared to bow her out.  She astonished him by passing without another word.  Before he could point a phrase bitter enough for expression, Sir Purcell had likewise passed, and in going had given him a quietly admonishing look.

“Zose Poles are beggars!” Mr. Pericles roared after them over the stairs, and slammed his door for emphasis.  Almost immediately there was a knock at it.  Mr. Pericles stood bent and cat-like as Sir Purcell reappeared.  The latter, avoiding all preliminaries, demanded of the Greek that he should promise not to use the names of his friends publicly in such a manner again.

“I require a promise for the future.  An apology will be needless from you.”

“I shall not give it,” said Mr. Pericles, with a sharp lift of his upper lip.

“But you will give me the promise I have returned for.”

In answer Mr. Pericles announced that he had spoken what was simply true:  that the prosperity of the Poles was fictitious:  that he, or any unfavourable chance, could ruin them:  and that their friends might do better to protect their interests than by menacing one who had them in his power.

Sir Purcell merely reiterated his demand for the promise, which was ultimately snarled to him; whereupon he retired, joy on his features.  For, Cornelia poor, she might be claimed by him fearlessly:  that is to say, without the fear of people whispering that the penniless baronet had sued for gold, and without the fear of her father rejecting his suit.  At least he might, with this knowledge that he had gained, appoint to meet her now!  All the morning Sir Purcell had been combative, owing to that subordinate or secondary post he occupied in a situation of some excitement;—­which combativeness is one method whereby men thus placed, imagining that they are acting devotedly for their friends, contrive still to assert themselves.  He descended to the foot of the stairs, where he had told Emilia to wait for him, full of kind feelings and ready cheerful counsels; as thus:  “Nothing that we possess belongs to us;—­All will come round rightly in the end; Be patient, look about for amusement, and improve your mind.”  And more of this copper coinage of wisdom in the way of proverbs.  But Emilia was nowhere visible to receive the administration of comfort.  Outside the house the fog appeared to have swallowed her.  With some chagrin on her behalf (partly a sense of duty unfulfilled) Sir Purcell made his way to the residence of the Marinis, to report of her there, if she should not have arrived.  The punishment he inflicted on himself in keeping his hand an hour from that letter to be written to Cornelia, was almost pleasing; and he was rewarded by it, for the projected sentences grew mellow and rich, condensed and throbbed eloquently.  What wonder, that with such a mental occupation, he should pass Emilia and not notice her?  She let him go.