“Well, a model of every sort, in every possible sense of the word—head, hands, feet, everything!”
“A model for the figure?”
“Well—yes!”
“Oh, my God! my God! my God!” cried Mrs. Bagot—and she got up and walked up and down the studio in a most terrible state of agitation, her brother-in-law following her and begging her to control herself. Her exclamations seemed to shock him, and she didn’t seem to care.
“Oh, Mr. Wynne! Mr. Wynne! If you only knew what my son is to me—to all of us—always has been! He has been with us all his life, till he came to this wicked, accursed city! My poor husband would never hear of his going to any school, for fear of all the harm he might learn there. My son was as innocent and pure-minded as any girl, Mr. Wynne—I could have trusted him anywhere—and that’s why I gave way and allowed him to come here, of all places in the world—all alone. Oh! I should have come with him! Fool—fool—fool that I was! …
“Oh, Mr. Wynne, he won’t see either his mother or his uncle! I found a letter from him at the hotel, saying he’d left Paris—and I don’t even know where he’s gone! … Can’t you, can’t Mr. McAllister, do anything to avert this miserable disaster? You don’t know how he loves you both—you should see his letters to me and to his sister! they are always full of you!”
“Indeed, Mrs. Bagot—you can count on McAllister and me for doing everything in our power! But it is of no use our trying to influence your son—I feel quite sure of that! It is to her we must make our appeal.”
“Oh, Mr. Wynne! to a washerwoman—a figure model—and Heaven knows what besides! and with such a chance as this!”
“Mrs. Bagot, you don’t know her? She may have been all that. But strange as it may seem to you—and seems to me, for that matter—she’s a—she’s—upon my word of honor, I really think she’s about the best woman I ever met—the most unselfish—the most—”
“Ah! She’s a beautiful woman—I can well see that!”
“She has a beautiful nature, Mrs. Bagot—you may believe me or not, as you like—and it is to that I shall make my appeal, as your son’s friend, who has his interests at heart. And let me tell you that deeply as I grieve for you in your present distress, my grief and concern for her are far greater!”
“What! grief for her if she marries my son!”
“No, indeed—but if she refuses to marry him. She may not do so, of course—but my instinct tells me she will!”
“Oh! Mr. Wynne, is that likely?”
“I will do my best to make it so—with such an utter trust in her unselfish goodness of heart and her passionate affection for your son as—”
“How do you know she has all this passionate affection for him?”
“Oh, McAllister and I have long guessed it—though we never thought this particular thing would come of it. I think, perhaps, that first of all you ought to see her yourself—you would get quite a new idea of what she really is—you would be surprised, I assure you.”
Mrs. Bagot shrugged her shoulders impatiently, and there was silence for a minute or two.
And then, just as in a play, Trilby’s “Milk below!” was sounded at the door, and Trilby came into the little antechamber, and seeing strangers, was about to turn back. She was dressed as a grisette, in her Sunday gown and pretty white cap (for it was New-year’s Day), and looking her very best.
Taffy called out, “Come in, Trilby!”
And Trilby came into the studio.
As soon as she saw Mrs. Bagot’s face she stopped short—erect, her shoulders a little high, her mouth a little open, her eyes wide with fright—and pale to the lips—a pathetic, yet commanding, magnificent, and most distinguished apparition, in spite of her humble attire.
The little lady got up and walked straight to her, and looked up into her face, that seemed to tower so. Trilby breathed hard.
At length Mrs. Bagot said, in her high accents, “You are Miss Trilby O’Ferrall?”
“Oh yes—yes—I am Trilby O’Ferrall, and you are Mrs. Bagot; I can see that!”
A new tone had come into her large, deep, soft voice, so tragic, so touching, so strangely in accord with the whole aspect just then—so strangely in accord with the whole situation—that Taffy felt his cheeks and lips turn cold, and his big spine thrill and tickle all down his back.
“Oh yes; you are very, very beautiful—there’s no doubt about that! You wish to marry my son?”
“I’ve refused to marry him nineteen times for his own sake; he will tell you so himself. I am not the right person for him to marry. I know that. On Christmas night he asked me for the twentieth time; he swore he would leave Paris next day forever if I refused him. I hadn’t the courage. I was weak, you see! It was a dreadful mistake.”
“Are you so fond of him?”
“Fond of him? Aren’t you?”
“I’m his mother, my good girl!”
To this Trilby seemed to have nothing to say.
“You have just said yourself you are not a fit wife for him. If you are so fond of him, will you ruin him by marrying him; drag him down; prevent him from getting on in life; separate him from his sister, his family, his friends?”
Trilby turned her miserable eyes to Taffy’s miserable face, and said, “Will it really be all that, Taffy?”
“Oh, Trilby, things have got all wrong, and can’t be righted! I’m afraid it might be so. Dear Trilby—I can’t tell you what I feel—but I can’t tell you lies, you know!”
“Oh no—Taffy—you don’t tell lies!”
Then Trilby began to tremble very much, and Taffy tried to make her sit down, but she wouldn’t. Mrs. Bagot looked up into her face, herself breathless with keen suspense and cruel anxiety—almost imploring.
Trilby looked down at Mrs. Bagot very kindly, put out her shaking
