CHAPTER XXXVII
CONTAINS CLEVER FENCING AND INTIMATIONS OF THE NEED FOR IT
That woman, Lady Busshe, had predicted, after the event, ConstantiaDurham's defection. She had also, subsequent to Willoughby's departureon his travels, uttered sceptical things concerning his rootedattachment to Laetitia Dale. In her bitter vulgarity, that beaten rivalof Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson for the leadership of the county hadtaken his nose for a melancholy prognostic of his fortunes; she hadrecently played on his name: she had spoken the hideous English of hisfate. Little as she knew, she was alive to the worst interpretation ofappearances. No other eulogy occurred to her now than to call him thebest of cousins, because Vernon Whitford was housed and clothed and fedby him. She had nothing else to say for a man she thought luckless!She was a woman barren of wit, stripped of style, but she was wealthyand a gossip--a forge of showering sparks--and she carried Lady Culmerwith her. The two had driven from his house to spread the malignantrumour abroad; already they blew the biting world on his raw wound.Neither of them was like Mrs. Mountstuart, a witty woman, who could behoodwinked; they were dull women, who steadily kept on their own scentof the fact, and the only way to confound such inveterate forces was tobe ahead of them, and seize and transform the expected fact, andastonish them, when they came up to him, with a totally unanticipatedfact.
"You see, you were in error, ladies."
"And so we were, Sir Willoughby, and we acknowledge it. We never couldhave guessed that!"
Thus the phantom couple in the future delivered themselves, as wellthey might at the revelation. He could run far ahead.
Ay, but to combat these dolts, facts had to be encountered, deeds done,in groaning earnest. These representatives of the pig-sconces of thepopulation judged by circumstances: airy shows and seems had no effecton them. Dexterity of fence was thrown away.
A flying peep at the remorseless might of dulness in compelling us to aconcrete performance counter to our inclinations, if we would deceiveits terrible instinct, gave Willoughby for a moment the survey of asage. His intensity of personal feeling struck so vivid an illuminationof mankind at intervals that he would have been individually wise, hadhe not been moved by the source of his accurate perceptions to apersonal feeling of opposition to his own sagacity. He loathed and hedespised the vision, so his mind had no benefit of it, though hehimself was whipped along. He chose rather (and the choice is open tous all) to be flattered by the distinction it revealed between himselfand mankind.
But if he was not as others were, why was he discomfited, solicitous,miserable? To think that it should be so, ran dead against hisconqueror's theories wherein he had been trained, which, so long as hegained success awarded success to native merit, grandeur to the grandin soul, as light kindles light: nature presents the example. Hisearly training, his bright beginning of life, had taught him to look toearth's principal fruits as his natural portion, and it was owing to agirl that he stood a mark for tongues, naked, wincing at the possiblemalignity of a pair of harridans. Why not whistle the girl away?
Why, then he would be free to enjoy, careless, younger than his youthin the rebound to happiness!
And then would his nostrils begin to lift and sniff at the creeping upof a thick pestiferous vapour. Then in that volume of stench would hediscern the sullen yellow eye of malice. A malarious earth would hunthim all over it. The breath of the world, the world's view of him, waspartly his vital breath, his view of himself. The ancestry of thetortured man had bequeathed him this condition of high civilizationamong their other bequests. Your withered contracted Egoists of the hutand the grot reck not of public opinion; they crave but for liberty andleisure to scratch themselves and soothe an excessive scratch.Willoughby was expansive, a blooming one, born to look down upon atributary world, and to exult in being looked to. Do we wonder at hisconsternation in the prospect of that world's blowing foul on him?Princes have their obligations to teach them they are mortal, and thebrilliant heir of a tributary world is equally enchained by the homageit brings him;--more, inasmuch as it is immaterial, elusive, notgathered by the tax, and he cannot capitally punish the treasonablerecusants. Still must he be brilliant; he must court his people. Hemust ever, both in his reputation and his person, aching though he be,show them a face and a leg.
The wounded gentleman shut himself up in his laboratory, where he couldstride to and fro, and stretch out his arms for physical relief, securefrom observation of his fantastical shapes, under the idea that he wasmeditating. There was perhaps enough to make him fancy it in the heavyfire of shots exchanged between his nerves and the situation; therewere notable flashes. He would not avow that he was in an agony: it wasmerely a desire for exercise.
Quintessence of worldliness, Mrs. Mountstuart appeared through hisfarthest window, swinging her skirts on a turn at the end of the lawn,with Horace De Craye smirking beside her. And the woman's vauntedpenetration was unable to detect the histrionic Irishism of the fellow.Or she liked him for his acting and nonsense; nor she only. The volublebeast was created to snare women. Willoughby became smitten with anadoration of stedfastness in women. The incarnation of that divinequality crossed his eyes. She was clad in beauty. A horriblenondescript convulsion composed of yawn and groan drove him to hisinstruments, to avert a renewal of the shock; and while arranging andfixing them for their unwonted task, he compared himself advantageouslywith men like Vernon and De Craye, and others of the county, hisfellows in the hunting-field and on the Magistrate's bench, who neitherunderstood nor cared for solid work, beneficial practical work, thework of Science.
He was obliged to relinquish it: his hand shook.
"Experiments will not advance much at this rate," he said, casting thenoxious retardation on his enemies.
It was not to be contested that he must speak with Mrs Mountstuart,however he might shrink from the trial of his facial muscles. Her notcoming to him seemed ominous: nor was her behaviour at theluncheon-table quite obscure. She had evidently instigated thegentlemen to cross and counterchatter Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer. Forwhat purpose?
Clara's features gave the answer.
They were implacable. And he could be the same.
In the solitude of his room he cried right out: "I swear it, I willnever yield her to Horace De Craye! She shall feel some of my torments,and try to get the better of them by knowing she deserves them." He hadspoken it, and it was an oath upon the record.
Desire to do her intolerable hurt became an ecstasy in his veins, andproduced another stretching fit that terminated in a violent shake ofthe body and limbs; during which he was a spectacle for Mrs.Mountstuart at one of the windows. He laughed as he went to her,saying: "No, no work to-day; it won't be done, positively refuses."
"I am taking the Professor away," said she; "he is fidgety about thecold he caught."
Sir Willoughby stepped out to her. "I was trying at a bit of work foran hour, not to be idle all day."
"You work in that den of yours every day?"
"Never less than an hour, if I can snatch it."
"It is a wonderful resource!"
The remark set him throbbing and thinking that a prolongation of hiscrisis exposed him to the approaches of some organic malady, possiblyheart-disease.
"A habit," he said. "In there I throw off the world."
"We shall see some results in due time."
"I promise none: I like to be abreast of the real knowledge of my day,that is all."
"And a pearl among country gentlemen!"
"In your gracious consideration, my dear lady. Generally speaking, itwould be more advisable to become a chatterer and keep an anecdotalnote-book. I could not do it, simply because I could not live with myown emptiness for the sake of making an occasional display offireworks. I aim at solidity. It is a narrow aim, no doubt; not muchappreciated."
"Laetitia Dale appreciates it."
A smile of enforced ruefulness, like a leaf curling in heat, wrinkledhis mouth.
Why did she not speak of her convers
ation with Clara?
"Have they caught Crossjay?" he said.
"Apparently they are giving chase to him."
The likelihood was, that Clara had been overcome by timidity.
"Must you leave us?"
"I think it prudent to take Professor Crooklyn away."
"He still . . . ?"
"The extraordinary resemblance!"
"A word aside to Dr. Middleton will dispel that."
"You are thoroughly good."
This hateful encomium of commiseration transfixed him. Then she knew ofhis calamity!
"Philosophical," he said, "would be the proper term, I think."
"Colonel De Craye, by the way, promises me a visit when he leaves you."
"To-morrow?"
"The earlier the better. He is too captivating; he is delightful. Hewon me in five minutes. I don't accuse him. Nature gifted him to castthe spell. We are weak women, Sir Willoughby."
She knew!
"Like to like: the witty to the witty, ma'am."
"You won't compliment me with a little bit of jealousy?"
"I forbear from complimenting him."
"Be philosophical, of course, if you have the philosophy."
"I pretend to it. Probably I suppose myself to succeed because I haveno great requirement of it; I cannot say. We are riddles to ourselves."
Mrs. Mountstuart pricked the turf with the point of her parasol. Shelooked down and she looked up.
"Well?" said he to her eyes.
"Well, and where is Laetitia Dale?"
He turned about to show his face elsewhere.
When he fronted her again, she looked very fixedly, and set her headshaking.
"It will not do, my dear Sir Willoughby!"
"What?"
"I never could solve enigmas."
"Playing ta-ta-ta-ta ad infinitum, then. Things have gone far. Allparties would be happier for an excursion. Send her home."
"Laetitia? I can't part with her."
Mrs. Mountstuart put a tooth on her under lip as her head renewed itsbrushing negative.
"In what way can it be hurtful that she should be here, ma'am?" heventured to persist.
"Think."
"She is proof."
"Twice!"
The word was big artillery. He tried the affectation of a staringstupidity. She might have seen his heart thump, and he quitted the maskfor an agreeable grimace.
"She is inaccessible. She is my friend. I guarantee her, on my honour.Have no fear for her. I beg you to have confidence in me. I wouldperish rather. No soul on earth is to be compared with her."
Mrs. Mountstuart repeated "Twice!"
The low monosyllable, musically spoken in the same tone of warning of agentle ghost, rolled a thunder that maddened him, but he dared not takeit up to fight against it on plain terms.
"Is it for my sake?" he said.
"It will not do, Sir Willoughby."
She spurred him to a frenzy.
"My dear Mrs. Mountstuart, you have been listening to tales. I am not atyrant. I am one of the most easy-going of men. Let us preserve theforms due to society: I say no more. As for poor old Vernon, peoplecall me a good sort of cousin; I should like to see him comfortablymarried; decently married this time. I have proposed to contribute tohis establishment. I mention it to show that the case has beenpractically considered. He has had a tolerably souring experience ofthe state; he might be inclined if, say, you took him in hand, foranother venture. It's a demoralizing lottery. However, Governmentsanctions it."
"But, Sir Willoughby, what is the use of my taking him in hand when, asyou tell me, Laetitia Dale holds back?"
"She certainly does."
"Then we are talking to no purpose, unless you undertake to melt her."
He suffered a lurking smile to kindle to some strength of meaning.
"You are not over-considerate in committing me to such an office."
"You are afraid of the danger?" she all but sneered.
Sharpened by her tone, he said, "I have such a love of stedfastness ofcharacter, that I should be a poor advocate in the endeavour to breakit. And frankly, I know the danger. I saved my honour when I made theattempt: that is all I can say."
"Upon my word," Mrs. Mountstuart threw back her head to let her eyesbehold him summarily over their fine aquiline bridge, "you have the artof mystification, my good friend."
"Abandon the idea of Laetitia Dale."
"And marry your cousin Vernon to whom? Where are we?"
"As I said, ma'am, I am an easy-going man. I really have not a spice ofthe tyrant in me. An intemperate creature held by the collar may havethat notion of me, while pulling to be released as promptly as itentered the noose. But I do strictly and sternly object to the scandalof violent separations, open breaches of solemn engagements, a publicrupture. Put it that I am the cause, I will not consent to a violationof decorum. Is that clear? It is just possible for things to bearranged so that all parties may be happy in their way without muchhubbub. Mind, it is not I who have willed it so. I am, and I am forcedto be, passive. But I will not be obstructive."
He paused, waving his hand to signify the vanity of the more that mightbe said.
Some conception of him, dashed by incredulity, excited the lady'sintelligence.
"Well!" she exclaimed, "you have planted me in the land of conjecture.As my husband used to say, I don't see light, but I think I see thelynx that does. We won't discuss it at present. I certainly must be ayounger woman than I supposed, for I am learning hard.--Here comes theProfessor, buttoned up to the ears, and Dr. Middleton flapping in thebreeze. There will be a cough, and a footnote referring to the younglady at the station, if we stand together, so please order mycarriage."
"You found Clara complacent? roguish?"
"I will call to-morrow. You have simplified my task, Sir Willoughby,very much; that is, assuming that I have not entirely mistaken you. Iam so far in the dark that I have to help myself by recollecting howLady Busshe opposed my view of a certain matter formerly. Scepticism isher forte. It will be the very oddest thing if after all . . . ! No, Ishall own, romance has not departed. Are you fond of dupes?"
"I detest the race."
"An excellent answer. I could pardon you for it." She refrained fromadding, "If you are making one of me."
Sir Willoughby went to ring for her carriage.
She knew. That was palpable: Clara had betrayed him.
"The earlier Colonel De Craye leaves Patterne Hall the better:" she hadsaid that: and, "all parties would be happier for an excursion." Sheknew the position of things and she guessed the remainder. But what shedid not know, and could not divine, was the man who fenced her. Hespeculated further on the witty and the dull. These latter are theredoubtable body. They will have facts to convince them: they had, heconfessed it to himself, precipitated him into the novel sphere of hisdark hints to Mrs. Mountstuart; from which the utter darkness mightallow him to escape, yet it embraced him singularly, and evenpleasantly, with the sense of a fact established.
It embraced him even very pleasantly. There was an end to his tortures.He sailed on a tranquil sea, the husband of a stedfast woman--no rogue.The exceeding beauty of stedfastness in women clothed Laetitia ingraces Clara could not match. A tried stedfast woman is the one jewelof the sex. She points to her husband like the sunflower; her loveilluminates him; she lives in him, for him; she testifies to his worth;she drags the world to his feet; she leads the chorus of his praises;she justifies him in his own esteem. Surely there is not on earth suchbeauty!
If we have to pass through anguish to discover it and cherish the peaceit gives to clasp it, calling it ours, is a full reward. Deep in hisreverie, he said his adieus to Mrs. Mountstuart, and strolled up theavenue behind the carriage-wheels, unwilling to meet Laetitia till hehad exhausted the fresh savour of the cud of fancy.
Supposing it done!--
It would be generous on his part. It would redound to his credit.
His home would be a fortr
ess, impregnable to tongues. He would havedivine security in his home.
One who read and knew and worshipped him would be sitting therestar-like: sitting there, awaiting him, his fixed star.
It would be marriage with a mirror, with an echo; marriage with ashining mirror, a choric echo.
It would be marriage with an intellect, with a fine understanding; tomake his home a fountain of repeatable wit: to make his dear oldPatterne Hall the luminary of the county.
He revolved it as a chant: with anon and anon involuntarily adiscordant animadversion on Lady Busshe. Its attendant imps heard theangry inward cry.
Forthwith he set about painting Laetitia in delectable human colours,like a miniature of the past century, reserving her ideal figure forhis private satisfaction. The world was to bow to her visible beauty,and he gave her enamel and glow, a taller stature, a swimming air, atranscendency that exorcized the image of the old witch who had drivenhim to this.
The result in him was, that Laetitia became humanly and avowedlybeautiful. Her dark eyelashes on the pallor of her cheeks lent theiraid to the transformation, which was a necessity to him, so it wasperformed. He received the waxen impression.
His retinue of imps had a revel. We hear wonders of men, and we see alifting up of hands in the world. The wonders would be explained, andnever a hand need to interject, if the mystifying man were butaccompanied by that monkey-eyed confraternity. They spy the heart andits twists.
The heart is the magical gentleman. None of them would follow wherethere was no heart. The twists of the heart are the comedy.
"The secret of the heart is its pressing love of self ", says the Book.
By that secret the mystery of the organ is legible: and a comparison ofthe heart to the mountain rillet is taken up to show us the unbaffledforce of the little channel in seeking to swell its volume,strenuously, sinuously, ever in pursuit of self; the busiest as it isthe most single-aiming of forces on our earth. And we are directed tothe sinuosities for posts of observation chiefly instructive.
Few maintain a stand there. People see, and they rush away tointerchange liftings of hands at the sight, instead of patientlystudying the phenomenon of energy.
Consequently a man in love with one woman, and in all but absoluteconsciousness, behind the thinnest of veils, preparing his mind to loveanother, will be barely credible. The particular hunger of the forcefulbut adaptable heart is the key of him. Behold the mountain rillet,become a brook, become a torrent, how it inarms a handsome boulder: yetif the stone will not go with it, on it hurries, pursuing self inextension, down to where perchance a dam has been raised of asufficient depth to enfold and keep it from inordinate restlessness.Laetitia represented this peaceful restraining space in prospect.
But she was a faded young woman. He was aware of it; andsystematically looking at himself with her upturned orbs, he acceptedher benevolently as a God grateful for worship, and used the divinityshe imparted to paint and renovate her. His heart required her so. Theheart works the springs of imagination; imagination received itscommission from the heart, and was a cunning artist.
Cunning to such a degree of seductive genius that the masterpiece itoffered to his contemplation enabled him simultaneously to gaze onClara and think of Laetitia. Clara came through the park-gates withVernon, a brilliant girl indeed, and a shallow one: a healthy creature,and an animal; attractive, but capricious, impatient, treacherous,foul; a woman to drag men through the mud. She approached.