‘Your portrait of Professor Crooklyn was too striking, Mrs Mountstuart, and deceived him by its excellence. He appears to have seen only the blank side of the slate.’
‘Ah! He is a faithful friend of his cousin, do you not think?’
‘He is the truest of friends.’
‘As for Dr Middleton,’ Mrs Mountstuart diverged from her inquiry, ‘he will swell the letters of my vocabulary to gigantic proportions if I see much of him: he is contagious.’
‘I believe it is a form of his humour.’
‘I caught it of him yesterday at my dinner-table in my distress, and must pass it off as a form of mine, while it lasts. I talked Dr Middleton half the dreary night through to my pillow. Your candid opinion, my dear, come! As for me, I don’t hesitate. We seemed to have sat down to a solitary performance on the bass-viol. We were positively an assembly of insects during thunder. My very soul thanked Colonel De Craye for his diversions, but I heard nothing but Dr Middleton. It struck me that my table was petrified, and every one sat listening to bowls played overhead.’
‘I was amused.’
‘Really? You delight me. Who knows but that my guests were sincere in their congratulations on a thoroughly successful evening? I have fallen to this, you see! And I know wretched people! that as often as not it is their way of condolling with one. I do it myself: but only where there have been amiable efforts. But imagine my being congratulated for that! – Good-morning, Sir Willoughby. – The worst offender! and I am in no pleasant mood with him,’ Mrs Mountstuart said aside to Laetitia, who drew back, retiring.
Sir Willoughby came on a step or two. He stopped to watch Laetitia’s figure swimming to the house.
So, as, for instance, beside a stream, when a flower on the surface extends its petals drowning to subside in the clear still water, we exercise our privilege to be absent in the charmed contemplation of a beautiful natural incident.
A smile of pleased abstraction melted on his features.
CHAPTER 34
Mrs Mountstuart and Sir Willoughby
‘GOOD-MORNING, my dear Mrs Mountstuart,’ Sir Willoughby wakened himself to address the great lady. ‘Why has she fled?’
‘Has any one fled?’
‘Laetitia Dale.’
‘Letty Dale? Oh, if you call that flying. Possibly to renew a close conversation with Vernon Whitford, that I cut short. You frightened me with your “Shepherds-tell-me” air and tone. Lead me to one of your garden-seats: out of hearing to Dr Middleton, I beg. He mesmerizes me, he makes me talk Latin. I was curiously susceptible last night. I know I shall everlastingly associate him with an abortive entertainment and solos on big instruments. We were flat.’
‘Horace was in good vein.’
‘You were not.’
‘And Laetitia – Miss Dale talked well, I thought.’
‘She talked with you, and no doubt she talked well. We did not mix. The yeast was bad. You shot darts at Colonel De Craye: you tried to sting. You brought Dr Middleton down on you. Dear me, that man is a reverberation in my head. Where is your lady and love?’
‘Who?’
‘Am I to name her?’
‘Clara? I have not seen her for the last hour. Wandering, I suppose.’
‘A very pretty summer bower,’ said Mrs Mountstuart, seating herself. ‘Well, my dear Sir Willoughby, preferences, preferences are not to be accounted for, and one never knows whether to pity or congratulate, whatever may occur. I want to see Miss Middleton.’
‘Your “dainty rogue in porcelain” will be at your beck –you lunch with us? – before you leave.’
‘So now you have taken to quoting me, have you?’
‘But “a romantic tale on her eyelashes” is hardly descriptive any longer.’
‘Descriptive of whom? Now you are upon Laetitia Dale!’
‘I quote you generally. She has now a graver look.’
‘And well may have!’
‘Not that the romance has entirely disappeared.’
‘No; it looks as if it were in print.’
‘You have hit it perfectly, as usual, ma’am.’
Sir Willoughby mused.
Like one resuming his instrument to take up the melody in a concerted piece, he said: ‘I thought Laetitia Dale had a singularly animated air last night.’
‘Why –!’ Mrs Mountstuart mildly gaped.
‘I want a new description of her. You know, I collect your mottoes and sentences.’
‘It seems to me she is coming three parts out of her shell, and wearing it as a hood for convenience.’
‘Ready to issue forth at an invitation? Admirable! exact!’
‘Ay, my good Sir Willoughby, but are we so very admirable and exact? Are we never to know our own minds?’
He produced a polysyllabic sigh, like those many-jointed compounds of poets in happy languages, which are copious in a single expression: ‘Mine is known to me. It always has been. Cleverness in women is not uncommon. Intellect is the pearl. A woman of intellect is as good as a Greek statue; she is divinely wrought, and she is divinely rare.’
‘Proceed,’ said the lady, confiding a cough to the air.
‘The rarity of it: and it is not mere intellect, it is a sympathetic intellect; or else it is an intellect in perfect accord with an intensely sympathetic disposition; – the rarity of it makes it too precious to be parted with when once we have met it. I prize it the more the older I grow.’
‘Are we on the feminine or the neuter?’
‘I beg pardon?’
‘The universal or the individual?’
He shrugged. ‘For the rest, psychological affinities may exist coincident with and entirely independent of material or moral prepossessions, relations, engagements, ties.’
‘Well, that is not the raving of passion, certainly,’ said Mrs Mountstuart, ‘and it sounds as if it were a comfortable doctrine for men. On that plea, you might all of you be having Aspasia and a wife. We saw your fair Middleton and Colonel de Craye at a distance as we entered the park. Professor Crooklyn is under some hallucination.’
‘What more likely?’
The readiness and the double-bearing of the reply struck her comic sense with awe.
‘The Professor must hear that. He insists on the fly, and the inn, and the wet boots, and the warming mixture, and the testimony of the landlady and the railway porter.’
‘I say, what more likely?’
‘Than that he should insist?’
‘If he is under the hallucination!’
‘He may convince others.’
‘I have only to repeat…’
‘ “What more likely?” It’s extremely philosophical. Coincident with a pursuit of the psychological affinities.’
‘Professor Crooklyn will hardly descend, I suppose, from his classical altitudes to lay his hallucinations before Dr Middleton?’
‘Sir Willoughby, you are the pink of chivalry!’
By harping on Laetitia, he had emboldened Mrs Mountstuart to lift the curtain upon Clara. It was offensive to him, but the injury done to his pride had to be endured for the sake of his general plan of self-protection.
‘Simply desirous to save my guests from annoyance of any kind,’ he said, ‘Dr Middleton can look “Olympus and thunder”, as Vernon calls it.’
‘Don’t. I see him. That look! It is Dictionary-bitten! Angry, horned Dictionary! – an apparition of Dictionary in the night – to a dunce!’
‘One would undergo a good deal to avoid the sight.’
‘What the man must be in a storm! Speak as you please of yourself: you are a true and chivalrous knight to dread it for her. But now, candidly, how is it you cannot condescend to a little management? Listen to an old friend. You are too lordly. No lover can afford to be incomprehensible for half an hour. Stoop a little. Sermonizings are not to be thought of. You can govern unseen. You are to know that I am one who disbelieves in philosophy in love. I admire the look of it, I give no credit to the assumption. I rather like lo
vers to be out at times: it makes them picturesque, and it enlivens their monotony. I perceived she had a spot of wildness. It’s proper that she should wear it off before marriage.’
‘Clara? The wildness of an infant!’ said Willoughby, paternally, musing over an inward shiver. ‘You saw her at a distance just now, or you might have heard her laughing. Horace diverts her excessively.’
‘I owe him my eternal gratitude for his behaviour last night. She was one of my bright faces. Her laughter was delicious; rain in the desert! It will tell you what the load on me was, when I assure you those two were merely a spectacle to me – points I scored in a lost game. And I know they were witty.’
‘They both have wit; a kind of wit,’ Willoughby assented.
‘They struck together like a pair of cymbals.’
‘Not the highest description of instrument. However, they amuse me. I like to hear them when I am in the vein.’
‘That vein should be more at command with you, my friend. You can be perfect, if you like.’
‘Under your tuition.’
Willoughby leaned to her, bowing languidly. He was easier in his pain for having hoodwinked the lady. She was the outer world to him; she could tune the world’s voice; prescribe which of the two was to be pitied, himself or Clara; and he did not intend it to be himself, if it came to the worst.
They were far away from that at present, and he continued: ‘Probably a man’s power of putting on a face is not equal to a girl’s. I detest petty dissensions. Probably I show it when all is not quite smooth. Little fits of suspicion vex me. It is a weakness, not to play them off, I know. Men have to learn the arts which come to women by nature. I don’t sympathize with suspicion, from having none myself.’
His eyebrows shot up. That ill-omened man Flitch had sidled round by the bushes to within a few feet of him.
Flitch primarily defended himself against the accusation of drunkenness, which was hurled at him to account for his audacity in trespassing against the interdict; but he admitted that he had taken ‘something short’ for a fortification in visiting scenes where he had once been happy – at Christmastide, when all the servants, and the butler at head, grey old Mr Chessington, sat in rows, toasting the young heir of the old Hall in the old port wine! Happy had he been then, before ambition for a shop, to be his own master and an independent gentleman, had led him into his quagmire: – to look back envying a dog on the old estate, and sigh for the smell of Patterne stables: sweeter than Arabia, his drooping nose appeared to say.
He held up close against it something that imposed silence on Sir Willoughby as effectively as a cunning exordium in oratory will enchain mobs to swallow what is not complimenting them; and this he displayed secure in its being his licence to drivel his abominable pathos. Sir Willoughby recognized Clara’s purse. He understood at once how the man must have come by it: he was not so quick in devising a means of stopping the tale. Flitch foiled him. ‘Intact,’ he replied to the question: ‘What have you there?’ He repeated this grand word. And then he turned to Mrs Mountstuart to speak of Paradise and Adam, in whom he saw the prototype of himself; also the Hebrew people in the bondage of Egypt, discoursed of by the clergymen, not without a likeness to him.
‘Sorrows have done me one good, to send me attentive to church, my lady,’ said Flitch, ‘when I might have gone to London, the coachman’s home, and been driving some honourable family, with no great advantage to my morals, according to what I hear of. And a purse found under the seat of a fly in London would have a poor chance of returning intact to the young lady losing it.’
‘Put it down on that chair; inquiries will be made, and you will see Sir Willoughby,’ said Mrs Mountstuart. ‘Intact, no doubt; it is not disputed.’
With one motion of a finger she set the man rounding. Flitch halted; he was very regretful of the termination of his feast of pathos, and he wished to relate the finding of the purse, but he could not encounter Mrs Mountstuart’s look; he slouched away in very close resemblance to the ejected Adam of illustrated books.
‘It’s my belief that naturalness among the common people has died out of the kingdom,’ she said.
Willoughby charitably apologized for him. ‘He has been fuddling himself.’
Her vigilant considerateness had dealt the sensitive gentleman a shock, plainly telling him she had her ideas of his actual posture. Nor was he unhurt by her superior acuteness and her display of authority on his grounds.
He said, boldly, as he weighed the purse, half tossing it: ‘It’s not unlike Clara’s.’
He feared that his lips and cheeks were twitching, and as he grew aware of a glassiness of aspect that would reflect any suspicion of a keen-eyed woman, he became bolder still! ‘Laetitia’s, I know it is not. Hers is an ancient purse.’
‘A present from you!’
‘How do you hit on that, my dear lady?’
‘Deductively.’
‘Well, the purse looks as good as new in quality, like the owner.’
‘The poor dear has not much occasion for using it.’
‘You are mistaken: she uses it daily.’
‘If it were better filled, Sir Willoughby, your old scheme might be arranged. The parties do not appear so unwilling. Professor Crooklyn and I came on them just now rather by surprise, and I assure you their heads were close, faces meeting, eyes musing.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Because when they approach the point, you won’t allow it! Selfish!’
‘Now,’ said Willoughby, very animatedly, ‘question Clara. Now, do, my dear Mrs Mountstuart, do speak to Clara on that head; she will convince you I have striven quite recently: – against myself, if you like. I have instructed her to aid me, given her the fullest instructions, carte blanche. She cannot possibly have a doubt. I may look to her to remove any you may entertain from your mind on the subject. I have proposed, seconded, and chorussed it, and it will not be arranged. If you expect me to deplore that fact, I can only answer that my actions are under my control, my feelings are not. I will do everything consistent with the duties of a man of honour – perpetually running into fatal errors because he did not
properly consult the dictates of those feelings at the right season. I can violate them: but I can no more command them than I can my destiny. They were crushed of old, and so let them be now. Sentiments we won’t discuss; though you know that sentiments have a bearing on social life: are factors, as they say in their later jargon. I never speak of mine. To you I could. It is not necessary. If old Vernon, instead of flattening his chest at a desk, had any manly ambition to take part in public affairs, she would be the woman for him. I have called her my Egeria. She would be his Cornelia. One could swear of her that she would have noble off-spring! – But old Vernon has had his disappointment, and will moan over it up to
the end. And she? So it appears. I have tried; yes, personally: without effect. In other matters I may have influence with her: not in that one. She declines. She will live and die Laetitia Dale. We are alone: I confess to you, I love the name. It’s an old song in my ears. Do not be too ready with a name for me. Believe me – I speak from my experience hitherto – there is a fatality in these things. I cannot conceal from my poor girl that this fatality exists…’
‘Which is the poor girl at present?’ said Mrs Mountstuart, cool in a mystification.
‘And though she will tell you that I have authorized and – Clara Middleton – done as much as man can to institute the union you suggest, she will own that she is conscious of the presence of this – fatality, I call it for want of a better title – between us. It drives her in one direction, me in another – or would, if I submitted to the pressure. She is not the first who has been conscious of it.’
‘Are we laying hold of a third poor girl?’ said Mrs Mountstuart. ‘Ah! I remember. And I remember we used to call it playing fast and loose in those days, not fatality. It is very strange. It may be that you were unblushingly courted in those days, and excusable; and we all su
pposed… but away you went for your tour.’
‘My mother’s medical receipt for me. Partially it succeeded. She was for grand marriages: not I. I could make, I could not be, a sacrifice. And then I went in due time to Doctor Cupid on my own account. She has the kind of attraction… But one changes! On revient toujours. First we begin with a liking; then we give ourselves up to the passion of beauty: then comes the serious question of suitableness of the mate to match us; and perhaps we discover that we were wiser in early youth than somewhat later. However, she has beauty. Now, Mrs Mountstuart, you do admire her. Chase the idea of the “dainty rogue” out of your view of her: you admire her: she is captivating; she has a particular charm of her own, nay, she has real beauty.’
Mrs Mountstuart fronted him to say: ‘Upon my word, my dear Sir Willoughby, I think she has it to such a degree that I don’t know the man who could hold out against her if she took the field. She is one of the women who are dead shots with men. Whether it’s in their tongues or their eyes, or it’s an effusion and an atmosphere – whatever it is, it’s a spell, another fatality for you!’
‘Animal; not spiritual!’
‘Oh, she hasn’t the head of Letty Dale.’
Sir Willoughby allowed Mrs. Mountstuart to pause and follow her thoughts.
‘Dear me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I noticed a change in Letty Dale last night; and to-day. She looked fresher and younger; extremely well: which is not what I can say for you, my friend. Fatalizing is not good for the complexion.’
The Egoist Page 41
