‘You, Laetitia, you.’
‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘It is late, I would rather not hear more. I am sorry if I have caused you pain. I suppose you to have spoken with candour. I defend neither my sex nor myself. I can only say I am a woman as good as dead: happy to be made happy in my way, but so little alive that I can not realize any other way. As for love, I am thankful to have broken a spell. You have a younger woman in your mind; I am an old one: I have no ambition and no warmth. My utmost prayer is to float on the stream – a purely physical desire of life: I have no strength to swim. Such a woman is not the wife for you, Sir Willoughby. Good night.’
‘One final word. Weigh it. Express no conventional regrets. Resolutely you refuse?’
‘Resolutely I do.’
‘You refuse?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have sacrificed my pride for nothing! You refuse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Humbled myself! And this is the answer! You do refuse?’
‘I do.’
‘Good night, Laetitia Dale.’
He gave her passage.
‘Good night, Sir Willoughby.’
‘I am in your power,’ he said, in a voice between supplication and menace that laid a claw on her, and she turned and replied:
‘You will not be betrayed.’
‘I can trust you…?’
‘I go home to-morrow before breakfast.’
‘Permit me to escort you upstairs.’
‘If you please: but I see no one here either to-night or to-morrow.’
‘It is for the privilege of seeing the last of you.’
They withdrew.
Young Crossjay listened to the drumming of his head. Somewhere in or over the cavity a drummer rattled tremendously.
Sir Willoughby’s laboratory door shut with a slam.
Crossjay tumbled himself off the ottoman. He stole up to the unclosed drawing-room door, and peeped. Never was a boy more thoroughly awakened. His object was to get out of the house and go through the night avoiding everything human, for he was big with information of a character that he knew to be of the nature of gunpowder, and he feared to explode. He crossed the hall. In the passage to the scullery he ran against Colonel De Craye.
‘So there you are,’ said the colonel, ‘I’ve been hunting you.’
Crossjay related that his bedroom door was locked and the key gone, and Sir Willoughby sitting up in the laboratory.
Colonel De Craye took the boy to his own room, where Crossjay lay on a sofa, comfortably covered over and snug in a swelling pillow; but he was restless; he wanted to speak, to bellow, to cry; and he bounced round to his left side, and bounced to his right, not knowing what to think, except that there was treason to his adored Miss Middleton.
‘Why, my lad, you’re not half a campaigner,’ the colonel called out to him; attributing his uneasiness to the material discomfort of the sofa: and Crossjay had to swallow the taunt, bitter though it was. A dim sentiment of impropriety in unburdening his overcharged mind on the subject of Miss Middleton to Colonel De Craye restrained him from defending himself; and so he heaved and tossed about till daybreak. At an early hour, while his hospitable friend, who looked very handsome in profile half breast and head above the sheets, continued to slumber, Crossjay was on his legs and away.
‘He says I’m not half a campaigner, and a couple of hours of bed are enough for me,’ the boy thought proudly, and snuffed the springing air of the young sun on the fields. A glance back at Patterne Hall dismayed him, for he knew not how to act, and he was immoderately combustible, too full of knowledge for self-containment; much too zealously excited on behalf of his dear Miss Middleton to keep silent for many hours of the day.
CHAPTER 41
The Rev. Dr Middleton, Clara, and Sir Willoughby
WHEN Master Crossjay tumbled down the stairs Laetitia was in Clara’s room, speculating on the various mishaps which might have befallen that battered youngster; and Clara listened anxiously after Laetitia had run out, until she heard Sir Willoughby’s voice; which in some way satisfied her that the boy was not in the house.
She waited, expecting Miss Dale to return; then undressed, went to bed, tried to sleep. She was tired of strife. Strange thoughts for a young head shot through her: as, that it is possible for the sense of duty to counteract distaste; and that one may live a life apart from one’s admirations and dislikes: she owned the singular strength of Sir Willoughby in outweary-ing; she asked herself how much she had gained by struggling: – every effort seemed to expend her spirit’s force, and rendered her less able to get the clear vision of her prospects, as though it had sunk her deeper: the contrary of her intention to make each further step confirm her liberty. Looking back, she marvelled at the things she had done. Looking round, how ineffectual they appeared! She had still the great scene of positive rebellion to go through with her father.
The anticipation of that was the cause of her extreme discouragement. He had not spoken to her since he became aware of her attempted flight: but the scene was coming; and besides the wish not to inflict it on him, as well as to escape it herself, the girl’s peculiar unhappiness lay in her knowledge that they were alienated and stood opposed, owing to one among the more perplexing masculine weaknesses, which she could not hint at, dared barely think of, and would not name in her meditations. Diverting to other subjects, she allowed herself to exclaim, ‘Wine, wine!’ in renewed wonder of what there could be in wine to entrap venerable men and obscure their judgements. She was too young to consider that her being very much in the wrong gave all the importance to the cordial glass in a venerable gentleman’s appreciation of his dues. Why should he fly from a priceless wine to gratify the caprices of a fantastical child guilty of seeking to commit a breach of faith? He harped on those words. Her fault was grave. No doubt the wine coloured it to him, as a drop or two will do in any cup: still her fault was grave.
She was too young for such considerations. She was ready to expatiate on the gravity of her fault, so long as the humiliation assisted to her disentanglement: her snared nature in the toils would not permit her to reflect on it further. She had never accurately perceived it: for the reason perhaps that Willoughby had not been moving in his appeals: but, admitting the charge of waywardness, she had come to terms with conscience, upon the understanding that she was to perceive it and regret it and do penance for it by-and-by: – by renouncing marriage altogether? How light a penance!
In the morning, she went to Laetitia’s room, knocked, and had no answer.
She was informed at the breakfast-table of Miss Dale’s departure. The ladies Eleanor and Isabel feared it to be a case of urgency at the cottage. No one had seen Vernon, and Clara requested Colonel De Craye to walk over to the cottage for news of Crossjay. He accepted the commission, simply to obey and be in her service: assuring her, however, that there was no need to be disturbed about the boy. He would have told her more, had not Dr Middleton led her out.
Sir Willoughby marked a lapse often minutes by his watch. His excellent aunts had ventured a comment on his appearance that frightened him lest he himself should be the person to betray his astounding discomfiture. He regarded his conduct as an act of madness, and Laetitia’s as no less that of a madwoman – happily mad! Very happily mad indeed! Her rejection of his ridiculously generous proposal seemed to show an intervening hand in his favour, that sent her distraught at the right moment. He entirely trusted her to be discreet; but she was a miserable creature, who had lost the one last chance offered her by Providence, and furnished him with a signal instance of the mediocrity of woman’s love.
Time was flying. In a little while Mrs Mountstuart would arrive. He could not fence her without a design in his head; he was destitute of an armoury if he had no scheme: he racked the brain only to succeed in rousing phantasmal vapours. Her infernal ‘Twice!’ would cease now to apply to Laetitia; it would be an echo of Lady Busshe. Nay, were all in the secret, Thrice jilted! might become the univer
sal roar. And this, he reflected bitterly, of a man whom nothing but duty to his line had arrested from being the most mischievous of his class with women! Such is our reward for uprightness!
At the expiration of fifteen minutes by his watch, he struck a knuckle on the library door. Dr Middleton held it open to him.
‘You are disengaged, sir?’
‘The sermon is upon the paragraph which is toned to awaken the clerk,’ replied the Rev. Doctor.
Clara was weeping.
Sir Willoughby drew near her solicitously.
Dr Middleton’s mane of silvery hair was in a state bearing witness to the vehemence of the sermon, and Willoughby said: ‘I hope, sir, you have not made too much of a trifle.’
‘I believe, sir, that I have produced an effect, and that was the point in contemplation.’
‘Clara! my dear Clara!’ Willoughby touched her.
‘She sincerely repents her conduct, I may inform you,’ said Dr Middleton.
‘My love!’ Willoughby whispered. ‘We have had a misunderstanding. I am at a loss to discover where I have been guilty, but I take the blame, all the blame. I implore you not to weep. Do me the favour to look at me. I would not have had you subjected to any interrogation whatever.’
‘You are not to blame,’ Clara said on a sob.
‘Undoubtedly Willoughby is not to blame. It was not he who was bound on a runaway errand in flagrant breach of duty and decorum, nor he who inflicted a catarrh on a brother of my craft and cloth,’ said her father.
‘The clerk, sir, has pronounced Amen,’ observed Willoughby.
‘And no man is happier to hear an ejaculation that he has laboured for with so much sweat of his brow than the parson, I can assure you,’ Dr Middleton mildly groaned. ‘I have notions of the trouble of Abraham. A sermon of that description is an immolation of the parent, however it may go with the child.’
Willoughby soothed his Clara.
‘I wish I had been here to share it. I might have saved you some tears. I may have been hasty in our little dissensions. I will acknowledge that I have been. My temper is often irascible.’
‘And so is mine!’ exclaimed Dr Middleton. ‘And yet I am not aware that I made the worse husband for it. Nor do I rightly comprehend how a probably justly excitable temper can stand for a plea in mitigation of an attempt at an outrageous breach of faith.’
‘The sermon is over, sir.’
‘Reverberations!’ the Rev. Doctor waved his arm placably. ‘Take it for thunder heard remote.’
‘Your hand, my love,’ Willoughby murmured.
The hand was not put forth.
Dr Middleton remarked the fact. He walked to the window, and perceiving the pair in the same position when he faced about, he delivered a cough of admonition.
‘It is cruel!’ said Clara.
‘That the owner of your hand should petition you for it?’ inquired her father.
She sought refuge in a fit of tears.
Willoughby bent above her, mute.
‘Is a scene that is hardly conceivable as a parent’s obligation once in a lustrum, to be repeated within the half hour?’ shouted her father.
She drew up her shoulders and shook; let them fall and dropped her head.
‘My dearest! your hand!’ fluted Willoughby.
The hand surrendered; it was much like the icicle of a sudden thaw.
Willoughby squeezed it to his ribs.
Dr Middleton marched up and down the room with his arms locked behind him. The silence between the young people seemed to denounce his presence.
He said, cordially: ‘Old Hiems has but to withdraw for buds to burst. “Jam ver egelidos refert tepores.” The equinoctial fury departs.30 I will leave you for a term.’
Clara and Willoughby simultaneously raised their faces with opposing expressions.
‘My girl!’ Her father stood by her, laying gentle hand on her.
‘Yes, papa, I will come out to you,’ she replied to his apology for the rather heavy weight of his vocabulary, and smiled.
‘No, sir, I beg you will remain,’ said Willoughby.
‘I keep you frost-bound.’
Clara did not deny it.
Willoughby emphatically did.
Then which of them was the more lover-like? Dr Middleton would for the moment have supposed his daughter.
Clara said: ‘Shall you be on the lawn, papa?’
Willoughby interposed. ‘Stay, sir; give us your blessing.’
‘That you have.’ Dr Middleton hastily motioned the paternal ceremony in outline.
‘A few minutes, papa,’ said Clara.
‘Will she name the day?’ came eagerly from Willoughby.
‘I cannot!’ Clara cried in extremity.
‘The day is important on its arrival,’ said her father; ‘but apprehend the decision to be of the chief importance at present. First prime your piece of artillery, my friend.’
‘The decision is taken, sir.’
‘Then I will be out of the way of the firing. Hit what day you please.’
Clara checked herself on an impetuous exclamation. It was done that her father might not be detained.
Her astute self-compression sharpened Willoughby as much as it mortified and terrified him. He understood how he would stand in an instant were Dr Middleton absent. Her father was the tribunal she dreaded, and affairs must be settled and made irrevocable while he was with them. To sting the blood of the girl, he called her his darling, and half enwound her, shadowing forth a salute.
She strung her body to submit, seeing her father take it as a signal for his immediate retirement.
Willoughby was upon him before he reached the door.
‘Hear us out, sir. Do not go. Stay, at my entreaty. I fear we have not come to a perfect reconcilement.’
‘If that is your opinion,’ said Clara, ‘it is good reason for not distressing my father.’
‘Dr Middleton, I love your daughter. I wooed her and won her; I had your consent to our union, and I was the happiest of mankind. In some way, since her coming to my house, I know not how – she will not tell me, or cannot – I offended. One may be innocent and offend. I have never pretended to impeccability, which is an admission that I may very naturally offend. My appeal to her is for an explanation or for pardon. I obtain neither. Had our positions been reversed, oh, not for any real offence – not for the worst that can be imagined – I think not – I hope not – could I have been tempted to propose the dissolution of our engagement. To love is to love, with me; an engagement a solemn bond. With all my errors I have that merit of utter fidelity – to the world laughable! I confess to a multitude of errors; I have that single merit, and am not the more estimable in your daughter’s eyes on account of it, I
fear. In plain words, I am, I do not doubt, one of the fools among men; of the description of human dog commonly known as faithful – whose destiny is that of a tribe. A man who cries out when he is hurt is absurd, and I am not asking for sympathy. Call me luckless. But I abhor a breach of faith. A broken pledge is hateful to me. I should regard it myself as a form of suicide. There are principles which civilized men must contend for. Our social fabric is based on them. As my word stands for me, I hold others to theirs. If that is not done, the world is more or less a carnival of counterfeits. In this instance – Ah! Clara, my love! and you have principles: you have inherited, you have been indoctrinated with them: have I, then, in my ignorance, offended past penitence, that you, of all women?… And without being able to name my sin! – Not only for what I lose by it, but in the abstract, judicially – apart from the sentiment of personal interest, grief, pain, and the possibility of my having to endure that which no temptation would induce me to commit: – judicially; – I fear, sir, I am a poor forensic orator…’
‘The situation, sir, does not demand a Cicero: proceed,’ said Dr Middleton, balked in his approving nods at the right true things delivered.
‘Judicially, I am bold to say, though it may appear a presu
mption in one suffering acutely, I abhor a breach of faith.’
Dr Middleton brought his nod down low upon the phrase he had anticipated. ‘And I,’ said he, ‘personally, and presently, abhor a breach of faith. Judicially? Judicially to examine, judicially to condemn: but does the judicial mind detest? I think, sir, we are not on the bench when we say that we abhor: we have unseated ourselves. Yet our abhorrence of bad conduct is very certain. You would signify, impersonally: which suffices for this exposition of your feelings.’
He peered at the gentleman under his brows, and resumed: ‘She has had it, Willoughby; she has had it in plain Saxon and in uncompromising Olympian. There is, I conceive, no necessity to revert to it.’
‘Pardon me, sir, but I am still unforgiven.’
‘You must babble out the rest between you. I am about as much at home as a turkey with a pair of pigeons.’
‘Leave us, father,’ said Clara.
‘First join our hands, and let me give you that title, sir.’
‘Reach the good man your hand, my girl; forthright, from the shoulder, like a brave boxer. Humour a lover. He asks for his own.’
‘It is more than I can do, father.’
‘How, it is more than you can do? You are engaged to him, a plighted woman.’
‘I do not wish to marry.’
‘The apology is inadequate.’
‘I am unworthy…’
‘Chatter! chatter!’
‘I beg him to release me.’
‘Lunacy!’
‘I have no love to give him.’
‘Have you gone back to your cradle, Clara Middleton?’
‘Oh, leave us, dear father!’
‘My offence, Clara, my offence! What is it? Will you only name it?’
‘Father, will you leave us? We can better speak together…’
‘We have spoken, Clara, how often!’ Willoughby resumed, ‘with what result? – that you loved me, that you have ceased to love me: that your heart was mine, that you have withdrawn it, plucked it from me: that you request me to consent to a sacrifice involving my reputation, my life. And what have I done? I am the same, unchangeable. I loved and love you: my heart was yours, and is, and will be yours forever. You are my affianced – that is, my wife. What have I done?’
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