She had not heard him. When she looked she flushed at the spectacle of one of her thousand thoughts, but she was not startled; the colour overflowed a grave face.
‘And ’tis not quite the first time that Willoughby has played this trick!’ De Craye said to her, keenly smiling with a parted mouth.
Clara moved her lips to recall remarks introductory to so abrupt and strange a plunge.
He smiled in that peculiar manner of an illuminated comic perception: for the moment he was all falcon; and he surprised himself more than Clara, who was not in the mood to take surprises. It was the sight of her which had animated him to strike his game; he was down on it.
Another instinct at work (they spring up in twenties oftener than in twos when the heart is the hunter) prompted him to directness and quickness, to carry her on the flood of the discovery.
She regained something of her mental self-possession as soon as she was on a level with a meaning she had not yet inspected; but she had to submit to his lead, distinctly perceiving where its drift divided to the forked currents of what might be in his mind and what was in hers.
‘Miss Middleton, I bear a bit of a likeness to the messenger to the glorious despot – my head is off if I speak not true! Everything I have is on the die. Did I guess wrong your wish? – I read it in the dark, by the heart. But here’s a certainty: Willoughby sets you free.’
‘You have come from him?’ she could imagine nothing else, and she was unable to preserve a disguise; she trembled.
‘From Miss Dale.’
‘Ah!’ Clara drooped. ‘She told me that once.’
‘’Tis the fact that tells it now.’
‘You have not seen him since you left the house?’
‘Darkly: clear enough: not unlike the hand of destiny – through a veil. He offered himself to Miss Dale last night, about between the witching hours of twelve and one.’
‘Miss Dale…’
‘Would she other? Could she? The poor lady has languished beyond a decade. She’s love in the feminine person.’
‘Are you speaking seriously, Colonel De Craye?’
‘Would I dare to trifle with you, Miss Middleton?’
‘I have reason to know it cannot be.’
‘If I have a head, it is a fresh and blooming truth. And more – I stake my vanity on it!’
‘Let me go to her.’ She stepped.
‘Consider,’ said he.
‘Miss Dale and I are excellent friends. It would not seem indelicate to her. She has a kind of regard for me, through Crossjay. – Oh, can it be? There must be some delusion. You have seen – you wish to be of service to me; you may too easily be deceived. Last night? – he last night…? And this morning!’
‘’Tis not the first time our friend has played the trick, Miss Middleton.’
‘But this is incredible, that last night… and this morning, in my father’s presence, he presses!… You have seen Miss Dale? Everything is possible of him: they were together, I know. Colonel De Craye, I have not the slightest chance of concealment with you. I think I felt that when I first saw you. Will you let me hear why you are so certain?’
‘Miss Middleton, when I first had the honour of looking on you, it was in a posture that necessitated my looking up, and morally so it has been since. I conceived that Willoughby had won the greatest prize of earth. And next I was led to the conclusion that he had won it to lose it. Whether he much cares, is the mystery I haven’t leisure to fathom. Himself is the principal consideration with himself, and ever was.’
‘You discovered it!’ said Clara.
‘He uncovered it,’ said De Craye. ‘The miracle was, that the world wouldn’t see. But the world is a piggy-wiggy world for the wealthy fellow who fills a trough for it, and that he has always very sagaciously done. Only women besides myself have detected him. I have never exposed him; I have been an observer pure and simple; and because I apprehended another catastrophe – making something like the fourth, to my knowledge, one being public…’
‘You knew Miss Durham?’
‘And Harry Oxford too. And they’re a pair as happy as blackbirds in a cherry-tree, in a summer sunrise, with the owner of the garden asleep. Because of that apprehension of mine, I refused the office of best man till Willoughby had sent me a third letter. He insisted on my coming. I came, saw, and was conquered. I trust with all my soul I did not betray myself. I owed that duty to my position of concealing it. As for entirely hiding that I had used my eyes, I can’t say: they must answer for it.’
The colonel was using his eyes with an increasing suavity that threatened more than sweetness.
‘I believe you have been sincerely kind,’ said Clara. ‘We will descend to the path round the lake.’
She did not refuse her hand on the descent, and he let it escape the moment the service was done. As he was performing the admirable character of the man of honour, he had to attend to the observance of details; and sure of her though he was beginning to feel, there was a touch of the unknown in Clara Middleton which made him fear to stamp assurance; despite a barely resistible impulse, coming of his emotions and approved by his maxims. He looked at the hand, now a free lady’s hand. Willoughby settled, his chance was great. Who else was in the way? No one. He counselled himself to wait for her; she might have ideas of delicacy. Her face was troubled, speculative; the brows clouded, the lips compressed.
‘You have not heard this from Miss Dale?’ she said.
‘Last night they were together: this morning she fled. I saw her this morning distressed. She is unwilling to send you a message: she talks vaguely of meeting you some days hence. And it is not the first time he has gone to her for his consolation.’
‘That is not a proposal,’ Clara reflected. ‘He is too prudent. He did not propose to her at the time you mention. Have you not been hasty, Colonel De Craye?’
Shadows crossed her forehead. She glanced in the direction of the house and stopped her walk.
‘Last night, Miss Middleton, there was a listener.’
‘Who?’
‘Crossjay was under that pretty silk coverlet worked by the Miss Patternes. He came home late, found his door locked, and dashed downstairs into the drawing-room, where he snuggled up and dropped asleep. The two speakers woke him; they frightened the poor dear lad in his love for you, and after they had gone, he wanted to run out of the house, and I met him just after I had come back from my search, bursting, and took him to my room, and laid him on the sofa, and abused him for not lying quiet. He was restless as a fish on a bank. When I woke in the morning he was off. Doctor Corney came across him somewhere on the road and drove him to the cottage. I was ringing the bell. Corney told me the boy had you on his brain, and was miserable, so Crossjay and I had a talk.’
‘Crossjay did not repeat to you the conversation he had heard?’ said Clara.
‘No.’
She smiled rejoicingly, proud of the boy, as she walked on. ‘But you’ll pardon me, Miss Middleton – and I’m for him as much as you are – if I was guilty of a little angling.’
‘My sympathies are with the fish.’
‘The poor fellow had a secret that hurt him. It rose to the surface crying to be hooked, and I spared him twice or thrice, because he had a sort of holy sentiment I respected, that none but Mr Whitford ought to be his father confessor.’
‘Crossjay!’ she cried, hugging her love of the boy.
‘The secret was one not to be communicated to Miss Dale of all people.’
‘He said that?’
‘As good as the very words. She informed me, too, that she couldn’t induce him to face her straight.’
‘Oh, that looks like it. And Crossjay was unhappy? Very unhappy?’
‘He was just where tears are on the brim, and would have been over, if he were not such a manly youngster.’
‘It looks…’ She reverted in thought to Willoughby, and doubted, and blindly stretched hands to her recollection of the strange old monster she had discover
ed in him. Such a man could do anything.
That conclusion fortified her to pursue her walk to the house and give battle for freedom. Willoughby appeared to her scarce human, unreadable, save by the key that she could supply. She determined to put faith in Colonel De Craye’s marvellous divination of circumstances in the dark. Marvels are solid weapons when we are attacked by real prodigies of nature. Her countenance cleared. She conversed with De Craye of the polite and the political world, throwing off her personal burden completely, and charming him.
At the edge of the garden, on the bridge that crossed the ha-ha from the park, he had a second impulse, almost a warning within, to seize his heavenly opportunity to ask for thanks and move her tender lowered eyelids to hint at his reward. He repressed it, doubtful of the wisdom.
Something like ‘heaven forgive me’ was in Clara’s mind, though she would have declared herself innocent before the scrutator.
CHAPTER 43
In Which Sir Willoughby Is Led to Think That the Elements Have Conspired Against Him
CLARA had not taken many steps in the garden before she learned how great was her debt of gratitude to Colonel De Craye. Willoughby and her father were awaiting her. De Craye, with his ready comprehension of circumstances, turned aside unseen among the shrubs. She advanced slowly.
‘The vapours, we may trust, have dispersed?’ her father hailed her.
‘One word, and these discussions are over, we dislike them equally,’ said Willoughby.
‘No scenes,’ Dr Middleton added. ‘Speak your decision, my girl, pro forma, seeing that he who has the right demands it, and pray release me.’
Clara looked at Willoughby.
‘I have decided to go to Miss Dale for her advice.’
There was no appearance in him of a man that has been shot.
‘To Miss Dale? – for advice?’
Dr Middleton invoked the Furies. ‘What is the signification of this new freak?’
‘Miss Dale must be consulted, papa.’
‘Consulted with reference to the disposal of your hand in marriage?’
‘She must be.’
‘Miss Dale, do you say?’
‘I do, Papa.’
Dr Middleton regained his natural elevation from the bend of body habitual with men of an established sanity, paedagogues and others, who are called on at odd intervals to inspect the magnitude of the infinitesimally absurd in human nature: small, that is, under the light of reason, immense in the realms of madness.
His daughter profoundly confused him. He swelled out his chest, remarking to Willoughby: ‘I do not wonder at your scared expression of countenance, my friend. To discover yourself engaged to a girl mad as Cassandra, without a boast of the distinction of her being sun-struck, can be no specially comfortable an enlightenment. I am opposed to delays, and I will not have a breach of faith committed by daughter of mine.’
‘Do not repeat those words,’ Clara said to Willoughby.
He started. She had evidently come armed. But how, within so short a space? What could have instructed her? And in his bewilderment he gazed hurriedly above, gulped air, and cried: ‘Scared, sir? I am not aware that my countenance can show a scare. I am not accustomed to sue for long: I am unable to sustain the part of humble supplicant. She puts me out of harmony with creation – We are plighted, Clara. It is pure waste of time to speak of soliciting advice on the subject.’
‘Would it be a breach of faith for me to break my engagement?’ she said.
‘You ask?’
‘It is a breach of sanity to propound the interrogation,’ said her father.
She looked at Willoughby. ‘Now?’
He shrugged haughtily.
‘Since last night?’ she said.
‘Last night?’
‘Am I not released?’
‘Not by me.’
‘By your act.’
‘My dear Clara!’
‘Have you not virtually disengaged me?’
‘I who claim you as mine?’
‘Can you?’
‘I do and must.’
‘After last night?’
‘Tricks! shufflings! Jabber of a barbarian woman upon the evolutions of a serpent!’ exclaimed Dr Middleton. ‘You were to capitulate, or to furnish reasons for your refusal. You have none. Give him your hand, girl, according to the compact. I praised you to him for returning within the allotted term, and now forbear to disgrace yourself and me.’
‘Is he perfectly free to offer his? Ask him, papa.’
‘Perform your duty. Do let us have peace!’
‘Perfectly free! as on the day when I offered it first,’ Willoughby frankly waved his honourable hand.
His face was blanched: enemies in the air seemed to have whispered things to her: he doubted the fidelity of the Powers above.
‘Since last night?’ said she.
‘Oh, if you insist, I reply, since last night.’
‘You know what I mean, Sir Willoughby.’
‘Oh, certainly.’
‘You speak the truth?’
‘ “Sir Willoughby!” ’ her father ejaculated in wrath. ‘But will you explain what you mean, epitome that you are of all the contradictions and mutabilities ascribed to women from the beginning! “Certainly”, he says, and knows no more than I. She begs grace for an hour, and returns with a fresh store of evasions, to insult the man she has injured. It is my humiliation to confess that our share in this contract is rescued from public ignominy by his generosity. Nor can I congratulate him on his fortune, should he condescend to bear with you to the utmost; for instead of the young woman I supposed myself to be bestowing on him, I see a fantastical planguncula32 enlivened by the wanton tempers of a nursery chit. If one may conceive a meaning in her, in miserable apology for such behaviour, some spirit of jealousy informs the girl.’
‘I can only remark that there is no foundation for it,’ said Willoughby. ‘I am willing to satisfy you, Clara. Name the person who discomposes you. I can scarcely imagine one to exist: but who can tell?’
She could name no person. The detestable imputation of jealousy would be confirmed if she mentioned a name: and indeed Laetitia was not to be named.
He pursued his advantage: ‘Jealousy is one of the fits I am a stranger to, – I fancy, sir, that gentlemen have dismissed it. I speak for myself. – But I can make allowances. In some cases, it is considered a compliment; and often a word will soothe it. The whole affair is so senseless! However, I will enter the witness-box, or stand at the prisoner’s bar! Anything to quiet a distempered mind.’
‘Of you, sir,’ said Dr Middleton, ‘might a parent be justly proud.’
‘It is not jealousy; I could not be jealous!’ Clara cried, stung by the very passion; and she ran through her brain for a suggestion to win a sign of meltingness if not esteem from her father. She was not an iron maiden, but one among the nervous natures which live largely in the moment, though she was then sacrificing it to her nature’s deep dislike. ‘You may be proud of me again, papa.’
She could hardly have uttered anything more impolitic.
‘Optume; but deliver yourself ad rem,’ he rejoined, alarmingly pacified. ‘Firmavit fidem.33 Do you likewise, and double on us no more like puss in the field.’
‘I wish to see Miss Dale,’ she said.
Up flew the Rev. Doctor’s arms in wrathful despair resembling an imprecation.
‘She is at the cottage. You could have seen her,’ said Willoughby.
Evidently she had not.
‘Is it untrue that last night, between twelve o’clock and one, in the drawing-room, you proposed marriage to Miss Dale?’
He became convinced that she must have stolen down-stairs during his colloquy with Laetitia, and listened at the door.
‘On behalf of old Vernon?’ he said, lightly laughing. ‘The idea is not novel, as you know. They are suited, if they could see it. – Laetitia Dale and my cousin Vernon Whitford, sir.’
‘Fairly schemed, my friend
, and I will say for you, you have the patience, Willoughby, of a husband!’
Willoughby bowed to the encomium, and allowed some fatigue to be visible. He half yawned: ‘I claim no happier title, sir,’ and made light of the weariful discussion.
Clara was shaken: she feared that Crossjay had heard incorrectly, or that Colonel De Craye had guessed erroneously. It was too likely that Willoughby should have proposed Vernon to Laetitia.
There was nothing to reassure her save the vision of the panic amazement of his face at her persistency in speaking of Miss Dale. She could have declared on oath that she was right, while admitting all the suppositions to be against her. And unhappily all the Delicacies (a doughty battalion for the defence of ladies until they enter into difficulties and are shorn of them at a blow, bare as dairy-maids), all the body-guard of a young gentlewoman, the drawing-room sylphides, which bear her train, which wreathe her hair, which modulate her voice and tone her complexion, which are arrows and shield to awe the creature man, forbade her utterance of what she felt, on pain of instant fulfilment of their oft-repeated threat of late to leave her to the last remnant of a protecting sprite. She could not, as in a dear melodrama, from the aim of a pointed finger denounce him, on the testimony of her instincts, false of speech, false in deed. She could not even declare that she doubted his truthfulness. The refuge of a sullen fit, the refuge of tears, the pretext of a mood, were denied her now by the rigour of those laws of decency which are a garment to ladies of pure breeding.
‘One more respite, papa,’ she implored him, bitterly conscious of the closer tangle her petition involved, and, if it must be betrayed of her, perceiving in an illumination how the knot might become so woefully Gordian that haply in a cloud of wild events the intervention of a gallant gentleman out of heaven, albeit in the likeness of one of earth, would have to cut it: her cry within, as she succumbed to weakness, being fervider, ‘Anything but marry this one!’ She was faint with strife and dejected, a condition in the young when their imaginative energies hold revel uncontrolled and are projectively desperate.
The Egoist Page 52
