UNIV. OF CALIF LIBRARY. LOS ANGELES y.r *&3*M HenryWinthesterRolfe THE EGOIST GEORGE MEREDITH'S WORKS. Each Novel will be complete in One Volume, price bs. DIANA OF THE CROSS WAYS. EVAN HARRINGTON. THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL. THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY RICHMOND. SANDRA BELLONI, originally Emilia in England. VITTORIA. RBCDA FLEMING. BEAUCHAMP'S CAREER. THE EGOIST. THE SHAVING OF SHAGPAT, an Arabian Enter- tainment ; and FARINA. ONE OF OUR CONQUERORS. THE TRAGIC COMEDIANS. THE EGOIST BY GEORGE MEREDITH AUTHOR'S EDITION BOSTON ROBERTS BROTHERS 1893 Pkesswork by John Wilson and Son, University Press. CONTENTS. Chapter Page PRELUDE. A CHAPTER OF WHICH THE LAST PAGE ONLY IS OF ANY IMPORTANCE 1 I. A MINOR INCIDENT, SHOWING AN HEREDITARY APTI- TUDE IN THE USE OF THE KNIFE 5 II. THE YOUNG SIR WILLOUGHBY 9 III. CONSTANTIA DURHAM 14 IV, L/ETITIA DALE 21 V. CLARA MIDDLETON 31 VI. HIS COURTSHIP 42 VII. THE BETROTHED 51 VIII. A RUN WITH THE TRUANT: A WALK WITH THE MASTER 64 IX. CLARA AND L.ETITIA MEET: THEY ARE COMPARED 72 X. IN WHICH SIR WILLOUGHBY CHANCES TO SUPPLY THE TITLE FOR HIMSELF 82 XI. THE DOUBLE-BLOSSOM WILD CHERRY-TREE ... 97 XII. MISS MIDDLETON AND MR. VERNON WHITFORD . . 109 XIII. THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM 115 XIV. SIR WILLOUGHBY AND L^TITIA 126 XV. THE PETITION FOR A RELEASE 134 XVI. CLARA AND L^ETITIA 146 XVII. THE PORCELAIN VASE 154 XVIII. COLONEL DE CRAYE 161 XIX. COLONEL DE CRAYE AND CLARA MIDDLETON . . 169 XX. AN AGED AND A GREAT WINE 180 xxi. clara's meditations 191 XXII. THE RIDE 202 XXIII. TREATS OF THE UNION OF TEMPER AND POLICY . 214 XXIV. CONTAINS AN INSTANCE OF THE GENEROSITY OF WILLOUGHBY 226 XXV. THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER 237 XXVI. VERNON IN PURSUIT 252 XXVII. AT THE RAILWAY STATION 25S XXVIII. THE RETURN 2G6 VI CON PTi* Page \\1X. IN WHICH THE -f N-I I IVEN1 Bfl Of >IK WII.I.ul IGHBT I- 1 XPI.AINED: AM> BR RECEIVES Ml i II IN- STRUCTION 274 XXX. TREATING <U N T-T I" A RT . . 310 XXXVI. ANIMATED CONVERSATION AT A LUNCHEON-TABLE 356 XXXVII. CONTAINS CLEVER FENCING AND INTIMATIONS <»K THE REED EOR IT XXXVIII. IN WHICH WE TAKE A >TEP TO THE CENTP.E OF EGOISM . - XXXIX. IN THE HEART OE THE EGOIST 381 XI.. MIDNIGHT: SIR WILLOUGHBV AND I..ETITIA ; WITH TOUNG CR06SJAY UNDER A COVERLET . . 388 XI.I. THE REV. DK MIDDLETON, CLARA, AND 81 R WIL- LOUGHBY 399 XI.II. ~}l"-\- THE DIVINING ARTSOP A PERCEPTIVE MIND 414 XI. III. IN WHICH -IP. WTLLOUGHBY IS I.ED TO THINK THAT THE ELEMENTS HAVE CONSPIRED AGAINST HIM . 428 XI. IV. DK MIDDLETON: THE LADIES ELEANOR AND ISA- BEL: AND MR. DALR 442 XI.V. THE PATTERNE I. IDIES: MR DALE: LADY BUSSHE AND ladyculmer: AND Ml:-, mountstuart JENXINSOH XLVI. THE SCENE OP BIE WILLOUGHBY- GENERALSHIP XI.VII. -IP. WILLOUGHBY AND HIS FRIEND HORA( B DE CRAVE 473 XLVIII. THE LOVERS XLIX. L.ETITIA AND -IK WILLOUGHBY L VII. i H THE CURTAIN EALLS THE EGOIST. PRELUDE. A CHAPTER 07 WHICH THE LAST PAGE OXLY 15 OF AVT IMPOSTAKCS. Comedy is a eame played to throw reflections upon social life, ana it deals with human nature in the drawing-room of civilized men and women, where we have no dust of ihe struggling enter world, no mire, no violent crashes, to make the correctness of the representation convincing. Credulity is not wooed through the impressionable senses : nor have we recourse to the small circular glow of the watchmaker's eye to raise in bright relief minutest grs ins of evidence for the muting of incredulity. The comic Spirit conceives a definite situation for a number of characters, and rejects all accessories in the exclusive pursuit of them and their speech. For, being a spirit, he hunts the spirit in. men ; vision and ardour constitute his merit : he has not a thought of | suading you to believe in him. Follow and you will see. But there is a question of the value of a run at his heel- Now the world is possessed of a certain big book, the bio-crest book on earth ; that micht indeed be called the Book of Earth ; wh «e title is the Book of Egoism, and it is a book full of the world's wisdom. So full of it. and of such dimensions is this book, in which the generations have written ever since they took to writing, that to be profitable to us the Book needs a pow< r.ul compression. Who. says the notable humourist, in allusion to this Book, who can studiously travel tl rough sheets of leaves now B 2 THE BOOIi i. capable of a stretch from the Lizard to the last few poor pulmonary snips and Eshreds of Leagues dancing on their I for cold, explorers tell as, and catching breath by g 1 luck. like dogs at bones about a table, on the edge of the Pole? Inordinate unvaried length, sheer longinqoity, staggers the heart, ages the very heart of us at a view. And bow it' we manage finally to print one of onr pages on the crow-scalp of that solitary majestic outsider ? We may with effort get even him into the Book; vet the knowledge we want will not be more present with us thai, it was when the chapters hung their end over the cliff you ken of at Dover, where sits our great lord and master contemplating the seas with out upon the reflex of that within ! In other words, as I venture to translate him (humouri-t- are difficult : it is a piece of their humour to puzzle our wits), the inward mirror, the embracing and condensing spirit, is required to give us those interminable milepost piles of matter (extending well-nigh to the very Pole) in essence, in chosen samples, digest ibly. I conceive him to indicate that the realistic method of a conscientious tran- scription of all the visible, and a repetition of all the audible, is mainly accountable for our present branfulness, and for that prolongation of the vasty and t lie noisy, out of which, as from an undrained fen. Bteams the malady of sameness, our modern malady. We have the malady, whatever may be the cure or the cause. We drove in a body to Science the other day for an antidote ; which was as if tired pedes- trians should mount the engine-box of headlong trains; and Science introduced us to our o'er-hoary ancestry — them in the Oriental posture: whereupon we set up a primaeval chattering to rival the Amazon forest nigh nightfall, cured, we fancied. And before daybreak our disease was hanging on to us again, with the extension of a tail. We had it Eore and aft. We v. ere the same, and animals into the bargain. That is all we gol \'i-<<\i\ Science. Art is the specific. We have little to learn of apes, and they may be left. The chief consideration for us is, what particular practice of Art in letters is the best for the perusal of the Book of our common wisdom; so that with Clearer minds and livelier manners we may escape, as it were, into daylighl and song from ;) land of fog-horns. Shall we read it by the watchmaker's eye in luminous rings erup- PJRKLUDE. 3 tive of the infinitesimal, or pointed with examples and types under the broad Alpine survey of the spirit born of our united social intelligence, which is the comic Spirit ? Wise men say the latter. They tell us that there is a con- stant tendency in the Book to accumulate excess of substance, and such repleteness, obscuring the glass it holds to man- kind, renders us inexact in the recognition of our individual countenances : a perilous thing for civilization. And these wise men are strong in their opinion that we should encour- age the comic Spirit, who is, after all, our own offspring, to relieve the Book. Comedy, they say, is the true diversion, as it is likewise the key of the great Book, the music of the Book. They tell us how it condenses whole sections of the Book in a sentence, volumes in a character ; so that a fair part of a book outstripping thousands of leagues when unrolled, may be compassed in one comic sitting. For verily, say the}', we must read what we can of it, at leas j the page before us, if we would be men. One, with an index on the Book cries out, in a style pardonable to his fervency : The remedy of your frightful affliction is here, through the stillatory of Comedy, and not in Science, nor yet in Speed, whose name is but another for voracity. Why, to be alive, to be quick in the soul, there should be diversity in the companion-throbs of your pulses. Interrogate them. They lump along like the old lob-legs of Dobbin the horse; or do their business like cudgels of carpet-thwackers expel- ling dust, or the cottage-clock pendulum teaching the infant hour over midnight simple arithmetic. This too in spite of Bacchus. And let them gallop ; let them gallop with the God bestriding them, gallop to Hymen, gallop to Hades, they strike the same note. Monstrous monotonousness has en- folded us as with the arms of Amphitrite ! We hear a shout of war for a diversion. — Comedy he pronounces to be our means of reading swiftly and comprehensively. She it is who proposes the correcting of pretentiousness, of inflation, of dulness, and of the vestiges of rawness and grossness to be found among us. She is the ultimate civilizer, the polisher, a sweet cook. If, he says, she watches over senti- mentalism with a birch-rod, she is not opposed to romance. You may love, and warmly love, so long as you are honest. Do not offend reason. A lover pretending too much by one foot's length of pretence, will have that foot caught in hel b2 4 THE EGOIST. trap. In Comedy is the singular scene of charity issuing of disdain under the stroke ol honourable Laughter: an Ariel released by Prospero's wand from the fetters of the damned witch Sycorax. And this laughter of reason refreshed is floriferous, like the magical great -ale of the shifty Spring deciding for Summer. Von hear it giving the delicate spirit his liberty. Listen, for comparison, to an unleavened society: a low as of the ndderful COW past milking hour! for a titled ecclesiastic to curse to excommunication that unholy thing ! — So far an enthusiast perhaps; Irut he should have a hearing. Concerning pathos, no ship can now set sail without pathos; and we are not totally deficient of pathos; which is. I do not accurately know what, if not the ballast, reducible to moisture by patent pi on board our modern vessel ; for it can hardly be the cargo, and the general water-supply has other uses; and ships well charged with it seem to sail the stiff est: — there is a touch of pathos. The Egoist surely inspires pity. He who would desire to clothe himself at everybody's expense, and is of that desire condemned to strip himself stark naked, he, if pathos ever had a form, might be taken for the actual person. Only he is not allowed to rush at you, roll you over and squeeze your body for the briny drops. There is the innovation. You may as well know him out of hand, as a gentleman of our time and country, of wealth and station; a not flexile figure, do what we may with him ; the humour of whom scarcely dimples the surface and is distinguishable but by very penetrative, very wicked imps, whose fits of roaring below at seme generally imperceptible stroke of his quality, have first made the mild literary angels aware of s met hing comic in him, when they were one and all about to describe the gentleman on the beading of the records baldly (where brevity is most complimentary) as a gentle- man of family and property, an idol of a decorous island that admires the concrete. Imps have their freakish wickedness in them to kindle detective vision: malignly do they love to nncovcr ridiculousness in imposing figures. Wherever they catch eight of Egoism they pitch their camps, they circle and squat, and forthwith they trim their lanterns, confident of the ludicrous to come. So confident A MINOR INCIDENT. that their grip of an English gentleman, in whom they have spied their game, never relaxes until he begins insensibly to frolic and antic, unknown to himself, and comes out in the native steam which is their scent of the chase. Instantly off they scour, Egoist and imps. They will, it is known of them, dog a great House for centuries, and be at the birth of all the new heirs in succession, diligently taking con- firmatory notes, to join hands and chime their chorus in one of their merry rings round the tottering pillar of the House, when his turn arrives ; as if they had (possibly they had) smelt of old date a doomed colossus of Egoism in that unborn, unconceived inheritor of the stuff of the family. They dare not bo chuckling while Egoism is valiant, while sober, while socially valuable, nationally serviceable. They wait. Aforetime a grand old Egoism built the House. It would appear that ever finer essences of it are demanded to sustain the structure : but especially would it appear that a rever- sion to the gross original, beneath a mask and in a vein of fineness, is an earthquake at the foundations of the House. Better that it should not have consented to motion, and have held stubbornly to all ancestral ways, than have bred that anachronic spectre. The sight, however, is one to make our squatting imps in circle grow restless on their haunches, as they bend eyes instantly, ears at full cock, for the commencement of the comic drama of the suicide. If this line of verse be not yet in our literature : Through very love of self himself he slew, let it be admitted for his epitaph. CHAPTER I. A MINOR INCIDENT SHOWING AN HEREDITARY APTITUDE IN TnB USE OF THE KNIFE. There was an ominously anxious watch of eyes visible and invisible over the infancy of Willoughby, fifth in descent from Simon Patterne, of Patterne Hall, premier of I Hi liremeotl and "-work of I w iili the |" ing N- II' ■ mphasia <>f di ath to youn| I.ltrly !!■!■. W6 Illllsf Llso t be tree !•• - in its begin- Soil is easily I a ife, and children come of knife is a Paup r I vere d of tl was 1 he li<»j>e of \ ; the Ma -ininl- f the one Lientenaut I he famoua hard 6ght< anpreti nding cool Bort i. «.n the part of the modest M riverain of ( Ihina. The . of his rank, In- in- desty : ■ he had Our Wlllonghby was t hen at ( !oll< ■ m of hia years, and • he rep * t he printing of his I !• tli"iiL r lit over it for several title and heritage, he scut 3am of money illant fellow's pay per annum, at with the tiist, or in the remark to friends than v. The man is a 1 1 any Patterne Bhould rder of questions Dsary. In t ho • • is cheque, the lieu. ■ al the ai d Hall, ! thai la' had ?.-i soldier's life. ■■ military 1 the Marine.'' A MINOR INCIDENT. 7 It was funny ; and not less laughable was the description of his namesake's deed of valour : with the rescued British sailor inebriate, and the hauling off to captivity of the three braves of the black dragon on a yellow ground, a 'JuJ the tying of thein together back to back by their pigtails, and driving of them into our lines upon a newly devised dying- top style of march that inclined to the oblique, like the astonished six eyes of the celestial prisoners, for straight they could not go. The humour of gentlemen at home is always highly excited by such cool feats. We are a small island, but you see what we do. The ladies at the Hall, Sir Willoughby's mother, and his aunts Eleanor and Isabel, were more affected than he by the circumstance of their having a Patterne in the Marines. But how then ! We English have ducal blood in business : we have, genealo- gists tell us, royal blood in common trades. For all our pride we are a queer people ; and you may be ordering butcher's meat of a Tudor, sitting on the cane-bottom chairs of a Plantagenet. By and by you may .... but cherish your reverence. Young Willoughby made a kind of shock- head or football hero of his gallant distant cousin, and wondered occasionally that the fellow had been content to despatch a letter of effusive thanks without availing him- self of the invitation to partake of the hospitalities of Patterne. He was one afternoon parading between showers on the stately garden terrace of the Hall, in company with his affianced, the beautiful and dashing Constantia Durham, followed by knots of ladies and gentlemen vowed to fresh air before dinner, while it was to be had. Chancing with his usual happy fortune (we call these things dealt to us out of the great hidden dispensary, chance) to glance up the avenue of limes, as he was in the act of turning on his heel at the end of the terrace, and it should be added, dis- coursing with passion's privilege of the passion of love to Miss Durham, Sir Willoughby, who was anythingbut obtuse, experienced a presentiment upon espying a thick-set stumpy man crossing the gravel space from the avenue to the front steps of the Hall, decidedly not bearing the stamp of the gentleman " on his hat, his coat, his feet, or anything that was his," Willoughby subsequently observed to the ladies of his family in the Scriptural style of gentlemen who do bear 8 Tfl the stamp. Bis brief sketch of the creature was repulsive. The visitor carried a bag, and his coat-collar was up, hii hat was melancholy; he had the appearance of a bankrupt tradesman absconding; m> gloves, m> umbrella. Ajb to the incident we have to note, it was very slight. The card of Lieutenanl Patterne was handed toSirWil- loughby, who laid it on the salver, saying to the footman: •• N,.t at hom( lie bad been disappointed in the agi ly deceived in the appearance of the man claiming to be his relative in this unseasonable fashion; and his acute instinct advised him swiftly of the absurdity of introducing to his trie mis a heavy unpresentable senior as the celebrated gallant Lieutenant of Marines, and the Bame as a member of his family ! He had talked of the man too much, too enthusiastically, to be able to do bo A young Bubal tern, even if passably vulgar in figure, can be Bhuffled through by the aid of the heroical ■.• humourously exaggerated in apology for his aspect. Nothing can be done with a mature and stumpy Marine of that rank. Considerateness dismisses him on the spot, without parley. It was performed by a gentleman supremely advanced al a very early age in the art of cutting. IS rang Sir Willoughby Bpoke a word of the rejected visitor to Mi-- Durham, in response to her startled look : "I shall drop him a cheque,' be said, for she Beemed personally wounded, and had a face of crimson. Tin- j oung lady « I i * 1 not reply. Dating from the humble departure of L ant Cross- jay Patterne up the limes-avenue under a gathering rain- cloud, the riie_-- < if imps in attendance on Sir Willoughby, maintained their Btation with strict observation of his movements at all hours; and wire comparisons in qt the sympathetic eagerness of the eyes of caged monkeys lor the hand about to feed them, would supply one. They per- ceived in him a fresh development and very subtle manifest" aiion of tlio verj old thing from which lie had sprung, THE YOUNG SIR WILLOL'GHBY. J) CHAPTER n. THE YOUNG SIR WILLOUGHBT. These little scoundrel imps, who have attained to some respectability as the dogs and pets of the comic Spirit, had been curiously attentive three years earlier, long before thy public announcement of his engagement to the beautiful Miss Durham on the day of Sir Willoughby's majority, when Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson said her word of him. Mrs. Mountstuart was a lady certain to say the remembered, if not the right, thing. Again and again was it confirmed on days of high celebration, days of birth or bridal, how sure she was to hit the mark that rang the bell ; and away her word went over the county: and had she been an un- charitable woman she could have ruled the county with an iron rod of caricature, so sharp was her touch. A grain of malice would have sent county faces and characters awry into the currency. She was wealthy and kindly, and resembled our mother Nature in her reasonable antipathies to one or two things which none can defend, and her decided preference of persons that shone in the sun. Her word sprang out of her. She looked at you, and forth it came : and it stuck to you, as nothing laboured or literary could have adhered. Her saying of Lretitia Dale : " Here she comes with a romantic tale on her eyelashes," was a portrait of Lastitia. And that of Vernon Whit ford : "He is a Phoebus Apollo turned fasting friar," painted the sunken brilliancy of the lean long- walker and scholar at a stroke. Of the young Sir Willoughby, her word was brief; and there was the merit of it on a day when he was hearing from sunrise to the setiing of the moon salutes in his honour, songs of praise and Ciceronian eulogy. Rich, handsome, courteous, generous, lord of the Hall, the feast, and dance, he excited his guests of both sexes to a holiday of flattery. And, says Mrs. Mountstuart, while grand phrases were mouthing round about him. : " You see he has a leg." That you saw, of course. But after she had spoken 3-011 li> -i in: I aOTST. iniicli more. Mrs. Mountstuari Baid it just as others :■ empty nothings, with never a hinl of a stress. Her word \\ as taken up, and very soon, from the extreme end of the long drawing-n i, the circulation of something <>f Mrs. Mounts! uart's was distinct ly percept Lble. Lady Patterne sent a little Hebe down, skirting the dancers, for an accurate report of it; and even the inappreciative lips of a veryyoung lady transmitting the word could not damp the impression of its weighty truthfulness. It was perfect! Adulation of the young .Sir "Willoughby's beauty and wit, and aristocratic hearing and mien, and of his moral virtues, was common : welcome if you like, as a form of homage; but common, almost vulgar, beside Mrs. Mountstuart's quiet little touch of nature. In seeming to say infinitely less than others, as Miss Isabel Patterne pointed out to Lady Busshe, Mrs. Mountstuart comprised all that the others had said, by showing the needlessness of allusions to the saliently evident. .She was the aristocrat reproving the provincial. " He is everything you have had the goodness to remark, ladies and dear sirs, he talks charmingly, dances divinely, rides with the air of a commander-in-chief, has the most natural grand pose possible without ceasing for a moment to be the young English gentleman he is. Alcibiades, fresh from a Louis IV. perruquier, could not surpass him: whatever you please ; I could outdo you in sublime comparisons, were I minded to pelt him. Have you noticed that he has a leg r" So might it be amplified. A simple-seeming word of this import is the triumph of the spiritual, and where it passes for coin of value, tin- has reached a high refinement : idian by the (esthetic route. < >bser\ ation of Willoughby Patterne p. .intra out to Lady ■ i" tin- leg, Uu directed to estimate 1 That, however, is prosaic Dwell "1; and whit I,,.,- into 1,11 how ' rfuptuous a •ugh mournful vener- ment to the Court banded with love- Court. Yet have lish cavalier was tling us in another tare dulcet. And THE YOUNG SIR WILLOUGHBY. 11 if the ladies were .... we will hope they have been traduced. But if they were, if they were too tender, ah ! gentlemen were gentlemen then — worth perishing for! There is this dream in the English country ; and it must be an aspiration after some form of melodious gentlemanliness which, is imagined to have inhabited the island at one time; as among our poets the dream of the period of a circle of chivalry here is encouraged for the pleasure of the imagination. M rs. Mountstuart touched a thrilling chord. " In spite of men's hateful modern costume, you see he has a leg." That is, the leg of the born cavalier is before you : and obscure it as you will, dress degenerately, there it is for ladies who have eyes. Yon see it : or, you see he has it. Miss Isabel and Miss Eleanor disputed the incidence of the emphasis, but surely, though a slight difference of meaning may be heard, either will do : many, with a good show of reason, throw the accent upon leg. And the ladies knew for a fact that Willoughby's leg was exquisite ; ho had a cavalier court-suit in his wardrobe. Mrs. Mountstuart signified that the leg was to be seen because it was a burning leg. There it is, and it will shine through ! He has the leg of Rochester, Buckingham, Dorset, Suckling; the leg that smiles, that winks, is obsequious to you, yet perforce of beauty self- satisfied; that twinkles to a tender midway between im- periousness and seductiveness, audacity and discretion ; between ' you shall worship me,' and ' I am devoted to you;' is your lord, your slave, alternately and in one. It is a leg of ebb and flow and high-tide ripples. Such a leg, when it has done with pretending to retire, will walk straight into the hearts of women: Nothing so fatal to them. Self-satisfied it must be. Humbleness does not win mul- titudes or the sex. It must be vain to have a sheen. Cap- tivating melodies (to prove to you the unavoidableness of self-satisfaction when you know that you have hit perfection), listen to them closely, have an inner pipe of that conceit almost ludicrous when you detect the chirp. And you need not be reminded that he has the leg without the naughtiness. You see eminent in him what we would fain have brought about in a nation that has lost its leg in gaining a possibly cleaner morality. And that is often con- tested ; but there is no doubt of the loss of the leg. Well, footmen and courtiers and Scottish highlanders, and 12 THE EGOIST. the corps de ballet, draymen too, have legs, and staring legs, shapely enough. Bui what are they F not the modulated instrument we mean— simply legs For leg-work, dumb as the brutes. Onr cavalier's is the poetic leg, a portent, a valiance. He has it as Cicero had a tongue. It is a lute to scatter Bongs to bis mistress ; a rapier, is she obdurate. In sooth a leg with brains in it, soul. Ajid its shadows are an ambush, its lights a surprise. It blushes, it pales, can whisper, exclaim. It is a peep, a part iv\ elation, just sufferable, of the Olympian god — Jove play- in.' carpet-knight . For tbeyoum,' Sir Willoughby's family and his thoughtful admirers, it is not too much to say that Mrs. Mountstuart's little word fetched an epoch <>f our history to colour the evening of his arrival at man's estate. He was all that Merrie Charles's Court should bave been, subtracting not a sparkle from what it was. Under this light he danced, and yon may consider the effect of it on his company. lie had received the domestic education of a prince. Little princes abound in a land of heaped riches. Where they have not to yield military service to an Imperial master, they are necessarily here and there dainty (luring youth, Sometimes unmanageable, and as they are hound in no per- sonal duty to the State, each is for himself, with full present, and what is more, luxurious prospective leisure for the prac- tice of that allegiance. They are sometimes enervated by it: that must be in continental countries. Happily our climate ;i'. 1 our brave bloo I precipitate t he greater number upon 1 he hunting-field, to do the public service of heading the chase of the fox, with benefit to their constitutions. Hence a manly as well as useful race of little princes, and Willoughby was as manly as any. He cultivated himself, he would not be outdone in popular accomplishments. Had the standard of the public taste been set in philosophy, and the national enthusiasm centred in philosophers, he would at least have worked at books. He did work at Bcience, and had a labo- ratory. His admirable passion to excel, however, was chiefly directed in his youth upon sport ; and so great was the passion in him, that it was commonly the presence of rivals wdiich led him to the declaration of love. He knew himself nevertheh ss to be the most constant of men in his attachment to the sex. He had never discouraged THE YOUNG SIR WILLOUGI1 BY. 13 Lsetitia Dale's devotion to him, and even when he followed in the sweeping tide of the beautiful Constantia Durham (whom Mrs. Mountstuart called 'The Racing Cutter'), he thought of Lastitia, and looked at her. She was a shy violet. Willonghby's comportment while the showers of adulation drenched him might be likened to the composure of Indian Gods undergoing worship, but unlike them he reposed upon no seat of amplitude to preserve him from a betrayal of in- toxication ; he had to continue tripping, dancing, exactly balancing himself, head to right, head to left, addressing his idolaters in phrases of perfect choiceness. Tin's is only to say, that it is easier to be a wooden idol than one in the flesh ; yet Willoughby was equal to his task. The little prince's education teaches him that he is other than you, and by virtue of the instruction he receives, and also some- thing, we know not wdiat, within, he is enabled to maintain his posture where you would be tottering. Urchins upon whose curly pates grey seniors lay their hands with con- ventional encomium and speculation, look older than they are immediately, and Willoughby looked older than his years, not for want of freshness, but because he felt that he had to stand eminently and correctly poised. Hearing of Mrs. Mountstuart's word on him, he smiled and said : " It is at her service." The speech was communicated to her, and she proposed to attach a dedicatory strip of silk. And then they came together, and there was wit and repartee suitable to the electrical atmosphere of the dancing-room, on the march to a magical hall of supper. Willoughby conducted Mrs. Mountstuart to the supper-table. " Were I," said she, " twenty years younger, I think I would marry you, to cure my infatuation." " Then let me tell you in advance, madam," said he, " that I will do everything to obtain a new lease of it, except divorce you." They were infinitely wittier, but so much was heard and may be reported. " It makes the business of choosing a wife for him super- humanly difficult !" Mrs. Mountstuart observed, after lis- tening to the praises she had set going again when the ladies were weeded of us, in Lady Patterne's Indian room. 11 T ! ' l upon ■ ■ fchereal j w ill < u wife for himself," taid lii» ( [APTEB III. MAM. for the count] ted in many rid daughterle subse* ■ '• • ■ i I mrham. She laughed at • I. : • : i I );ilr. She D Mrs. M . and had knowp I be weal! biesl family had been Btrictly sagaciom : eople," [) im had d she had health d >:■ ;i P ham, \\:i- ;i large landowner in 1 'i? i man, Hie- Willoughby. The father of I arm] ,1 adia, tentnl bordering Pattern© and a ] Ber writii » ti <>t t ; rig baronel 'a birl hday ■ in- timid c be !< i i be cal on! of her bag of ti I to her hero in ber long and dark, boot like a ■ look from Willonghby. And lie i lie iliil no! dance with ly with M i WTritford for the final La-, e l o tnnch ■ friar' bad entirely for- g n !!• crossed himself CONSTANTLY DURHAM. 15 and crossed his bewildered lady, and crossed everybody in the figure, extorting shouts of cordial laughter from his cousin Willoughby. Be it said that the hour was four in the morning, when dancers must laugh at somebody if only to refresh their feet, and the wit of the hour ad- ministers to the wildest laughter. Vernon was likened to Theseus in the maze, entirely dependent upon his Ariadne ; to a fly released from a jam-pot; to a 'salvage,' or green, man caught in a web of nymphs and made to go the paces. Willoughby was inexhaustible in the happy similes he poured out to Miss Durham across the lines of Sir Roger de Cover- ley, and they were not forgotten, they procured him a repu- tation as a convivial sparkler. Rumour went the round that he intended to give Lastitia to Vernon for good, when he could decide to take Miss Durham to himself; his generosity was famous; but that decision, though the rope was ill the form of a knot, seemed reluctant for the conclusive close haul ; it preferred the state of slackness ; and if he courted Lsetitia on behalf of his cousin, his cousinly love must have been greater than his passion, one had to suppose. He was generous enough for it, or for marrying- the portionless girl himself. There was a story of a brilliant young widow of our aristocracy who had very nearly snared him. Why should he object to many into our aristocracy ? Mrs. Mountstuart asked him, and he replied, that the girls of that class have no money, and he doubted the quality of their blood. He had his e t yes awake. His duty to his House was a foremost thought with him, and for such a reason he may have been more anxious to give the slim and not robust Laetitia to Vernon than accede to his personal inclination. The mention of the widow singularly offended him, notwithstanding the high rank of the lady named. " A widow ?" he said. " I !" He spoke to a widow ; an oldish one truly ; but his wrath at the suggestion of his union with a widow, led him to be for the moment oblivious of the minor shades of good taste. Pie desired Mrs. Mount- stuart to contradict the story in positive terms. He repeated his desire ; he was urgent to have it contradicted, and said again : "A widow!" straightening his whole figure to the erectness of the letter I. She was a widow unmarried a second time, and it has been known of the stedfast women who retain the name of their first husband, or do not hamper 16 in i . • •' - | ■•■I !>y Sir : ■ ' ■ hey I married -." .i!i their i an id( I ; . • .1 ;. ■ i hat , mple rumour of his i mystify ing. >k a ca proudly ;it ease in the as he iow the origin of :i bad for no< being He wa« chidd< □ M read h •t i be ' the ins marrying her, my r thai he would lose his chance I ' . They I i hen for an example to j and an ling ■ ; iat w c mi h content- iwii 1 1 :t 1 to many pack-ladei children painfully rea i - 1 i 1 1 <_r, a • ry and especially : by it. the i Sir Willoughhy, t hen, her han i of him ; olitan i ■ |itil)]e ntia ! to admiration oi h imself, Ik* < He stood i violet. < 'iie lie ■ t have both ; alike. But icquaintance with an in' - ■■■ mi the CONSTANTIA DFKTTAM. 17 sentiments of Miss Dale. Still Constantia's beauty was of a kind to send away beholders aching. She had the glory of the racing cutter full sail on a winning breeze ; and she did not court to win him, she flew. In his more reflective hour the attractiveness of that lady which held the mirror to his features was paramount. But he had passionate sna/tches when the magnetism of the flyer drew him in her "wake. Further to add to the complexity, he loved his liberty ; he was princelier free ; he had more subjects, ii/oi e slaves ; he ruled arrogantly in the world of women ; he was more himself. His metropolitan experiences did not answer to his liking the particular question, Do we bind the woman down to us idolatrously by making a wife of her ? In the midst of his deliberations, a report of the hot pursuit of Miss Durham, casually mentioned to him by Lady Bnsshe, drew an immediate proposal from Sir Willoughby. She accepted him, and they were engaged. She had been nibbled at, all but eaten up, while he hung dubitative ; and though that was the cause of his winning- her, it offended his niceness. She had not come to him out of cloistral purity, out of perfect radiancy. Spiritually, likewise, was he a little prince, a despotic prince. He wished for her to have come to him out of an egg-shell, somewhat more astonished at things than a chicken, but as completely enclosed before he tapped the shell, and seeing him with her sex's eyes first of all men. She talked frankly of her cousins and friends, young males. She could have replied to his bitter wish : " Had you asked me on the night of your twenty-first birthday, Willoughby !" Since then she had been in the dust of the world, and he conceived his peculiar antipathy, destined to be so fatal to him, from the earlier hom-s of his engagement. He was quaintly incapable of a jealousy of individuals. A young Captain Oxford had been foremost in the swarm pursuing Constantia. Willoughby thought as little of Captain Oxford as he did of Vernon Whitford. His enemy was the world, the mass, which confounds us in a lump, which has breathed on her whom we have selected, whom we cannot, can never, rub quite clear of her contact with the abominated crowd. The plea- sure of the world is to bowl down our soldierlv letter I; to encroach on our identity, soil our niceness. To begin to think is the beginning of disgust of the world. Is Tin 1 (JOIST. n ^ the engagement was published, all the count) bad n.-t been acbance For Lsetitia, and Mrs. insou bnmbly remarked, in an attitude of ■ |. ; qoI a witch."" Lady Busshe could claim Id the event. Laetitia was of the pinion as the county. She had looked up, but not She had only looked up to the brightest, and, could she have hoped 1 She was mpanion of a sick father, whose inveterate . thai she wsuld live to rule at Patterne I in proportion as he seemed to • u it. of theengagemi ut merely • c invalids cling obstinately to their I Sir Willoughby in the society of when i ■ ' revived to a sprightly ly. Indeed, as big boy and little girl, : old. Willoughby had been a if him at t be Hall, in a nd long 11a sen the image of her soul's most I ■ had — did not sup; i are to bow to him ; so sab- fuller happiness for her to think be circum appear to resemble the ecstacy It is a form of the passion need nol marvel that a t to eep them in their lofty i| berw ise to look up to Y We -lights it" t hey were levelled - wort h while for here ■ long as women's general man shall be preserved. Purity i may justly cry for attraction. hter than in the universal bearing ipon a little prince, one who has virtues in his pay, and can practise them ■elf to make himself unsightly. Let ■ ■ be bj tonished ai -heir Gods, if ha 1 better continue to worship. '• Miss Durham at Patterne Sh< admired the pair. She had a COXSXANTIA DUEIIAM. 19 wish to witness the bridal ceremony. She was looking forward to the day with that mixture of eagerness and with- holding which we have as we draw ni^h the disenchanting termination of an enchanting romance, when Sir Willoughby met her on a Sunday morning, as she crossed his park solitarily to church. They were within ten days of the appointed ceremony. He should have been away at Miss Durham's end of the county. He had, Lastitia knew, ridden over to her the day before ; but there he was ; and very unwontedly, quite surprisingly, he presented his arm to conduct Leetitia to the church-door, and talked and laughed in a way that reminded her of a hunting gentleman she had seen once rising to his feet, staggering from an ugly fall across hedge and fence into one of the lanes of her short winter walks: "All's well, all sound, never better, only a scratch !" the gentleman had said, as he reeled and pressed a bleeding head. Sir Willonghby chattered of his felicity in meeting her. " I am really wonderfully lucky," he said, and he said that and other things over and over, incessantly talking, and telling an anecdote of county occurrences, and laughing at it with a mouth that would not widen. He went on talking in the church porch, and murmuring softly some steps up the aisle., passing the pews of Mrs. Moi nt- etuart Jenkinson and Lady Busshe. Of course he was entertaining, but what a strangeness it was to Lsetitia ! His face would have been half under an antique bonnet. It came very close to hers, and the scrutiny he bent on her wa3 most solicitous. After the service, he avoided the great ladies by saunter- ing up to within a yard or two of where she sat ; he crave 1 her hand on his arm to lead her forth by the park entrance to the church, all the while bending to her, discoursing rapidly, appearing* radiantly interested in her quiet replies, with fits of intentness that stared itself out into dim abstrac- tion. She hazarded the briefest replies for fear of not having understood him. • One question she asked : " Miss Durham is well, I trust ?" And he answered : " Durham ?" and said : " There is no Miss Durham to my knowledge." The impression he left with her was, that he might yesterday during his ride have had an accident and fallen on bis head. c2 1 1! She would 1m bad not known him f'>r bave it thought bappened to him. || :■ :i walk Jlc in- hod pi • it, and l> iled to her a promise he bad not heard, • him ' her walk. So i more she was in i!i«- park with Sir Willoughby, listenio \ word sent from her I him. " 1 am d elf," w I be remarks bed on 1 beauty of tho I ' 1 [all t tify him. He did i ik "t" Miss Durham, and Laetitia became • ion her i hby promise ! Lstit in I hat he ild call Be did i me ; and -"iild ■ her hi I be tale. I • He bad ridden to Sir John 1 ' a distai thirty miles, to hear, on bad quit t< d her fat ber's house a \ i-it to an aunt in London, and - t he w i i laptain < Oxford, her broi bera A letter from bride a V\ b the Hal] He had ridden iring how be used his horse in order to ftly home, Ful of himself was he under the rible blow. That was the night of Saturday. On the follow Sunday , he met Let it ia in liis park, Le I led h« •: i the day after that, pre- ime weeks, was walking with her in full view of t he cs road. He bad ind« very fortunately, if not con- siderately, liberated by Miss Durham. He, as a man of the init iative, but I he frenzy of • - ich a ■ ; and how from it had been shown to the world. Miss I' liam. tl ■ was hie mother's choice f<>r him, clinations ; w hich had finally subdued I Patten ( quently, there was no longer an lough bj M is j Dale 1? was a I try, and it put most people in good with tl ■ favourite, as his choice of a por. L.ETITIA DALE. 21 tionless girl of no position would not have done without the shock of astonishment at the conduct of Miss Durham, and the desire to feel that so prevailing a gentleman was not in any degree pitiable. Constantia was called " that mad thing." Lostitia broke forth in novel and abundant merits ; and one of the chief points of requisition in relation to Patterne — a Lady Willoughby who would entertain well and animate the deadness of the Hall, became a certainty when her gentleness and liveliness and exceeding cleverness were considered. She was often a visitor at the Hall by Lady Patterne's express invitation, and sometimes on these occasions Willoughby was there too, superintending the fitting up of his laboratory, though he was not at home to the county; it was not expected that he should be yet. He had taken heai-tily to the pursuit of science, and spoke of little else. Science, he said, was in our days the sole object worth a devoted pursuit. But the sweeping remark could hardly apply to Lsetitia, of whom he was the courteous quiet wooer you behold when a man has broken loose from an unhappy tangle to return to the lady of his first and strongest affections. Some months of homely courtship ensued, and then, the decent interval prescribed by the situation having elapsed, Sir Willoughbv Patterne left his native land on a tour of the globe. CHAPTER IV. LjETITIA dale. That was another surprise to the county. Let us not inquire into the feelings of patiently starving women : they must obtain some sustenance of their own, since, as you perceive, they live ; evidently they are not in need of a great amount of nourishment ; and we may set them down for creatures with a rushlight of animal fire to warm them. They cannot have much vitality who are so little exclamatory. A corresponding sentiment of patient Compassion, akin to scorn, is provoked by persons having the opportunity for pathos and declining to use it. Tb j2 tee egoist. pul, m was open to Laatitia for several weeks, and had run to if to bewail herself, Bhe would have been cherished Iness for a country drama. There would have i Dsi her, cold people, critical of her preten- from an unrecognized sphere to be mistress of Hall: but there would also have been a party • Sir Willoughby, composed of the two or three tired of the yoke, which are to be found in 1 1 when there is a stir, a larger number of born sym- ready to yield the tear for the tear, and here maritan soul prompt to succour poor humanity in d The opportunity passed undramatized. Lsetitia al church with a face mildly devout, lustom, and she accepted invitations to the at the reading of W^illoughby's letters to My. and fed on dry husks of him wherein her name • mentioned; never one note of the summoning call for pathos did this young lady blow. So, very soon the pul closed. She had, under the fresh interpreta- tion a spirit to be Lady Willoughby of ;'l ii"t have entertained becomingly; he ■: thai the '_ r irl was not the match for him in : he went to conquer the remainder of a • ichment, no longer extremely disturbing, the tenour of his letters: really incomparable he and Mrs. Mounts tuart Jeukinson them. Sir "Willoughby appeared as a ng representative island lord in these letters despatched from the principal cities of the United St America. Ee would give them a sketch ir deni< cousins," he said. Such cousins! ill have been in the Marines. He carried dard over that Continent, and by simply n idi a of the results of the family and friends at home. He was in the ir incongruously grouping. The ty under the stars and stripes was pre- manner. Equality! Reflections came occa- of ours are highly amusing. I the d< of the Roundheads. Now and I to old d ■ differences, in perfect good tamper. .rway; they theirs, in the apparent L^TJTIA DALE. 23 belief that Republicanism operates remarkable changes in human nature. Vernon tries hard to think it does. The upper ten of our cousins are the Infernal of Paris. The rest of them is Radical England, as far as I am acquainted with that section of my country." — Where we compared, they were absurd ; where we contrasted, they, were monstrous. The contrast of Vernon's letters with Willoughby's was just as extreme. You could hardly have taken them for relatives travelling together, or Vernon Whitford for a born and bred Englishman. The same scenes furnished by these two pens might have been sketched in different hemispheres. Vernon had no irony. He had nothing of Willoughby's epistolary creative power, which, causing his family and friends to exclaim, "How like him that is!" conjured them across the broad Atlantic to behold and clap hands at his lordliness. They saw him distinctly, as with the naked eye : a word, a turn of the pen, or a word unsaid, offered the picture of him in America, Japan, China, Australia, nay, the Continent of Europe, holding an English review of his Maker's grotesques. Vernon seemed a sheepish fellow, without stature abroad, glad of a compliment, grateful for a dinner, endeavouring sadly to digest all he saw and heard. But one was a Pat- terne ; the other a Whitford. One had genius ; the other pottered after him with the title of student. One was the English gentleman wherever he went ; the other was a new kind of thing, nondescript, produced in England of late, and not likely to come to much good himself, or do much good to the country. Vernon's dancing in America was capitally described by Willoughby. " Adieu to our cousins !" the latter wrote on his voyage to Japan. " I may possibly have had some vogue in their ball-rooms, and in showing them an English seat on horseback: T must resign myself if I have not been popular among them. I could not sing their national song — if a congery of States be a nation — and I must confess I listened with frigid politeness to their sing- ing of it. A great people, no doubt. Adieu to them. I have had to tear old Vernon away. He had serious thoughts of settling, means to correspond with some of them." On the whole, forgetting two or more 'traits of insolence' on the part of his hosts, which he cited, Willoughby escaped pretty comfortably. The President had been, consciously or not, uncivil, but one knew his origin ! Upon these interjec- • . Britannia : I, nil in mildish way to lash - r Willoughby Patten scd i .\ er after he spoke ' . . w .1 b a ta.il tucki 'I in w ere pn Stable to himself. The fact ae to g] - and must be •. ill pr I en forefend a \\ L to hi ii' 1 afti : an absence of fair April morning, the last of the month, In- park palings, and by the luck of thii I. tof Ins fi iends w hom I She was i Geld with a hand of Bchool-children, vilJ lli>- r the morrow May-day. He sprang . and Beized her hand. " Lsetitia Dale!" he ted. "Your name is sweet English music! The anxious question permitted him to eply in hei Be found the man he songht there, 1 liim ] ately, and let her go, saying, " I could a lovelier home-scene to welcome me and these children flower-gathering. I don't in chance. It was decreed that we should meet. i tliink ntly of her gladness. II- cl her to distribute a gold coin among' the little i !".'!• tin' names of some of them, and repeated, Charlotte — only the Christian names, pray ! a will bring your garlands to the Hall to- ■ i mind, early! no slugabeds to-morrow; I It.. wmd, Latitia ?" lit- smiled in apology • . and murmured with rapture, " The green atry i- unsurpassed. It is wonderful. i an I he baked, if you would appreciate it. a- I have done — for how "II si ■ m to me that length. At older. I! .;t looking a' i could Von have not cl You are ■ I am bound t<> hope v,,. r shall i talk of, much to tell you. I L^TITIA DALE. 25 shall hasten to call on your father. I have specially to speak with him. I — what happiness this is, Lsetitia ! But I must not forget I have a mother. Adieu ; for some hours — not for many !" He pressed her hand again. He was gone. She dismissed the children to their homes. Plucking primroses was hard labour now — a dusty business. She could have wished that her planet had not descended to earth, his presence agitated her so ; but his enthusiastic patriotism was like a shower that in the Spring season of the year sweeps against the hard-binding East and melts the air, and brings out new colours, makes life flow ; and her thoughts recurred in wonderment to the behaviour of Con- stantia Durham. That was Lsetitia's manner of taking up her weakness once more. She could almost have reviled the woman who had given this beneficent magician, this pathetic exile, of the aristocratic sunburnt visage and deeply-scrutinizing eyes, cause for grief. How deeply his eyes could read ! The starveling of patience awoke to the idea of a feast. The sense of. hunger came with it, and hope came, and patience fled. She would have rejected hope to keep patience nigh her ; but surely it cannot always be Winter ! said her reasoning blood, and we must excuse her as best we can if she was assured by her restored warmth that Willoughby came in the order of the revolving seasons, marking a long Winter past. He had specially to speak with her father, he had said. What could that mean ? What but ! She dared not phrase it or view it. At their next meeting she was " Miss Dale." A week later he was closeted with her father. Mr. Dale, in the evening of that pregnant day, eulogized Sir Willoughby as a landlord. A new lease of the cottage was to be granted him on the old terms, he said. Except that Sir Willoughby had congratulated him in the posses- sion of an excellent daughter, their interview was one of landlord and tenant, it appeared ; and Lastitia said, " So we shall not have to leave the cottage ?" in a tone of satisfac- tion, wdiile she quietly gave a wrench to the neck of the young hope in her breast. At night her diary received the line : " This day I was a fool. To-morrow ?" To-morrow and many days after there were dashes instead of words. TIIK EGOIST. elled back to her sullenly. As we must have 1. and she had ool bing else, she took to that nd it dryer than of yore. It is a composing but a I dead are patient, and we get a certaiu • them in feeding on it onintermittingly overlong. with the fallen leaf in them pleaded justify her idol for not looking down on ■ him when he was :it the Hall. He change. He was exceedingly gentle and than once she discovered his eyes dwelling ■ ••ii hi' looked hurriedly at his mother, and ; in shut her mind from thinking lest thinking ii ami hope a guilty spectre. But had his I tn hi 3he could nol avoid asking her- ■ of the globe had been undertaken at his shr wis an ambitious lady, in failing wished to have him living with her at ■ 1 t.> agree that he did wisely to reside in I Sir Willoughby, in the quiet manner which was rmed her that he had become a country ; he had abandoned London, he loathed it as the individual man. He intended to sit rad have hi- cousin Vernon Whitford •11 in managing them, he said; and very amusing n of his cousin's shifts to live by litera- 1 add enough to a beggarly income to get his usual ear in the Alps. Previous to his great . W illoagbby had spoken of Wrnnn's judgement with • : nor was it entirely unknown that Vernon had family pride by some extravagant act. But ■ their return he acknowledged Vernon's talents, and I anable to do without him. rrangemenl <;ave Lsetitia a companion for her ! nanism was a sour business to Willoughby, iiimi of the word indicated a willingness for ■ • on horseback ; but she had no horse, e he hunted, Laetitia and Vernon walked, and _hi oiirhood speculated on the circumstances, until Eleanor and Isabel Patterne engaged her more •lv for carriage exercise, and Sir Willoughby was 1 riding them. L^TITIA DALE. 27 A real and sunny pleasure befell Lretitia, in the establish- ment of young- Cross jay Patterne under her roof ; the son of the lieutenant, now captain, of Marines ; a boy of twelve, with the sprights of twelve boys in him, for whose board and lodgement Vernon provided by arrangement with her father. Vernon was one of your men that have no occupation for their money, no bills to pay for repair of their property, and are insane to spend. He had heard of Captain Patterne's large family, and proposed to have his eldest boy at the Hall, to teach him ; but Willoughby declined to house the son of such a father, predicting that the boy's hair would be red, his skin eruptive, and his practices detestable. So Vernon, having obtained Mr. Dale's consent to accommodate this youth, stalked off to Devonport, and brought back a rosy-cheeked, round-bodied rogue of a boy, who fell upon meats and puddings, and defeated them, with a captivating simplicity in his confession that he had never had enough to eat in his life. He had gone through a training for a plentiful table. At first, after a number of helps, young Crossjay would sit and sigh heavily, in contemplation of the unfinished dish. Subsequently, he told his host and hostess that he had two sisters above his own age, and three brothers and two sisters younger than he : " All hungry !" said the boy. His pathos was most comical. It was a good month before he could see pudding taken away from table without a sigh of regret that he could not finish it as deputy for the Devon- port hou*<4iold. The pranks of the little fellow, and his revel in a country life, and muddy wildness in it, amused La?titia from morning to night. She, when she had caught him, taught him in the morning ; Vernon, favoured by the chase, in the afternoon. Young Crossjay would have enlivened any household. He was not only indolent, he was opposed to the acquisition of knowledge through the medium of books, and would say : " But I don't want to I" in a tone to make a logician thoughtful. Kature was very strong in him. He had, on each return of the hour for instruction, to be plucked out of the earth, rank of the soil, like a root, for the exercise of his big round headpiece on those tyrannous puzzles. But the habits of birds, and the place for their eggs, and the management of rabbits, and the tickling of fish, and poaching joys with combative boys of the district, and how to wheedle a cook for a luncheon for a whole day in TH tST. ): in knew of his greai nature. His passion for • leans of screwing his attention to , 1 begun to nnderstand thai the desert had : to : 1 1 1 ; i ■" 1 1 midshipman's rank, lie boasted : father, and, chancing to be near the Vernon and Lsetitia of his father, |,-,1 m qtu stion close to his hear! ; and he put it . following: " My father's the one to lead an ' when he paused: "I Ray, Mr. Whitford, Sir Wil- rind t<< me, ami gives me crown-pieces, why In t In- see my father, ami my lather came here ten miles in tin' rain to Bee him. and had to walk ten miles back, :' an inn r" The only r to be given was, that Sir Wi Hough by been at h "Oh! my father saw him, Willoughby said he was not at home," the boy producing an odd ring in the ear by his repetition of in the -ami' voice as the apology, plainly Vernon told Lsetitia, however, that the • d an explanation of Sir Willoughby. Qnliki orse of the adage, it was easier to compel to drink ol the waters of instruction than to the blink. His heart was not so antagonistic as . and by degrees, owing to a proper mixture of and cajolery, he imbibed. lie was whistling at .'s windows after a day of wicked truancy, on an I night, and reported adventures over the supper sup- ! to him. Lsetitia entered the kitchen with a reproving r. He jumped t<> kiss her, and went on chattering n miles distant, where he had seen Sir Wil- 1 • ding with a young lady. The impossibility that mid have goi so far on foot made Lsetitia doubtful until she heard thai a gentleman had taken on the road in i and had driven him to a farm if bii'ds' eggs and stuffed birds of every kind, I ers, yaffles, black woodpeckers, g<»at- th than head, with dusty, dark- likemoths; all very circumstantial. Still, in inn. and ride back by rail at the the tale seemed lietitious to Laetitia !>'| bow that he had stood to -alute on the nd taken off his cap to Sir Willoughby, ■LMTITIA DALE. 29 and Sir Willoughby Lad passed him, not noticing him, though the young lady did, and looked back and nodded. The hue of truth "was in that picture. Strange eclipse, when the hue of truth comes shadowing over our bright ideal planet. It will not seem the planet's fault, but truth's. Reality is the offender; delusion our treasure that we are robbed of. Then begins with us the term of wilful delusion, and its necessary accompaniment of the disgust of reality ; exhausting the heart much more than patient endurance of starvation. Hints were dropping about the neighbourhood ; the hedge- ways twittered, the tree-tops cawed. Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson was loud on the subject: " Patterne is to have a mistress at last, you say ? But there never was a doubt of his marrying— he must marry; and, so long as he does not marry a foreign woman, we have no cause to complain. He met her at Cherriton. Both were struck at the same moment. Her father is, I hear, some sort of learned man ; money ; no land. ~No house either, I believe. People who spend half their time on the Continent. They are now for a year at Upton Park. The very girl to settle down and entertain when she does think of settling. Eighteen, perfect manners; you need not ask if a beauty. Sir Willoughby will have his dues. We must teach her to make amends to him — but don't listen to Lady Busshe ! He was too young at twenty- three or twenty-four. No young man is ever jilted ; he is allowed to escape. A young man married is a fire-eater bound over to keep the peace ; if he keeps it he worries it. At thirty-one or thirty-two he is ripe for his command, because he knows how to bend. And Sir Willoughby is a splendid creature, only wanting a wife to complete him. For a man like that to go on running about would never do. Soberly — no! It would soon be g*etting ridiculous. He has been no worse than other men, probably better — infinitely more excusable ; but now we have him, and it was time we should. I shall see her and study her, sharply, you may be sure; though I fancy I can rely on his judgement." In confirmation of the swelling buzz, the Bev. Dr. Middle- ton and his daughter paid a flying visit to the Hall, where they were seen only by the members of the Patterne family. Young Crossjay had a short conversation with Miss Middle. ton, and ran to the cottage full of her — she loved the navy TBI K'.olST. ; a She had a smile of very pleasant ,.,. The young lady was out- tall, elegant, livelj ; and painted as carry- Bag. With her smile of 'very pleasant : qoI bul be winning. \. of her father, a scholar of high repnte ; scholar of an independent fortune. His maturer Middleton grew poetic, or he described : a poetic ear: M She gives you an idea Echo. Dr. Middleton has one of the grandest . ad." "What ie her Christian name ?" said Laetitia. He thought her Christian aame was Clara. I. ■ • ed and walked through the day conceiving ..ii Echo, the swift wild spirit. Clara byname, far half-circle by the voice it is roused to than beautiful, high above drawing-room the colours of the sky; and if, at the same time, i of loveable smiling, could a man resist herr 1 title of .Mountain Echo in any mind, a young • be Bingularly spiritualized. Her father doated id. Who would not ? It seemed an addi- t . cruelty that the grace of a poetical attractiveness round her, for this was robbing Lrctitia of some . Little fortune, mystical though that might be. man like Sir Willoughby had claims on poetry, pos- : i evi py manly grace; and to think that .Miss won him by virtue of something native to her ' -tii-ally, touched Latitia with a faint relationship to the chosen girl. '"What is in me, - on her.'' It decked b< r pride to think so, as a wreath acouraged her imagination to broo I , and invested her di Lly with romantic charms, : : the ascetic zealot hugs his share of heavi n his hair shirt and scour to glorify ( llara. Through that her comprehension of the spirit of Sir ich as I !lara, she was Linked to fidelity : 0U8 exaltation: rt will distort the brain, and in the world ■• ill put him, should b< aigh, to lj:titia dale. 31 its own furnace-test, and get a clear brain out of a burnt heart. She was frequently at the Hall, helping to nurse Lady Pa tt erne. Sir Willoughbj had hitherto treated her as a dear insignificant friend, to whom it was unnecessary that he should mention the object of his rides to Upton Park. He had, however, in the contemplation of what he was gain- ing, fallen into anxiety about what he might be losing. She belonged to his brilliant youth ; her devotion was the bride of his youth ; he was a man who lived backwards almost as intensely as in the present ; and, notwithstanding Laetitia's praiseworthy zeal in attending on his mother, he suspected some unfaithfulness : hardly without cause : she had not looked paler of late, her eyes had not reproached him ; the secret of the old days between them had been as little con- cealed as it was exposed. She might have buried it, after the way of women, whose bosoms can be tombs, if we and the world allow them to be ; absolutely sepulchres, where you lie dead, ghastly. Even if not dead and horrible to think of, you may be lying cold, somewhere in a corner. Even if embalmed, you may not be much visited. And how is the world to know yoa are embalmed ? You are no better than a rotting wretch to the world that does not have peeps of you in the woman's breast, and see lights burning and an occa- sional exhibition of the services of worship. There are women — tell us not of her of Ephesus !— that have embalmed you, and have quitted the world to keep the tapers alight, and a stranger comes, and they, who have your image before them, will suddenly blow out the vestal flames and treat you as dust to fatten the garden of their bosoms for a fresh flower of love. Sir Willoughby knew it ; he had experience of it in the form of the stranger; and he knew the stranger's feelings toward his predecessor and the lady. He waylaid Lastitia, to talk of himself and his plans : the project of a run to Italy. Enviable ? Yes, but in England you live the higher moral life. Italy boasts of sensual beauty ; the spiritual is yours. " I know Italy well ; I have often wished to act as cicerone to you there. As it is, I suppose I shall be with those who know the land as well as I do, and will not be particularly enthusiastic : .... if you are what you were ?" He was guilty of this perplexing twist from one person to another in a sentence more than once. While he talked exclusively of himself, it seemed to 1 li [n time he talked principally of her, his mother; and he Middleton " to her ; he wanti I Middleton; he relied on her intuition bad never know □ it err. - I lale, I should not be I am bound up in my good opinion yon must continue the same, or I Thus he was led to dwell upon friend- charm of the friendship of men and women, as n wj I. " 1 have laughed at it in the a tlic depth of my ln-art. The world's are laughable enough. You have • the ideal of friendship is possible — when we ipable of a disinterested esteem. The duty; duty to parents, duty to country. But ia the holiday of those who can be friends. Wives .1. friends are rare. 1 know fane rare!" d her thoughts as they sprang up. Why rturing her? — to give himself a holiday? She t>> lose him she was used to it — and hear his . l>nt imt that hi' should disfigure himself; it poor. It was as if he required an oath of her I: "Italy! But 1 shall never see a day in Ital; ipare with tin- day of my return to England, or [uisite as your welcome of me ! Will to that? May I look forward to just another such He pressed her for an answer. She gave the best she > i. He was dissatisfied, and to her hearing it was hardly of manliness thai he entreated her to reassure mized his language. She had to say : "I am nnot undertake to make it an appointment, Sir he recovered his alertness, which he mything but obtuse, with the reply, " You p it it' you promised, ami freeze at your post. So, i . we mus< lea\ e it to fate. The will's 5 now i tation of changes. At least ■ t. and wherever I am, I see your i of my pa i nor 1 would willingly quit Ivy LETITIA DALE. 33 "So far, tlien ;" he murmured. "You •will give me a long notice, and it must be with my consent if you think of quitting ?" " I could almost engage to do that," she said. " You love the place ?" "Yes; I am the most contented of cottagers." " I believe, Miss Dale, it would be well for my happiness weie I a cottager." " That is the dream of the palace. But to be one, and not to wish to be other, is quiet sleep in comparison." " You paint a cottage in colours that tempt one to run from big houses and households." "You would run back to them faster, Sir Willoughby." "You may know me," said he, bowing and passing on con. fcentedly. He stopped : " But I am not ambitious." " Perhaps you are too proud for ambition, Sir Wil- longhby." " You hit me to the life!" He passed on regretfully. Clara Middleton did not study and know him like Ln?titia Dale. La?titia was left to think it pleased him to play at cat and mouse. She had not ' hit him to the life,' or she would have marvelled in acknowledging how sincere he was. At her next sitting by the bedside of Lady Patterne, she received a certain measure of insight that might have helped her to fathom him, if only she could have kept her feelings down. The old lady was affectionately confidential in talk- ing of her one subject, her son. "And here is another dashing girl, my dear; she has money and health and beauty ; and so has he ; and it appears a fortunate union , I hope and pray it may be ; but we begin to 1 ead the world when our eyes gTow dim, because we read the plain lines, and 1 ask myself whether money and health and beauty on both sides, have not been the mutual attraction. We tried it before ; and that girl Durham w T as honest, whatever we may call her. I should have desired an aj^preciative, thoughtful partner for him, a woman of mind, with another sort of wealth and beauty. She was honest, she ran away in time ; there was a worse thing possible than that. And now we have the same chapter, and the same kind of person, who may not be quite as honest; and I shall not see the end of it. Promise me you will always be good to him ; be mj D II. T. ■ Be what you were ! no one, ao1 even • lie Buffered anythi Wniloughby has the most I Bhndder! You of the constant I k in no a repeated to herself .Vow, when ber constancy of the luuk of a whimper on [APTEB V. ON. bby Pa f feme and Miss 1 , the seat of ■ mg lad hteen was first ■ n. She bad money and health . v, bich makes a 11 a her, ex pi ber to 1 1 t li:it be must ho in i tarn. He " of a pack ; of i hem were eager. He • to communicate to her re her gloves were too . for b 1 1 here, all band to partners — obscurant Far too generally grac him. The effecl of it, ue »vil li all his mi ■ lit into t he heat of ber 1 ban i h: i he was I Willoughby Patterne only one of ■ is riva ppreciated e of you. We i :n t his deparl mi I be uni« t. You CLARA MIDDLETON. 35 spread a handsomer tail than your follows, you dress a finer top -knot, you pipe a newer note, have a longer stride ; she reviews you in competition, and selects you. The superlative is magnetic to her. She may be looking elsewhere, and you will see — the superlative will simply have to beckun, away she glides. She cannot help herself ; it is her nature, and her nature is the guarantee for the noblest race of men to come of her. In complimenting you, she is a promise of superior offspring. Science thus — or it is better to say, an acquaintance with science facilitates the cultivation of aris- tocracy. Consequently a successful pursuit and a wresting of her from a body of competitors, tells you that you are the best man. What is more, it tells the world so. Willoughby aired his amiable superlatives in the eye of Miss Middleton ; he had a leg. He was the heir of suc- cessful competitors. He had a style, a tone, an artist tailor, an authority of manner: he had in the hopeful ardour of the chase among a multitude a freshness that gave him advantage ; and together with his undeviating energy when there was a prize to be won and possessed, these were scarce resistible, lie spared no pains, for he was adust and athirst for the winning-post. He courted her father, aware that men like- wise, and parents pre-eminently, have their preference for the larger offer, the deeper pocket, the broader lands, the respectfuller consideration. Men, after their fashion, as well as women, distinguish the bettermost, and aid him to succeed, as Dr. Middleton certainly did in the crisis of the memorable question proposed to his daughter within a month of Wil- loughby's reception at Upton Park. The young lady was astonished at his whirlwind wooing of her, and bent to it like a sapling. She begged for time; Willoughby could barely wait. She unhesitatingly owned that she liked no one better, and he consented. A calm examination of his position told him that it was unfair so long as he stood engaged and she did not. She pleaded a desire to see a little of the world before she plighted herself. She alarmed him ; he assumed the amazing: God of Love under the subtlest guise of the divinity. Willingly would he obey her behests, resignedly languish, were it not for his mother's desire to see the future lady of Patterne established there before she died. Love shone cunningly through the mask of filial duty, but the plea of urgency was reasonable. Dr. Middleton thought it reason- d2 II! 1. to .... i sin- had a maidonl; e t" 1 Wil- \ months, and granted that nut led to Btand engaged ; i whispering of a word. She was im- captn ity b the pronunciation • but :i binding ceremonial. Sin- hail health ■ 1 1 bea< imt that lie stipu- ith bis bride, hut it adds a lustre t" dazzle r, the pack of rival pursae s hung ing their dolorous throai s tol he he inu-t be. I !<■ made her engagei it v. - ilemn plighting of a I am yours, she cniiM .say, . 1 am yours for ever, I bw< ir it, I will i! . I am your \\ ife in heart, yours ■ is written abo* e. To t his she con- ende I. " a- tar as I am concerned ;" :i piece of chilling ad he forced her to pass him :hism in tarn, and came out with fervent ■ bound him to her ton iudissolably to lei her 'II am loved ! Bhe I t.i I in simple faith ami wonderment. □ i" think of love ere the apparition • I S B had 1 1 < ■ t thought of love with any Sin- had only dreamed of 1<>\ i the distant bl< ii the mighty world, lyin<, r some- n the world's i si as, veiled, nicom- | tiful petals, a throbbing secresy, but too : her bosom's throbs. Her chief idea of it nt of t he world by 1" . did Mi > Mid oiesce in the principle of in. did th( tan of a hosi blow his triumphant ' '. v - He • : he ] f lie dictum of Bci( ' Patl tired. " I would."' he M M rl Jenkinson, '" have bar- it Bhe I rything . breeding: is what they call an bhe most Accomplished of her - With a CLARA MIDDLETON. 37 delicate art he conveyed to the lady's understanding that Miss Middleton had been snatched from a crowd, without a breath of the crowd having offended his niceness. He did it through sarcasm at your modern young women, who run about the world nibbling and nibbled at, until they know one sex as well as the other, and are not a whit less cognizant cf the market than men : pure, possibly ; it is not so easy to Bay innocent ; decidedly not our feminine ideal. Miss Mid- dleton was different : she was the true ideal, fresh-gathered morning fruit in a basket, warranted by her bloom. Women do not defend their younger sisters for doing what they perhaps have done — lifting a veil to be seen, and peep- ing at a world where innocence is as poor a guarantee as a babe's caul against shipwreck. Women of the world never think of attacking the sensual stipulation for perfect bloom, silver purity, which is redolent of the Oriental origin of the love-passion of their lords. Mrs. Mountstuart congratulated Sir Willoughby on the prize he had won in the fair western- eastern. " Let me see her," she said ; and Miss Middleton was introduced and critically observed. She had the mouth that smiles in repose. The lips met full on the centre of the bow and thinned along to a lifting dimple ; the eyelids also lifted slightly at the outer corners and seemed, like the lip into the limpid cheek, quickening up the temples, as with a run of light, or the ascension in- dicated off a shoot of colour. Her features were playfellows of one another, none of them pretending to rigid correctness, nor the nose to the ordinary dignity of governess among merry girls, despite which the nose was of a fair design, not acutely interrogative or inviting to gambols. Aspens imaged in water, waiting for the breeze, would offer a sus- ceptible lover some suggestion of her face: a pure smooth- white face, tenderly flushed in the cheeks, where the gentle dints were faintly intermelting even during quietness. Her eyes were brown, set well between mild lids, often shado'.ved, not unwakeful. Her hair of lighter brown, swelling above her temples on the sweep to the knot, imposed the triangle of the fabulous wild woodland visage from brow to mouth and chin, evidently in agreement with her taste ; and the triangle suited her ; but her face was not significant of a tameless wildness or of weakness ; her equable shut mouth MIK BOO! 1 chin from they were . and :it such h. p \ hair losl the i ■ ion. i he prey he B] the look mium8 he did not quote Miss Middleton'a ..I it in M is. Mount« : ■• A h. well. I have not i i may have the nit of drawing it nut." noticed the wit. The corrupted hearing of .» □ of 8i nds, Vernon Bupposed. their excellence, he recollected a Middleton'a remarks; they came flying : ■ irbore to Bpeak t hem aloud, t hey . of meaning. It could noi be all her much his own manner might spoil them. tain degree, her quickness .-it catching i conversation. Possibly by reation wherein sin- had : only how could any one portioi was no use in being ording him personally, and and enjoyment, Vernon ■ ■ himself. The eulogies of her beauty, ■I in which lie did n i In- her so very ■ him i [uence. 'I er Sir Wil- ashion t<> exalt hei ;is one <>t' t In- 1 1 of 1 providentially Belected to s< t off his I to tho irt of China, un rice-paper. A little CLARA MIDDLETON. o9 French dressing would make her at home on the sward by the fountain among the lutes and whisperers of the bewitch- ing silken shepherdesses, who live though they never were. Lady Busshe was reminded of the favourite lineaments of the women of Leonardo, the angels of Luini. Lady Culmer had seen crayon sketches of demoiselles of the French aristocracy resembling her. Some one mentioned an antique statue of a figmre breathing into a flute: and the mouth at the flute-stop might have a distant semblance of the bend of her mouth, but this comparison was repelled as grotesque. For once Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson was unsuccessful. Her ' dainty rogue in porcelain ' displeased Sir Willoughby. " Why rogue r" he said. The lady's fame for hitting the mark fretted him, and the grace of his bride's fine bearing stood to support him iu his objection. Clara was young, healthy, handsome ; she was therefore fitted to be his wife, the mother of his children, his companion picture. Certainly they looked well side b}^ side. In walking with her, in droop- ing to her, the whole man was made conscious of the female image of himself by her exquisite unlikeness. She completed him, added the softer lines wanting to his portrait before the world. He had wooed her ra^ein^lv : he courted her he- comingly ; with the manly self-possession enlivened by watchful tact which is pleasing to girls. He never seemed to under-value himself in valuing her: a secret priceless in the courtship of young women that have heads ; the lover doubles their sense of personal worth through not forfeiting his own. Those were proud and happy days when he rode Black Norman over to Upton Park, and his lady looked forth for him and knew him coming by the faster beating of her heart. Her mind, too, was receptive. She took impressions of his characteristics, and supplied him a feast. She remem- bered his chance phrases; noted his ways, his peculiarities, as no one of her sex had done. He thanked his cousin Veimon for saving she had wit. She had it, and of so high a flavour that the more he thought of the epigram launched at her, the more he grew displeased. With the wit to under- stand him, and the heart to worship, she had a dignity rarely seen in young ladies. " Why rogue ?" he insisted with Mrs. Mountstuart. " I said — in porcelain," she replied. Tl' P. M | ' •• - • of honour." «• I of recti I mlo." .1 i in 1 bearing." '• The carriage of a young princess!" " | ■ ct." i she may be a dainty rogue in porcelain." yon judging by the mind or the person, ma'am ?" " i *' A : i which is w hich P" " distinction." 44 |; tid mistress ol Patteme do not go together." '•\. She will boa novelty to onr neighbourhood ami an animation of the Hall." igue d( ightly match with me." " Take ber for a supplement." 44 "t e her P" 41 in love with her! T can imagine life-long amusement in her company. Aim ml to my advice: prize the porcelain play with i be Sir Willonghby nodded nnilluminated. There was in himself, so there could be nothing of it in h Elfishness, tricksiness, freakishness, were ■ to his nature; and be argued that it was impossible lie should have chosen for his complement a deserving the title. It would not have been sane. guardian genius. His closer acquaintance with Miss Middleton squared with his first impressions; know thai this is convincing ; the common jury just dies ! the case to them by the grand jury ; and i conclusion, that she was essentially feminine, in other words, a pa and a chalice, Clara's conduct med ft . da to day. He began to instruct her in knowledge of bimsell withi nd she, as she I \\ itli him, became more reflective, by character," he said to Mrs. Mountfituart. u If you 1 the character of a girl," said she. 41 I think I am nol Far off it." • by the man who dived for the moon I." " 1 I i heir sex !" CLARA MIDDLETON. 4 1 •'Not a bit. She has no character yet. You are forming it, and pray be advised and be merry ; the solid is your safest guide ; physiognomy and manners will give you more of a girl's character than all the divings you can do. She is a charming young woman, only she is one of that sort." " Of what sort?" Sir Willoughby asked impatiently. " Rogues in porcelain." " I am persuaded I shall never comprehend it I" " I cannot help you one bit further." " The word rogue !" " It was dainty rogue." "Brittle, would you say?" " I am quite unable to say." " An innocent naughtiness ?" " Prettily moulded in a delicate substance." " You are thinking of some piece of Dresden you suppose her to resemble." "I daresay." " Artificial ?" "You would not have her natural ?" " I am heartily satisfied with her from head to foot, my dear Mrs. Mountstuart." " Nothing could be better. And sometimes she will lead, and generally you Avill lead, and everything will go well, my dear Sir Willoughby." Like all rapid phrasers, Mrs. Mountstuart detested the analysis of her sentence. It had an outline in vagueness, and was flung out to be apprehended, not dissected. Her directions for the reading of Miss Middleton's character were the same that she practised in reading Sir Wil- loughby 's, whose physiognomy and manners bespoke him what she presumed him to be, a splendidly proud gentle- man, with good reason. Mrs. Mountstuart's advice was wiser than her procedure, for she stopped short where he declined to begin. He dived below the surface without studying that index-page. He had won Miss Middleton's hand; he believed he had cap- tured her heart ; but he was not so certain of his possession of her soul, and he went after it. Our enamoured gentle- man had therefore no tally of Nature's writing above to set beside his discoveries in the deeps. Now it is a dan- gerous accompaniment of this habit of diving, that where TM 5T. the discoveries we anticipate, we fall to and planting; which becomes a disturbance ■ ,. Mi - Middleton's features were legible linspring of her character. He could have seen thai she had a spirit with a natural love of liberty, and thing i" liberty, spaciousness, if she was to own allegiance. Those features, unhappily, instead of an introduction to the within, were treated as mirror of himself. They were indeed of an amiable mpi an accepted lover to angle for the first in the second. Bui he had made the discovery that • iniiols differed on one or two points, and a difference of in his bride was obnoxious to his repose. He struck at ringly to show her error under various aspects. He her character to the feminine of his own, and betrayed the surprise of a slighl disappointment at her of her ideas. She immediately: "It is not ate, Willoughby," and wounded him, for he wanted her ply to I ial in his hands for him to mould her; he had no other thought. He lectured her on the theme of the infinity of love. How was it noi too late? They were 1; they were one eternally; they could not be She l gravely, conceiving the infinity as a dwelling where a voice droned and ceased not. How- r, she listened. She became an attentive listener. CHAPTER VI. HIS C0UB1 -llll'. The world was the principal topic of dissension between His opinion of the world affected her like a d with a deprivation of air. lie explained ■ thai lovers of necessity do loathe the world. ■i the world, they accepi its benefits, and assist it can. in their hearts they must despise it, ' their love for one another may pour in a and with all the force they have. They cau- rity for then- love unless they i on will allow, gross ; it is a HIS COURTSHIP. 43 beast. Formally we thank it for the good we get of it; ouly Ave two have an inner temple where the worship we conduct is actually, if you would but see it, an excommu- nication of the world. We abhor that beast to adore that divinity. This gives us our oneness, our isolation, our happiness. This is to love with the soul. Do you see, darling ? She shook her head; she could not see it. She would admit none of the notorious errors of the world ; its back- biting, selfishness, coarseness, intrusiveness, infectiousness. She was young. She might, "Willougdiby thought, have let herself be led : she was not docile. She must be up in arms as a champion of the world: and one saw she was hugging her dream of a romantic world, nothing else. She spoilt the secret bower-song he delighted to tell over to her. And how, Powers of Love ! is love-making to be pursued if we may not kick the world out of our bower and wash our hands of it ? Love that does not spurn the world when lovers curtain themselves is a love — is it not so ? — that seems to the unwhipped scoffing world to go slinking into basia- tion's obscurity, instead of on a glorious march behind the screen. Our hero had a strong sentiment as to the policy of scorning the world for the sake of defending his personal pride and (to his honour, be it said) his lady's delicacy. The act of scorning put them both above the world, said, retro Sathanas ! So much, as a piece of tactics : he was highly civilized : in the second instance, he knew it to be the world which must furnish the dry sticks for the bonfire of a woman's worship. He knew, too, that he was pre- scribing poetry to his betrothed, practicable poetry. She had a liking for poetry, and sometimes quoted, the stuff in deiiance of his pursed mouth and pained murmur : " I am no poet ;" but his poetry of the enclosed and fortified bower, without nonsensical rhymes to catch the ears of women, appeared incomprehensible to her, if not adverse. She would not burn the world for him; she would not, though a purer poetry is little imaginable, reduce herself to ashes, or incense, or essence, in honour of him, and so, by love's transmutation, literally "be the man she was to marry. She preferred to be herself, with the egoism of women ! She said it : she said : " I must be myself to be of any value to you, Willoughby." He was indefatigable in his lectures Til ■ I. quently, for an indemnification | thai she should be a loser \>y I, he dwell on his own youthful about i he world were pre- i he tin ■ e n well, fo ■ as sure thai ho well w hat was distasteful to her, what Bhe had merely noted : his vi - tholarship ; his manner ; Mi \ whom her father spoke rning I : nenl of a M iss tantia Durham sang He had no pi for the W"hitford wrote the letters to the • him applause at various great it, and betrayed a tingling flight I he •• i'-i in neer of the world he con- sting his remarks, her mind was afflicted al ' in him that we readily discover e ii" longer running free, and then at . on. She resolved that she bant day, provoke it- upon what? luded her. The world is too huge a potty, for a girl to defend i • ■ omething illogical ' had stirred her than h llect to revolt. She could not it'- of Mr. Whitl'ord. Still she ttation for an event to con M picturing Sir Willoughby's of his bride's decided disagreement picture i njured up would not be laid, rrectly handsome, that a slight un- ci him into caiicatnre. His habitual of hap] indignant contentment rather, could -<■. v. Inn he threw emphasis on •. it h the tall eyebrows of a mask — limit less ami in time, whenever she I be had that, and not his him. And it was unjust, contrary ebuked herself, and as much as • permitted, Bhe tried to look on him as the ■ it inducing :tions npon the blessings HIS courtship. 4a of ignorance. She seemed to herself beset by a circle of imps, hardly responsible for her thoughts. He outshone Mr. Whitford in his behaviour to young Crossjay. She had seen him with the boy, and he was amused, indulgent, almost frolicsome, in contradistinction to Mr. Whitford's tutorly sharpness. He had the English father's tone of a liberal allowance for boy's tastes and pranks, and he ministered to the partiality of the genus for pocket-money. He did not play the schoolmaster, like bookworms who get poor little lads in their grasp. Mr. Whitford avoided her very much. He came to Upton Park on a visit to her father, and she was not particularly sorry that she saw him only at table. tie treated her by fits to a level scrutiny of deep-set eyes un- pleasantly penetrating. She had liked his eyes. They became unbearable; they dwelt in the memory as if they had left a phosphorescent line. She had been taken by playmate boys in her infancy to peep into hedge-leaves, where the mother-bird brooded on the nest ; and the eyes of the bird in that marvellous dark thickset home, had sent her away with worlds of fancy. Mr. Whitford's gaze revived her susceptibility, but not the old happy wondering. She was glad of his absence, after a certain hour that she passed with Willoughby, a wretched hour to remember. Mr. Whitford had left, and Willoughby came, bringing bad news of his mother's health. Lady Patterne was fast fail- ing. Her son spoke of the loss she would be to him ; he spoke of the dreadfulness of death. He alluded to his own death to come, carelessly, with a philosophical air. " All of us must go ! our time is short." "Very," she assented. It sounded like want of feeling. " If you lose me, Clara !" " But you are strong, Willoughby." " I may be cut off to-morrow." "Do not talk in such a manner." " It is as well that it should be faced." "I cannot see what purpose it serves." *' Should vou lose me, my love !" " Willoughby !" " Oh, the bitter pang of leaving you !" "Dear Willoughby, }^ou are distressed ; your mother may TP 11; I u ill help to nurse her ; I I am n ady, most an I i w itli death. 1" i." '• •• ] meet again r" rorld and Bee yon perhaps .... with ?— Where? I i You ! my bride ; whom I -.-. .. i!.l be -till - in thai horror! >le ; women are women ; they swim in re to wave ! I know them." hby, do not torment yourself and me, I beg i profoundly, and asked lier: " Could you be ■ b aong women r •• 1 iliink I am a more than usually childish girl." ; me r" ■?" " I ?" " l ; -1 death ?" ■ tarried, I i liinlc." dedicate your life to onr love! Never one t not hi ■ - ii> >t ;i dream ! ( lould me to imagine .... be inviolate? mine .•ill men, though 1 am gone: — true to Till me. Give me thai assurance. True to my i hem. ' 1 1 i> relicl .' Buzzings about 'The widow.' if you knew their talk of Shut your ears, my angel I Bui if Bhe holds them her pat b, t bey ar< : jpeci her. The • the dishonoured wretch they I :• way. He lives in the heart 1 I ! as I live in youi s, w hether . wheth area wife or widow, there is no y it etei nally. 1 ij endure i he pain. I >i : HIS COURTSHIP. 47 yes ; I have cause to be. But it has haunted me ever since ■we joined hands. To have you — to lose you !" " Is it not possible that I may be the first to die ?" said Miss Middleton. " And lose you, with the thought that you, lovely as you are, and the dogs of the world barking' round you, might .... Is it any wonder that I have my feeling for the world ? This hand ! — the thought is horrible. You would be surrounded ; men are brutes ; the scent of unfaithfulness excites them, overjoys them. And I helpless ! The thought is maddening. I see a ring of monkeys grinning. There is your beauty, and man's delight in desecrating. You would be worried night and day to quit my name, to ... . I feel the blow now. You would have no rest for them, nothing to cling to without your oath." " An oath !" said Miss Middleton. " It is no delusion, my love, when I tell you that with this thought upon me I see a ring of monkey-faces grinning at me: they haunt me. But you do swear it! Once, and I will never trouble you on the subject again. My weakness ! if you like. You will learn that it is love, a man's love, stronger than death." " An oath ?" she said, and moved her lips to recall what she might have said and forgotten. "To what? what oath ?" " That you will be true to me dead as well as living ! Whisper it." " Willoughby, I shall be true to my vows at the altar." "Tome! me!" " It will be to you." " To my soul. No heaven enn be for me — I see none, only torture, unless I have your word, Clara. I trust it. I will trust it implicitly. My confidence in you is absolute." " Then you need not be troubled." " It is for you, my love ; chat you may be armed and strong when I am not by to protect you." " Our view r s of the world are opposed, "Willoughby." "Consent; gratify me; swear it. Say, 'Beyond denth.' Whisper it. I ask for nothing more. Women think the husband's grave breaks the bond, cuts the tie, sets them loose. They wed the flesh — pah ! What I call on you for is II! T. odanl nobility of faithfulni ond ■ /. : !' lei thorn sa.) ; in widowhood." • the altar must Buffi( Clara!" " I u." mple promise P But yon love me ?" " | -I vow t b( proof of it that 1 can." ler how utterly 1 place confidence in you." ;i is well placed.' ■ I could kneel to you, to worship you, if you would, I • Kneel to heaven, no! to me, Willonghby. I am ! jh I urn- able to tell what 1 am. 1 may be inconstant : I • no! know myself. Think; question yourself whether I ily tin- person you should marry. Your wife should qualities of mind and soul. I will consent to I do mil possess them, and abide by the verdict." •• Y-u do ; yon do possess them !" Willoughby cried. '• When you know better what the world is, you will under- uxiety. Alive, 1 am stro] bield you from it; 1. helpless thai is all. You would be clad in mail, , inviolable, if you would .... Hut try to enter ill; think with me, feel with me. When you ha\. comprehended the intensity of the love of a man a will not require asking. It is the difference of the the vulgar; of the ideal of love from the if the herds. We will let it drop. At least, I ir band. As long as I live 1 have your hand. Ought [not! tisfied P 1 am; only, 1 see farther than most men, and feel more deeply. And now I must ride to my er's bt She dies Lady Patterne ! It might have I she .... but she is a woman of women! With ther-in-law! Just heaven! Could I have stood by her then with the Bame feelings of reverence? A \rvy little, rerything gained Eor us by civilization crum- ' til back to the first mortar-bowl we were bruised •'""I hi. My thoughts, when 1 take my stand to watch •liision. that, especially in women, a i- the thing to be aimed at. Otherwise we are ; human i Women must teach us to venerate I be bleating and barking and bellow- i. You have but to think a little. I HIS COURTSHIP. 49 must be off. It may have happened during my .absence. I will write. I shall hear from you ? Come and see me mount Black Norman. My respects to your father. I have no time to pay them in person. One !" He took the one — love's mystical number — from which commonly spring multitudes; but, on the present occasion, it was a single one, and cold. She watched him riding away on his gallant horse, as handsome a cavalier as the world could show, and the contrast of his recent language and his fine figure was a riddle that froze her blood. Speech so foreign to her ears, unnatural in tone, unmanlike even for a lover (who is allowed a softer dialect) set her vainly sound- ing for the source aud drift of it. She was glad of not having to encounter eyes like Mr. Vernon Whitford's. On behalf of Sir Willoughby, it is to be said that his mother, without infringing on the degree of respect for his decisions and sentiments exacted by him, had talked to him of Miss Middleton, suggesting a volatility of temperament in the young lady, that struck him as consentaneous with Mrs. Mountstuart's ' rogue in porcelain,' and alarmed him as the independent observations of two world- wise women. Nor was it incumbent upon him personally to credit the volatility in order, as far as he could, to effect the soul- insurance of his bride, that he might hold the security of the policy. The desire for it was in him ; his mother had merely tolled a warning bell that he had put in motion before. Clara was not a Constantia. But she was a woman, and he had been deceived by women, as a man fostering his high ideal of them will surely be. The strain he adopted was quite natural to his passion and his theme. The language of the primitive sentiments of men is of the same expression at all times, minus the primitive colours when a modern gentleman addresses his lad}-. Lady Patterne died in the Winter season of the new year. In April Dr. Middleton had to quit Upton Park, and he had not found a place of residence, nor did he quite know what to do with himself in the prospect of his daughter's marriage and desertion of him. Sir Willoughby proposed to find him a house within a circuit of the neighbourhood of Patterne. Moreover, he invited the Rev. doctor and his daughter to come to Patterne from Upton for a month, and make ac- quaintance with his aunts, the ladies Eleanor and Isabel E 5<> TIP 9T. t might imt I. ■ i < ''.ii a to have ; ,• er her marriage. I >r. M iddlcton oinr (insult bis daughter before accepting the invita- 1 it appeared, when he did speak to her, that it ,1,1 ha\ i done. Bui she said mildly: "Very well, W Ho : : iiliv had to visit the metropolis and an estate intv. whence he wrote to his betrothed daily. He 1 to Patterne in time to arrange for the welcome i late, however, to ride over to them ; and, n while, during his absence, M iss Middleton had bethought herself that she ought to have given Iter last days of freedom to her friends. After the weeks to be passed at Patterne, very few weeks were left to her, and she had a wish to run - witzerland or Tyrol and see the Alps ; a quaint idea, her father thought. She repeated it seriously, and Dr. Middle- perceived a feminine shuttle of indecision at work in her d, frightful to him, considering that they signified hesi- m between the excellent library and capital wine-cellar ■ Hall, together with the society of that promising :holar Mr. Vernon Whitl'ord, on the one side, and a if hotels— equivalent to being rammed into monster llery with a crowd every night, and shot off on a day's journey through space every morning — on the other. •■ You will have your travelling and your Alps after the emony," he said. "I think I would rather stay at home," said she. Dr. Middleton rejoined: " / would." " Bui I am not married yet, papa." my dear." "A little change of scene, I thought . . . ." 'We have accepted Willoughby's invitation. And he hel] o a house near you." " You wish to be near me, papa?" • Proximate— at a remove: eommunicable." " Why should we separate ?" " For tie dear, that you exchange a father for a husband." "If I do not want to exchange ?" 'To • ,,u musi pay. my child. Husbands are hing." " No. But I should have you, papa !" THE BETROTHED. 51 " Should ?" " They have not yet parted its, dear papa." "What does that mean p" he asked fussily. He was in a gentle stew already, apprehensive of a disturbance of the serenity precious to scholars by postponements of the cere- mony, and a prolongation of a father's worries. " Oh, the common meaning, papa," she said, seeing how it was with him. "Ah," said he, nodding and blinking gradually back to a state of composure, glad to be appeased on any terms ; for mutability is but another name for the sex, and it is the enemy of the scholar. She suggested that two weeks at Patterne would offer plenty of time to inspect the empty houses of the district, and should be sufficient, considering the claims of friends, and the necessity for going the round of London shops. " Two or three weeks," he agreed hurriedly, by way of compromise with that fearful prospect. CHAPTER VII. THE BETROTHED. During the drive from Upton to Patterne, Miss Middleton hoped, she partly believed, that there was to be a change in Sir Willoughby's manner of courtship. He had been so different a wooer. She remembered with some half-conscious desperation of fervour what she had thought of him at his first approaches, and in accepting him. Had she seen him with the eyes of the world, thinking they were her own ? That look of his, the look of ' indignant contentment,' had then been a most noble conquering look, splendid as a general's plume at the gallop. It could not have altered. Was it that her eyes had altered ? The spirit of those days rose up within her to reproach her and whisper of their renewal : she remembered her rosy dreams and the image she had of him, her throbbing pride in him, her choking richness of happiness: and also her vain e2 THE I QOIST. attempting to be verj humble, usually ending in a caiol, t h. m t charm, bu< quaint, puzzling. Nom men whose incomes have been restricted to the extent must live "ii their capital, - row relieved of the forethoughtful anguish wasting them by the hilarious : the lap upon which they have sunk back, inSo- li that they are apl to solace themselves for their in- nticipations of famine in the household by giving ■ t.. one tit or more of.reckless lavishness. Lovers in like manner live on their capital from failure of income: ■ be sake of stifling apprehension and piping to • hour, are lavish of their stock, so as rapidly bo nuateit: they have their fits of intoxication in view of ling famine: they force memory into play, love retro- tively, rutcr the old house of the past and ravage the larder, and would gladly, even resolutely, continue in illusion were possible for the broadest honey-store of reminis- to hold out for a length of time against a mortal appetite : which in pood sooth stands on the alternative of a ption of the hive or of the creature it is for nourish- ing. Hen- do lovers show that they are perishable. More than the poor clay world they need fresh supplies, right ■me juices; as it were, life in the burst of the bud, fruits yet on the tree, rather than potted provender. The latter is excellent for by-and-by. when there will be a vast deal more to remember, and appetite shall have but one tooth lining. Should their minds perchance have been saturate. 1 heir firsl impressions and have retained them, loving by the accountable light of reason, they may have fair harvests, a> in the early time ; but that case is rare. In other words, is an affair of two, and is only for two that can be as quick, as constant in 'intercommunication as are sun and bh, through the cloud or face to face. They take their ith of life from one another in signs of affection, proofs aithfulness, incentives to admiration. Thus it is with men and women in love's good season. But a solitary soul _' a log, musl make the fog a God to rejoice in the len. That is no! love. was the least fitted of all women to drag a log. ould be so rapid in exhausting capital. She nine indeed, but she wanted comradeship, a living and ■■ exchange of the besj in both, with the deeper feelings THE BETROTHED. 53 untroubled. To be fixed at the mouth of a mine, and to have to descend it daily, and not to discover great opulence below; on the contrary, to be chilled in subterranean sunless- ness, "without any substantial quality that she could giasp, only the mystery of inefficient tallow-light in those caven s of the complacent talking man : this appeared to her too extreme a probation for two or three weeks. How of a life- time of it ! She was compelled by her nature to hope, expect, and believe that Sir Willoughby would again be the man she had known when she accepted him. Very singularly, to show her simple spirit at the time, she was unaware of any physical coldness to him ; s' e knew of nothing but her mind at work, objecting to this and that, desiring changes. She did not dream of being on the giddy ridge of the passive or negative sentiment of love, where one step to the wrong side precipitates us into the state of repulsion. Her eyes were lively at their meeting — so were his. She liked to see him on the steps, with young Crossjay under his arm. Sir "Willoughby told her in his pleasantest humour of the boy's having got into the laboratory that morning to escape his taskmaster, and blown out the windows. She administered a chiding to the delinquent in the same spirit, while Sir Willoughby led her on his arm across the thresh- old, whispering, " Soon for good !" In reply to the whisper, she begged for more of the story of young Crossjay. "Come into the laboratory," said he, a little less laughingly than softly ; and Clara begged her father to come and see young Crossjay's latest pranks. Sir Willoughby whispered to her of the length of their separation and his joy to welcome her to the house where she would reign as mistress very soon. He numbered the weeks. He whispered, " Come." In the hurry of the moment she did not examine a lightning terror that shot through her. It passed, and was no more than the shadow which bends the summer grasses, leaving a ruffle of her ideas, in wonder of her having feared herself for something. Her father was with them. She and Willoughby were not yet alone. Young Crossjay had not accomplished so fine a piece of destruction as Sir Willoughby's humour proclaimed of him. He had connected a battery with a train of gunpowder, shattering a window-frame and unsettling some bricks. Dr. TB Middle! • 'I if the youth was excluded f rom the library, , m ,l i to hear thai it was a sealed door to him. Thither Vernon Whitford was away on one of his long ks. "There, papa, you see he is not so very faithful to you," said Clara. Dr. Middleton stood frowning over MS. notes on the table, in Vernon's handwriting. He flung up the hair from his head and dropped into a seat to inspect them closely. Be was now immoveable. Clara was obliged to leave him there. She was led to think that Willoughby had drawn them to the binary with the design to be rid of her pro- r. and she began to fear him. She proposed to pay her ..is to the ladies Eleanor and [sabel. They were not d a footman reported in the drawing-room that they were out driving. She grasped young Crossjay's hand. Sir Willoughby despatched him to Mrs. Montague, the house- per, for a tea of cakes and jam. " i Iff !" he said, and the boy had to run. Clara saw herself without a shield. And the garden!" she cried. "I love the garden; I must go and see what flowers are up with you. In Spring I care most for wild flowers, and if you will show me daffodils, and crocuses, and anemones . . . ." Clara! my bride !" said he. " Because they are vulgar flowers?" she asked him art- lessly, to account for his detaining her. Why would he not wait to deserve her! — no, not deserve — to reconcile her with her real position; not reconcile, but pair the image of him in her mind, before he claimed his apparent rigid ! tie did not wait. He pressed her to his bosom. ' Von are mine, my Clara utterly mine; every thought, Qg. We are one: the world may do its worst. I have been Longing for you, looking forward. You save me a thousand vexations. One is perpetually crossed. Thar, 11 outside us. Wetwol W it h you I am secure ! Soon! tell von whether the world's alive or dead. My i of it with the sensations of the frightened • dip in sea-water, sharpened to think •I- all it was n t so -e. re a trial. Such was her THE is: TKOTHED. 55 idea ; and she said to herself immediately : "What am I that I should complain ? Two minutes earlier she would not have thought it ; but humiliated pride falls lower than hum- bleness. She did not blame him ; she fell in her own esteem ; less because she was the betrothed Clara Middleton, which was now palpable as a shot in the breast of a bird, than that she was a captured woman, of whom it is absolutely expected that she must submit, and when she would rather be gazing at flowers. Clara had shame of her sex. They cannot take a step without becoming bondwomen ; into what a slavery ! For herself, her trial was over, she thought. As for herself, she merely complained of a prematureness and crudity best unanalyzed. In truth, she could hardly be said to complain. She did but criticize him and wonder that a man was unable to perceive, or was not arrested by perceiving, unwilling- ness, discordance, dull compliance ; the bondwoman's due instead of the bride's consent. Oh, sharp distinction, as between two spheres ! She meted him justice ; she admitted that he had spoken in a lover-like tone. Had it not been for the iteration of ' the world,' she would not have objected critically to his words, though they were words of downright appropriation. He had the right to use them, since she was to be married to him. But if he had only waited before playing the pri- vileged lover ! Sir Willoughby was enraptured with her. Even so purely coldly, statue-like, Dian-like, would he have pre- scribed his bride's reception of his caress. The suffusion of crimson coming over her subsequently, showing her divinely feminine in reflective bashfulness, agreed with his highest definitions of female character. " Let me conduct you to the garden, my love," he said. She replied, " I think I would rather go to my room." " I will send you a wild-flower posy." " Flowers, no ; I do not like them to be gathered." "I will wait for you on the lawn." " My head is rather heavy." His deep concern and tenderness brought him close. She assured him sparklingly that she was we'l : she was ready to accompany him to the garden and stroll over the park. ti; •• 1 ' lid. I t.. pav the fee for inviting a solicitous ■t leman a proximity. blamed herself and him, and the world he ■ • y into the bargain. And she cared less on; I >u t Bhe craved for liberty. With a tonished ber, she marvelled al tin- acl of I .it the obligation it forced upon an inanimate ■I accomplice. Why was she not freer By whal right was it that she was treated as a pos- •• I will try to walk off the heaviness," she said. " M own girl must not fatigue herself." "I >b, no; I shall ^ir with me STonr VTilloughby is your devoted at- I ." •• I I j .- 1 \ e a desire for the air." •" Then we will walk i I is horrified to think how far she had drawn away i him. ami now placed her hand on his arm to app< -accusations and propitiate duty. He Bpoke as she wished ; his manner was what she had wished ; she was dmosl bis wife; her conduct was a kind of mad- he could not understand it. 36 and duty counselled her to control her way- : spirit. IN- fondled her hand, and to that she grew accustomed; her hand was al a distance. And what is a hand? Leaving -. she treated it as a link between herself and dutiful goodness. Two months hence she was a bondwoman if e ! She regretted that Bhe had not gone to her room ngthen herself with a review of her situation, and I him thoroughly resigned to her fair, she fancied Bhe would have come down to him amicably. Tt was his pre- - and easj conversation that tricked her ■ith the fanCV. Five weeks of perfect III • r ;. in the mountains, she thought, would have prepared hells. All that she required was a ring new 3, where she might reflect • again. I !•■ h d ber about the flower-beds ; too much as it he were a ' an airing. She chafi d at it. and THE BETROTHED. 57 pricked herself with remorse. In contrition she expatiated on ihe beauty of the garden. " All is yours, my Clara." An oppressive load it seemed to her ! She passively yielded to the man in his form of attentive courtier; his mansion, estates, and wealth overwhelmed her. They sug- gested the price to be paid. Yet she recollected that on her last departure through the park she had been proud of the rolling green and spreading trees. Poison of some sort must be operating in her. She had not come to him to-day with this feeling of sullen antagonism; she had caught it here. " You have been well, my Clara ?" "Quite."' " Not a hint of illness ?" "None." " My bride must have her health if all the doctors in the kingdom die for it! My darling!" " And tell me : the dogs ?" " Dogs and horses are in very good condition." " I am glad. Do you know, I love those ancient French chateaux and farms in one, where salon windows look on poultry-yard and stalls. I like that homeliness with beasts and peasants." He bowed indulgently. " I am afraid we can't do it for yon in England, my Clara." " No." " And I like the farm," said he. " But I think our draw- ing-rooms have a better atmosphere off the garden. As to our peasantry, we cannot, I apprehend, modify our class demarcations without risk of disintegrating the social struc- ture." " Perhaps. I proposed nothing." " My love, I would entreat you to propose, if I were con- vinced that I could obey." " You are very good." " I find my merit nowhere but in your satisfaction." Although she was not thirsting for dulcet sayings, the peacet'ulness of other than invitations to the exposition of his mysteries and of their isolation in oneness, inspired her with such calm that she beat about in her brain, as if it ■1 hi: egoist. lit- for the specific injury he had committed. i ?ation, the yoting, whom impel and distract, can rarely date their dis- from a particular one; unless it be some great that 1 1 -• i -- been done: and Clara bad not felt an •lie iii his caress; the shame of her sex was ng protest that left ao stamp. So she conceived I been behaving cruelly, and said: " "Willoughby ;" she was aware of the omission of his name in her j • marks. attention was given to her. She had to invent the Beqnei: "I was going to beg yon, Willoughby, do not seek to spoil me. You compliment me. i pliments are not suited to me. You think too highly of marly ;is bad as to be slighted. 1 am .... 1 am a . . . ." But she could not follow his example: even as he had gone, her prim In tie sketch of herself, set real, ugly, earnest feelings, rang of a mincing ;v. an> I was a step in falseness. How could she »lay W hat -he W;i - '• Do 1 not know your" he said. Tin- melodious bass notes, expressive of conviction on that a- will as the words, that no answer was the • r. She could not dissent without turning his rd, his complacency to amazement. She held I knowing that he did not know her, and specu- division male hare by their degrees of the : a deep cleft. He alluded to friends in her neighbourhood and his own. The bridesmaids were mentioned. i will hear from my aunt Eleanor, declines, the plea of indifferent health. She is rather a morbid with all her really estimable qualities. It will do no harm !•. have none but young ladies of your own age; a I ang buds: though one blowing flower among n However, Bhe has decided. My principal am Vernon's refusal to act as my best man." Mr. W hit bud refu "H< ha! I do not take no from him. His pretext i to t he ceremoi '" I it with him.*" oipathizc with you. If we might Bay the words and THE BETROTHED. 59 pass from sight! There is a way of cutting off the world: I have it at times completely : I lose it again, as if it were a cabalistic phrase one had to utter. But with you ! You give it me for good. It will be for ever, eternally, my Clara. Nothing can harm, nothing touch us; we are one another's. Let the world fight it out : we have nothing to do with it." " If Mr. Whitford should persist in refusing ?" " So entirely one, that there never can be question of external influences. I am, we will say, riding home from the hunt : I see you awaiting me : I read your heart as though you were beside me. And I know that I am coming to the one who reads mine ! You have me, you have me like an open book, you, and only you !" " 1 am to be always at home ?" Clara said, unheeded, and relieved by his not hearing. " Have you realized it ? — that we are invulnerable ! The world cannot hurt us : it cannot touch us. Felicity is ours, and we are impervious in the enjoyment of it. Something divine ! surely something divine on earth ? Clara ! — being to one another that between which the world can never inter- pose ! What I do is right : what you do is right. Perfect to one another ! Each new day we rise to study and delight in new secrets. Away with the crowd ! We have not even to say it ; we are in an atmosphere where the world cannot breathe." " the world !" Clara partly carolled on a sigh that sank deep. Hearing him talk as one exulting on the mountain top, when she knew him to be in the abyss, was very strange, provocative of scorn. "My letters ?" he said incitingly. " I read them." " Circumstances have imposed a long courtship on us, my Clara: and I, perhaps lamenting the laws of decorum — I have doue so ! — still felt the benefit of the gradual initiation. It is not good for women to be surprised by a sudden revela- tion of man's character. We also have things to learn : — there is matter for learning everywhere. Some day you will tell me the difference of what you think of me now, from what you thought when we first ....?" An impulse of double-minded acquiescence caused Clara to stammer as on a sob : •in T. •11 I -li.-ill.'* SI " If it is l Tl ; ..ut. •• Why do yon attack the world? me pity it." II i :ii her youthful] "I have passed through It leads to my sentiment. Pity it, by all • but pity it. Bide with it, not consider it >,. l The world lias faults; glaciers have crew have chasms ; but is not the effect of the whole sublime? not t.. :i Imire the mountain and the glacier because ;i be cruel, seems to me .... And the world is it il'ul." •' The world of nature, yes. The world of men ?" - V lv love, I -aspect you to be thinking of the world of ball- •• I am thinking of the worl I that contains real and great jjty, true heroism. We see it round us." •' We read of it. The world of the romance-writer!" M No: tlic living world. I am >u re it is our duty to love ire we weaken ourselves if we do not. If I did I should be looking on mist, hearing a perpetual boom of music. I remember hearing Mr. Whitford say th.it cynicism is intellectual dandyism without the coxcomb's '■r-; and it seems to me that eynics are only happy in making the world as barren to others us they have made it for themselvi - "Old Vernon!" ejaculated Sir Willoughby, with a coun- oce rather uneasy, as if it had been flicked with a glove. '■ He strings bis phrases by the dozen." ' Pa] tradicts that, and says he is very clever and . Bimpli "As t" cynics, my dear Clara, oh! certainly, certainly: you are right. They are laughable, contemptible. But understand me, I mean, we cannot feel, or if we feel we • so intensely feel, our oneness, except by dividing oil! Erom I he world." " Is it an an "If you like It is our poetry! But does not love shun the world p Two that love must have their substance in ■u." THE BETROTHED. 61 " No: they will be eating themselves up." " The purer the beauty, the more it will be out of the world." " But not opposed." "Put it in this way," Willoughby condescended. "Has experience the same opinion of the world as ignorance ?" " It should have more charity." " Does virtue feel at home in the world ?" " Where it should be an example, to my idea." " Is the world agreeable to holiness V" " Then, are you in favour of monasteries ?" He poured a little runlet of half-laughter over her head, of the sound assumed by genial compassion. It is irritating to hear that when we imagine we have spoken to the point. " Now in my letters, Clara . . . ." " I have no memory, Willoughby!" " You will however have observed that I am not com- pletely myself in my letters . . . ." " In your letters to men, you may be." The remark threw a pause across his thoughts. He was of a sensitiveness terribly tender. A single stroke on it reverberated swellingly within the man, and most, and in- furiately searching, at the spots where he had been wounded, especially where he feared the world might have guessed the wound. Did she imply that he had no hand for love-letters ? Was it her meaning that women would not have much taste for his epistolary correspondence ? She had spoken in the ' plural, with an accent on " men." Had she heard of Con- stantia ? Had she formed her own judgement about the creature? The supernatural sensitiveness of Sir Willoughby shrieked a peal of affirmatives. He had often meditated on the moral obligation of his unfolding to Clara the whole truth of his conduct to Constantia ; for whom, as for other suicides, there were excuses. He at least was bound to supply them. She had behaved badly ; but had he not given her some cause ? If so, manliness was bound to confess it. Supposing Clara heard the world's version first ! Men whose pride is their backbone suffer convulsions where other men are barely aware of a shock, and Sir Willoughby was taken with galvanic jumpings of the spirit within him, at Til lea of the world whispering bo Clara that he had been jilt •• M\ men, yen Bay, my Love P" •• "> our In ters of busine lompletely myself in my letters of business P" He ed. She relaxed the tension of his figure by remarking : " Ton kble to express yourself to men as your meaning dic- ln writing to ... . to us it is, I suppose, moro difficult." •• True, my lore. I will not exactly say difficult. I can acknowledge no difficulty. Language, I should .say, is not fitted to express emotion. Passion rejects it." •■ For dumb-show and pantomime?" "N»: Inn the writing of it coldly." " Ah, coldly!" " My letters disappoint you P" " I bare not Implied that they do." M My feelings, dearest, are too strong for transcription. I feel, pen in hand, like the mythological Titan at war with Jove, strong enough to hurl mountains, an 1 finding nothing but pebbles. The simile is a good one. You must not judge ot me by my \ei tors." I do not; I like them," said Clara. She blushed, eyed him hurriedly, and seeing him com- placent, resumed: "I prefer the pebble to the mountain; if you read poetry you would not think human speech ile of . . . ." •• My hive. I detesl artifice. Poetry is a profession." M Our poets would, prove to yon . . . ." "As I have often observed, Clara. I am no poet." " I have nol accused you, Willoughby." " N" | t, and with no wish to he a poet. Were I one, mv life would supply material, I can assure you, my love. .'I no; entirely at refit. Perhaps the heaviest i troubling it is thai in which I was least wilfully guilty. Yon h ive heard of a Mist D irham?" "■ 1 have hi ard yes of her." may be happy. I trust she is. If she is not, I le blame. An instance of the difference [f and the world, now. The world charges it up ui her. I have i:. .1 to exonerate her." TnK BETROTHED. G3 " That was generous, Willoughby." " Stay. I fear I was the primary offender. Bat I, Clara, I, under a sense of honour, acting under a sense of honour, would have carried my engagement through." " What had you done ?" " The story is long, dating from an early day, in the ' downy antiquity of my youth,' as Vernon says." " Mr. Whitfor'd says that ?" " One of old Vernon's odd sayings. It's a story of an early fascination." " Papa tells me Mr. Whitford speaks at times with wise humour." " Family considerations — the lady's health among other things ; her position in the calculations of relatives — inter- vened. Still there was the fascination. I have to own it. Grounds for feminine jealousy." " Is it at an end ?" " Now ? with you ? my darling Clara ! indeed at an end, or could I have opened my inmost heart to you ! Could I have spoken of myself so unreservedly that in part you know me as I know myself ! Oh ! but would it have been possible to enclose you with myself in that intimate union ? so secret, unassailable !" " You did not speak to her as you speak to me ?" " In no degree." " What could have ! . . ." Clara checked the murmured exclamation. Sir Willoughby 's expoundings on his latest of texts would have poured forth, had not a footman stepped across the lawn to inform him that his builder was in the laboratory and requested permission to consult with him. Clara's plea of a horror of a talk of bricks and joists excused her from accompanying him. He had hardly been satisfied by her manner, he knew not why. He left her, convinced that he must do and say more to reach down to her female intelligence. She saw young Crossjay, springing with pots of jam in him, join his patron at a bound, and taking a lift of arms, fly aloft, clapping heels. Her reflections were confused. Sir Willoughby was admirable with the lad. "Is he two men ?" she thought : and the thought ensued : " Am I unjust r" She headed a run with young Crossjay to divert her mind. ill Tli T. CnAPTEK VIII. ▲ RCN WITH TIM. TED ANT: A WALK WITH THE MASTER. Ti of Miss Middleton running inflamed young with the passion of tin' game of hare and hounds. He shouted a view-halloo, and flung up his legs. She was lie ran as though a hundred little feet were bearing her onward sn tli as water over the lawn and the sweeps of the park, SO swiftly did the hidden pair multiply another to speed her. So sweet was she in her flowing : , tli it the boy, as became his age, translated admiration into a doirged frenzy of pursuit, and continued pounding alone;, when Ear outstripped, determined to run her down or die. Suddenly her flight wound to an end in a dozen twitter- ing Bteps, and she sank. Young Crossjay attained her, with just breath enough to say: " You are a runner!" " I forgot you had been having your tea, my poor boy," 6aid she. " And you don't pant a bit!" was his encomium. " Dear me, no ; not more than a bird. You might as well try t<> catch a bird." Young Crossjay gave a knowing nod. "Wait till I get my second wind." STow you must confess that girls run faster than boys." " They may at the start." " They do everything better." " They're flash-in-the-pans." " They learn their lessons." " You can't make soldiers or sailors of them, though.*' "And that is untrue. Have you never read of "Mary tree? and Mistress Hannah Snell of Pondicherry ? And there was the bride of the celebrated William Taylor. And ■ do you >.i\ to Joan of Arc? What do you sav to 1 snppose vnit have never heard of the Amazons." - They weren't English." ' Then, it is yonr own country worn n you decry, sir!" Young Cr betrayed anxiety about his false position, and begged for the stories of Mary Ambree and the others were Encd i h. A RUN WITH TIIE TRUANT. 65 " See, yon will not read for yourself, you liide and play truant with Mr. Whitford, and the consequence is you are ignorant of your country's history !" Miss Middleton re- buked him, enjoying his wriggle between a perception of her fun and an acknowledgement of his peccancy. She com- manded him to tell her which was the glorious Valentine's day of our naval annals ; the name of the hero of the day, and the name of his ship. To these questions his answers were as ready as the guns of the good ship Captain for the Spanish four-decker. " And that you owe to Mr. Whitford," said Miss Middle- ton. " He bought me the books," young Crossjay growled, and plucked at grass-blades and bit them, foreseeing dimly but certainly the termination of all this. Miss Middleton lay back on the grass, and said: " Are you going to be fond of me, Crossjay ?" The boy sat blinking. His desire was to prove to her that he was immoderately fond of her already ; and he might have tlown at her neck had she been sitting up, but her recumbency and eyelids half closed excited wonder in him and awe. His young heart beat fast. " Because, my dear boy," she said, leaning on her elbow, "you are a very nice boy, but an ungrateful boy, and there is no telling whether you will not punish any one who cares for you. Come along with me ; pluck me some of these cow- slips, and the speedwells near them ; I think we both love wild-flowers." She rose and took his arm. "You shall row me on the lake while I talk to you seriously." It was she, however, who took the sculls at the boathouse, for she had been a playfellow with boys, and knew that one of them engaged in a manly exercise is not likely to listen to a woman. "Now, Crossjay," she said. Dense gloom overcame him like a cowl. She bent across her hands to laugh. "As if I were going to lecture you, you silly boy !" He began to brighten dubiously. "I used to be as fond of birdsnesting as you are. I like brave boys, and I like you for wanting to enter the royal navy. Only, how can you if you do not learn ? You must get the captains to pass you, you know. Somebody spoils you : Miss Dale or Mr. Whitford." " Do they !" sang out young Crossjay V MM I Willoughby di " l don't know about spoil. I can come round him." *• | ire be is very kind to you, I daresay yon think : -,| rat] Y"u Bbould remember he baa . that you may pass for the navy. Sou must e he mi m work. Supposing you iraelf ap to-daj ! ion would have thought it better to have been working with Mr. Whitford." Sir Willonghbj when he's married, yon won't let bide." \h! It is wrong to pet a big boy like you. Does not. he w hat yon call tip you, < !roa jaj "Generally half-crown pieces. I've had a crown-piece. l'\ e had si as." "Ai I for that yon do as he bids yon? and he indulges yon I"- "i Well, but though .Mr. Whitford on money, he gives yon his time, he tries to •■I into the na\ ••|| pa b for in* M What do yon say P" p. And, as for liking him, if he were ;it the bottom of the water here, I'd go down alter him. I mean to learn. We're both of us lure at sis o'clock in the morn- ing, when it's light, and have a swim. He taught me. Only, I never cared for school-books." • \re you quite certain that Mr. Whitford pays for yon?" "My taller told me lie did, and I must obey him. He heard my father was pom-, with ;i family. He went down iy father. My f athei came here once, and Sir Wil- ;hWy wouldn't see him. I know Mr. Whitford docs. Ami Miss Dale told me he did. Mv mother savs she thinks ho - it to make up to us for my father's long walk in the a and the e .Id he caught coming heir to Patterne." you should not ve\ him, 0ro88Jay. Be is a good friend to your father and to you. You ought to love him." '■ I like him, and f like bis face." "Why hia face?" " I' - riot like those faces! Miss Hale and f talk about him. She think- that Sir Willoughby is the best-looking i born." " Were you not speaking of Mr. Whitford P" A RUN WITH THE TRUANT. 07 " Yes ; old Vernon. That's what Sir Willoughby calls him," young Crossjay excused himself to her look of surprise. " Do you know what he makes me think of ? — his eyes, I mean. He makes me think of Robinson Crusoe's old goat in the cavern. I like him because he's always the same, and you're not positive about some people. Miss Middleton, if you look on at cricket, in comes a safe man for ten runs, lie may get more, and he never gets less ; and you should hear the old farmers talk of him in the booth. That's just my feeling." Miss Middleton understood that some illustration from the cricketing-field was intended to throw light on the boy's feel- ing for Mr. Whitford. Young Crossjay was evidently warm- ing to speak from his heart. But the sun was low, she hud to dress for the dinner- table, and she landed him with regret, as at a holiday over. Before they parted, he offered to swim across the lake in his clothes, or dive to the bed for anything she pleased to throw, declaring solemnly that it should not be lost. She walked back at a slow pace, and sang to herself above her darker-flowing thoughts, like the reed-warbler on the biauch beside the night-stream ; a simple song of a light- hearted sound, independent of the shifting black and grey of the flood underneath. A step was at her heels. " I see you have been petting my scapegrace." " Mr. Whitford ! Yes ; not petting, I hope. I tried to give him a lecture. He's a dear lad, but, I fancy, trying." She was in fine sunset colour, unable to arrest the mount- ing tide. She had been rowing, she said; and, as he directed his eyes, according to his wont, penetratingly, she defended herself by fixing her mind on Robinson Crusoe's old goat in the recess of the cavern. " I must have him away from here very soon," said Vernon. " Here he's quite spoilt. Speak of him to Willoughby. I can't guess at his ideas of the boy's future, but the chance of passing for the navy won't bear trifling with, and if ever there was a lad made for the navy, it's Crossjay." The incident of the explosion in the laboratory was new to Vernon. " And Willoughby laughed ?" he said. " There are sea- port crammers who stuff young fellows for examination, and F2 Ill re ♦" pack off tii-' boy al once to Hie be I one of | I would ral her have had him under me to the last three months, and have made sure of some what is knocked into his head. Bui he's ruined here. And I amgoinf S [shall not trouble him for man y wei I »r. Middleton i- well! "My father is well, yes. Ho pounced like a falcon on in t he library." \ i in. m came oul with a chuckle. "Thej were left to attract him. I am in for a contro- •• Papa will 7i"t sparr \i.ii. in judge from his look." M I know t he lool '• I l.i . e you walked far to-day '• Nine and a half limns. My Flibbertigibbet is too much f or 1 and ] had to walk off my temper." She casl her eyes <>n him, thinking of the pleasure of dealing with a temper honestly coltish, and manfully open 1 a Rpecitic. ■•All t hose hours were required ?" • •! quite so long." '■ You arc training for your Alpine tour." " It's doubtful whether I shall get to the Alps this year. I leave the Hall, ami shall probably bo in London with a ]>"ii to Bell." ■■ Willoughbj knows thai you leave him p" •• As much as Mont Blanc knows thai he is going to be climbed by a party below. He sees a speck or two in the " He 1 be poken of it." " He would attribute il to changes . . . ." imii did nut conclude t he sentence. She became breathless, without emotion, but checked by the barrier confronting an impulse to ask, what changes? Shi d to pluck a cowslip. I aw daffodils lower down the park," she said. "One or t ■ o ; 1 hi ;. i e marly over." " W< ll-off for wild flower- here," he answered. " I' him, Mr. Whitford." " He will not want me." " V' □ are deroti 'I to him." "1 can'1 pretend thai " A RUN WITH THE TRUANT. C9 " Thon it is the changes you imagine you foresee . . ,. . ? ff any occur, why should they drive you away r" " Well, I'm two and thirty, and have never been in the fray : a kind of nondescript, half-scholar, and by nature half billman or bowman or musketeer; if I'm worth anything, London's the field for me. But that's what I have to try." " Papa will not like your serving with your pen in London : he will say you are worth too much for that." " Good men are at it ; I should not care to be ranked above them." " They are wasted, he says." " Error ! If they have their private ambition, they may suppose they are wasted. But the value to the world of a private ambition I do not clearly understand." " You have not an evil opinion of the world ?" said Miss Middleton, sick at heart as she spoke, with the sensation of having invited herself to take a drop of poison. He replied : " One might as well have an evil opinion of a river : here it's muddy, there it's clear ; one day troubled, another at rest. We have to treat it with common sense." " Love it ?" " In the sense of serving it." " Not think it beautiful ?" " Part of it is, part of it the reverse." " Papa would quote the ' mulier formosa.' " " Except that ' fish ' is too good for the black extremity. ' Woman ' is excellent for the upper." " How do you say that ? — not cynically, I believe. Your view commends itself to my leison." She was grateful to him for not stating it in ideal con- trast with Sir Willoughby's view. If he had, so intensely did her youthful blood desire to be enamoured of the world, that she felt he would have lifted her off her feet. For a moment a gulf beneath had been threatening. When she said, " Love it ?" a little enthusiasm would have wafted her into space fierily as wine ; but the sober, " In the sense of serving it," entered her brain, and was matter for reflection upon it and him. She could think of him in pleasant liberty, uncorrected by her woman's instinct of peril. He had neither arts nor graces ; nothing of his cousin's easy social front-face. She had once witnessed the military precision of his dancing, II T. iiim In!' | to pray t hat the victim nt it as Ins partner. He illv. his pedestrian rigour being famous, hut - i .in- who walks away From the sex, aol excelling in i as when nun and women join hands. Be i a n rit her. Sir Willoughby enjoj ed ■ hi horseback. And he could scarcely he said to a a drawing-room, nnless when seated besides pe .; talk. M more than liis merits, liis erits pointed him out as a man to l>" a friend to a young an who wantt Sis way <>f life pictured to her piril an enviable smoothness: and bis having ih way sin- considered a sign of strength; 1 to lean in idea upon Borne friendly strength. i- indifference to the frivolous charms <>f ithed hiin with a noble coldness, and gave him the ■ n solitary iceberg in Southern wal The popular notion of hereditary titled aristocracy resembles her For a man thai would not flatter and could not be Battered b) her Bex: he appeared superior almost to young, lint she had received much il she had been Bnared ; and he, bs or to cast a thought appeared to her to have a pride founded on ■ ■i for a while, when Vernon said ly : "The boy's future rather depends on you, M I mean to have as soon as possible, and I do like h without me, though you will look ■ 1" i tii. I have no doubt. Bui you maj not at first where the spoiling hurts him. He should be packed off at . before you are Lady Patterne. Dse Willoughby will Buppori the lad at your osi cannol be great. There are Btrong linrt my having him in London, even if I could on Mm r" it: I will do my best," said Miss Mid- dle 1. In- lawn, where Sir Willoughby was - Eleanor and Isabel, Ins maiden A EON WITH THE TRUANT. 71 " You seem to have coursed the hare and captured the hart :" he said to his bride. " Started the truant and run down the paedagogue," said Vernon. " Ay, you won't listen to me about the management of that boy," Sir Willoughby retorted. The ladies embraced Miss Middleton. One offered up an ejaculation in eulogy of her looks, the other of her health- fulness : then both remarked that with indulgence young Crossjay could be induced to do anything. Clara wondered whether inclination or Sir Willoughby had disciplined their individuality out of them and made them his shadows, his echoes. She gazed from them to him, and feared him. But as yet she had not experienced the power in him which could threaten and wrestle to subject the members of his household to the state of satellites. Though she had in fact been giving battle to it for several months, she had held her own too well to perceive definitely the character of the spirit opposing her. She said to the ladies : " Ah, no ! Mr. Whitford has chosen the only method for teaching a boy like Crossjay." " I propose to make a man of him," said Sir Willoughby. " What is to become of him if he learns nothing ?" " If he pleases me, he will be provided for. I have never abandoned a dependant." Clara let her eyes rest on his, and without turning or dropping, shut them. The effect was discomforting to him. He was very sensi- tive to the intentions of eyes and tones ; which was one secret of his rigid grasp of the dwellers in his household. They were taught that they had to render agreement under sharp scrutiny. Studious eyes, devoid of warmth, devoid of the shyness of sex, that suddenly closed on their look, signified a want of comprehension of some kind, it might be hostility of understanding. Was it possible he did not possess her utterly ? He frowned up. Clara saw the lift of his brows, and thought : " My mind is my own, married or not." It was the point in dispute. 7j Tin: BG01 r. CHAPTER IX. OLARi AND I. 1 UNA MEET: III IV ABE COMPARED. . hour before the time for Lessons next morning 1 young ,■ was on the lawn with a big bunch of wild-flowers. He left them at the Hall-door for .Miss Middleton, and vanished into bush These vulgar weeds were about to be dismissed to the dust-heap by the great officials of the household; but as it happened thai Miss Middleton had seen them from the window in Crossjay's hands, the discovery was made that they were indeed his presentation-bouquet, and a footman ived orders to place them before her. She was very pleased. The arrangement of the flowers bore witness to fairer fingers than the boy's own in the disposition of the %a of colour, red campion and anemone, cowslip and Lwell, primroses and wood-hyacinths; and rising out • •t the blue was a branch bearing thick "white blossom, so thick, and of so pure a whiteness, that Miss Middleton, while praising Crossjay for soliciting the aid of Miss Dale, ■\\ as at a loss to name tin tree. " It is a gardener's improvement on the Vestal of the -t, the wild cherry," said Dr. Middleton, " and in this case we may admit the gardener's claim to be valid, though I believe that, with his n Clara was to render her dis- :■ later antagonism. She had unknowingly into the spirit of .Miss Dale, Sir Willoughby aiding; mpathize with the view of his constant him so cordially and smoothly gay; as ■ rally witty, the m kblc form of CLARA AND L&TITIA MEET. 77 mfe. Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson discerned that he had a leg of physical perfection; Miss Dale distinguished it in him in the vital essence ; and before either of these ladies he was not simply a radiant, he was a productive creature, so true it is that praise is our fructifying sun. He had even a touch of the romantic air which Clara remembered as her first im- pression of the favourite of the county: and strange she found it to observe this resuscitated idea confrontiug her expe- rience. What if she had been captious, inconsiderate ? O blissful revival of the sense of peace ! The happiness of pain departing was all that she looked for, and her conception of liberty was to learn to love her chains, provided tnat he would spare her the caress. In this mood she sternly con- demned Constantia. ' We must try to do good ; we must not be thinking of ourselves ; we must make the best of our path in life.' She revolved these infantile precepts with humble earnestness ; and not to be tardy in her striving to do good, with a remote but pleasurable glimpse of Mr. Whitford hear- ing of it, she took the opportunity to speak to Sir Willoughby on the subject of young Crossjay, at a moment when, alight- ing from horseback, he had shown himself to advantage among a gallant cantering company. He showed to great advantage on horseback among men, being invariably the best mouni ed, and he had a cavalierly style, possibly culti- vated, but effective. On foot his raised head and half- dropped eyelids too palpably assumed superiority. " Wil- loughby, I want to speak," she said, and shrank as she spoke, lest he should immediately grant everything in the mood of courtship, and invade her respite ; " I want to speak of that dear boy Crossjay. Tou are fond of him. He is rather an idle boy here, and wasting time . . . ." " Now you are here, and when you are here for good, my love, for good . . . ." he fluted away in loverliness, forgetful of Crossjay, whom he presently took up. " The boy recog- nizes his most sovereign lady, and will do your bidding, though you should order him to learn his lessons ! Who would not obey ? Tour beauty alone commands. But what is there beyond ? — a grace, a hue divine, that sets you not so much above as apart, severed from the world." Clara produced an active smile in duty, and pursued : " If Crossjay were sent at once to some house where men prepare boys to pass for the navy, he would have his chance, and •Mil' I i, Uis father is a brave ■ Im -:i\ cry, and be hag a pa sion for a .lv he mnsl be able to pass his examination, ■ : mncfa i ime." :i Blighl langb in Bad amusement. \ on adore t he world ; and I sup;, i e yon learn thai there is no! a question in tins wrangling i which we have no! disputes and contests ad I have my notions concerning Crossjay, Vernon I Bhould wish to make a gentleman of him. in nks him for a sailor. But Vernon is the lad's t. I am not. Vernon took him from his father to instruct him, and he lias ;t right to say what shall be done with him. 1 do not interfere. Only J can't prevent the lad liking me. <>M Vernori seems to feel it. I assure you I bold entirely aloof. If I am asked, in spite of my dis- d of Vernon's plans for the boy, to subscribe to his departure, I can bu1 Bhrug, because, as yon see, I have never opp i. Old Vernon pays for him, he is the master, he 1 ay is blown from the mast-head in a b aine does not full on me. These, my dear, are ■ •■ I would not venture to intrude on them," said Clara, "if I had nol Buspected t nut money . . . ." "Yes," cried Willoughby; "and it is a part. And lot old Vernon surrender the boy to me, I will immediately him of the burden on his purse. Can I do that, my • :■ the furtherance of a scheme I condemn? The latterly 1 have invited Captain Patterne to jusi previous to his departure for the African 1 rnment despatches Marines when there is •her way of killing them, 1 sent him a special invitation. Be thanked me and curtly declined. The man, I may aim . is my pensioner. Well, he calls himself a undoubtedly a man of courage, he has ■ blood, and the name. I think 1 am to be ing to make a better gentleman of the son 1 help, Id in the father: and Beeing that life from an I ship has anything but made a gentleman ler, I hold that I am right in shaping another for the son." 'Na s . • • ." Clara suggested. CLARA AND LMTITIA MEET. 79 " Some," said Willoughby. " But they must be men of birth, coming out of homes of good breeding. Strip them of the halo of the title of naval officers, and I fear you would not often say gentlemen when they step into a drawing- room. I went so far as to fancy I had some claim to make young Crossjay something diff erent. It can be done : the Patterne comes out in his behaviour to you, my love : it can be done. But if I take him, I claim undisputed sway over him. I cannot make a gentleman of the fellow if I am to compete with this person and that. In fine, he must look up to me, he must have one model." " Would you, then, provide for him subsequently ?" "According to his behaviour." " Would not that be precarious for him ?" " More so than the profession you appear inclined to choose for him ?" " But there he would be under clear regulations." " With me he would have to respond to affection." " Would you secure to him a settled income ? For an idle gentleman is bad enough ; a penniless gentleman ! . . ." " He has only to please me, my dear, and he will be launched and protected." " But if he does not succeed in pleasing you !" " Is it so difficult ?" "Oh!" Clara fretted. " You see, my fove, I answer you," said Sir Willoughby. He resumed : " But let old Yernon have his trial with tl)3 lad. He has his own ideas. Let him carry them out. I shall watch the experiment." Clara was for abandoning her task in sheer faintness. "Is not the question one of money?" she said shyly, knowing Mr. Whitford to be poor. " Old Yernon chooses to spend his money that way," replied Sir Willoughby. "If it saves him from breaking his shins and risking his neck on his Alps, we may consider it well employed." " Yes," Clara's voice occupied a pause. She seized her languor as it were a curling snake and cast it off. " But I understand that Mr. Whitford wants your assistance. Is he not not rich ? When he leaves the Hall to try his fortune in literature in London, he may not be so well able to support Crossjay and obtain the instruo- B(J TH [ST. tioii ■ try f<">r the boy : and it would be generous to help him." •• Leaves the Ball !" ezclaii 1 Willonghby. " I have not 1 i :i word of it. Hi' mail'' a bad starl at the beginning, and I should have thought that would have tamed him : had to throw over his Fellowship; ahem. Then he received a li c '} some time hack, ami wanted to be "II to push bis lurk in Literature: rank gambling, as 1 told him. Lon- donizing can do him I. i thought thai nonsense of was over years ago. What is it he lias from me? — aboul a hundred ami titty a year: and it mighl be doubled h«r the asking: and all the books he requires: and these writers ami scholi sooner think of a book than they musi have it. And ilo not suppose me to complain. I am a man who will no! have a single shilling expended, by those who serve immediately ah ml my person. I confess to sting that kind of dependancy. Feudalism is not an ectionable thing if yon can be sure of the lord. You v, Clara, and you should know me in my weakness too, 1 do not claim servitude, I stipulate for affection. I claim to lie surrounded by persons loving me. And with one? ....': So thai we two can shut out the world: we live what is the dream of others. Nothing imaginable can he p. It is a veritable heaven on earth. To be the possessor of the whole of you! Your thoughts, hopes, all.' 1 Sir Willonghby intensified his imagination to conceive more: he could not, or could not express it. and pursued: 1 ■ li.it whal is this talk of Vernon's leaving me? He cannot leave. He has barely a hundred a year of his own. S ! insider him. I do not speak of the ■ .it it !i i li- of the wish to lea Sou know, my dear, I have a deadly abhorrence of partings and such like. As far ■. I iurround myself with healthy people specially guard myself from having my feelings wrung; and hale, whom you like my darling docs like her?"- the answer satisfied him; "with that one exception, T am not aware of a case thai threatens to tormenl me. And here is a man. under no compulsion, talking of leaving the Hall ! In the name of goodness, why ? But why f Am I to imagine thai the sigh! of perfeel felicity distresses him ? We are told thai the world is ' desperately wicked.' I do CLARA AND ItETITlA MEET. 81 not like to think it of my friends ; yet otherwise their con- duct is often hard to account fur." " If it were true, you would not punish Crossjay ?" Clara feebly interposed. " I should certainly take Crossjay and make a man of him after my own model, my dear. But who spoke to you of this ?" " Mr. Whitford himself. And let me give you my opinion, Willoughby, that he will take Crossjay with him rather than leave him, if there is a fear of the boy's missing his chance of the navy." " Marines appear to be in the ascendant," said Sir Wil- loughby, astonished at the locution and pleading in the interests of a son of one. " Then Crossjay he must take. I cannot accept half the boy. I am," he laughed, "the legitimate claimant in the application for judgement before the wise King. Besides, the boy has a dose of my blood in him ; he has none of Vernon's, not one drop." "Ah!" " You see, my love." " Oh ! I do see ; yes." " I put forth no pretensions to perfection," Sir Willoughby continue!. " I can bear a considerable amount of provoca- tion ; still I can be offended, and I am unforgiving when I have been offended. Speak to Vernon, if a natural occasion should spring up. I shall, of course, have to speak to him. You may, Clara, have observed a man who passed me on the road as we were cantering home, without a hint of a touch to his hat. That man is a tenant of mine, farming six hundred acres, Hoppner by name: a man bound to remember that I have, independently of my position, obliged him frequently. His lease of my ground has five years to run. I must say I detest the churlishness of our country population, and where it comes across me I chastise it. Vernon is a different matter: he will only require to be spoken to. One would fancy the old fellow laboured now and then under a magnetic attraction to beggary. My love," he bent to her and checked their pacing up and down, "you are tired ?" " I am very tired to-day," said Clara. His arm was offered. She laid two fingers on it, and they dropped when he attempted to press them to his rib. o -•_' THE EGOIST. He did doI insist. To walk beside her was to share in the stat< iinesa of her walking. He placed himself at a corner of the doorway for her to : - him into the house, and doated on her cheek, her ear, and the Boftly dusky nape "I her neck, where this way and ■ the little lighter-coloured irreclaimable curls running truant from the comb and the knot— curls, half-curls, root- s, vine-ringlets, wedding-rings, fledgeling leathers, tufts :. blown wisps -waved or fell, waved over or up or involutedly, or strayed, loose and downward, in the form "I small silken paws, h trdly any of them much thicker than a era; inninger than long round locks of gold to tri< heart. Lstitia had nothing to show resembling such beauty. CHAPTEB X. IX WHICH SIR WILLOUGHBY CHANCES TO SUPPLY THE TITLE FOB HIMSELF. v Vernon was useful to his cousin; he was the accom- plished tary of a man who governed his estates shrewdly and diligently, but had been once or twice un- lucky in his judgements pronounced from the magisterial li as a Justice of the Peace, on which occasions a half- am (if trenchant English supported by an apposite I quotation impressed Sir Willoughby with the value ich a secretary in a controversy, lie had no fear of y dragon of scorching breath — the newspaper Press — while Vernon was his right-hand man; and as he intended ■ ter Parliament, he foresaw the greater need of him. Furthermore, he liked his cousin to date his own contro- sial writings, on classical subjects, from Patterne Hall. !• ■ d his house to shine in a foreign field; proved the of scholarship l>y giving it a flavour of a bookish icy that, though uol so well worth having, and temptible, is above the material and titular; one cannot quite say how. There, however, is the our. Dainty sauces are the life, the nobility, of famoi i TITLE FOR SIR WILLOUGHBY SUPPLIED. 83 dishes ; taken alone, the former would be nauseating, tho latter plebeian. It is thus, or somewhat so, when you have a poet, still better a scholar, attached to your household. Sir Willoughby deserved to have him, for he was above his county friends in his apprehension of the flavonr bestowed by the man; and having: him, he had made them conscious of their deficiency. His cook, M. Dehors, pupil of the great Godefroy, was not the only French cook in the county ; but his cousin and secretary, the rising scholar, the elegant essayist, was an unparalleled decoration; of his kind, of course. Personally, we laugh at him ; you had better not, unless you are fain to show that the higher world of polite literature is unknown to you. Sir Willoughby could create an abject silence at a county dinner-table by an allusion to Vernon " at work at home upon his Etruscans or his Dorians ;" and he paused a moment to let the allusion sink, laughed audibly to himself over his eccentric cousin, and let him rest. In addition, Sir Willoughby abhorred the loss of a familiar face in his domestic circle. He thought ill of servants who could accept their dismissal without petitioning to stay with him. A servant that gave warning partook of a certain fiendishness. Vernon's project of leaving the Hall offended and alarmed the sensitive gentleman. " I shall have to hand Letty Dale to him at last!" he thought, yielding in li ter generosity to the conditions imposed on him by the un- generousness of another. For, since his engagement to Miss Middleton, his electrically forethoughtful mind had seen in Miss Dale, if she stayed in the neighbourhood, and remained unmarried, the governess of his infant children, often consulting with him. But here was a prospect dashed out. The two, then, may marry, and live in a cottage on the borders of his park ; and Vernon can retain his post, and Laetitia her devotion. The risk of her casting it off had to be faced. Marriage has been known to have such an effect on the most faithful of women that a great passion fades to naught in their volatile bosoms when they have taken a husband. We see in women especially the triumph- of the animal over the spiritual. Nevertheless, risks must be run for a purpose in view. Having no taste for a discussion with Vernon, whom it was his habit to confound by breaking away from him abruptly u 2 M in d ho had delivi red hi> opinion, he left it to 1 ■ • * t > 1 the per* themselves in yonng Crussjay to imagine be was i ing on the question of the lad, and to imagine 1 1 mid I e wise to leave him t<> meditate; for he could bepn irallj ac ite in reading an j of bis fellow- [f they i rrent dI his feelings. And, meanwhile, he instructed 1 1 * « - ladies Eleanor and Isabel to bring l Dale ->n a visit to the Hall, where dinner- parties were Boon to 1"- given Mid ;i pleasing talker would be wanted; where also a woman <>t' intellect, Bteeped in a splendid sentiment, hitherto a miracle of female constancy, might stir :i younger woman to mulation. De6nitely tn resolve I Usetitia apon Vernon, was more than mid do; enough thai be held the card. Regarding Clara, his genius for perusing the heart which was not in perfect harmony with him through the serii lonsive movements to his own, informed him of a some- thing in her character thai might have suggested to Mrs. M ntstuart Jenkinson her indefensible, absurd 'rogue in • •lain.' Idea there was none in that phrase; yet, if you looked "ii Clara as a delicately inimitable porcelain beauty, the suspicion of a delicately inimitable ripple over her features touched a thought of innocent roguery, wildwood : the likeness to the costly and lovely substance appeared to admit a fitness in the ious epithet. He ested bul was haunted by t he phrase. 81 iiil\ had at times the l<><>k of the nymph that long -ii the faun, and has unwittingly copied his lurking lip ai 'I long sliding eve. Her play with young 1 ibled a return of the lady to the cat; she flung it her real \ itality had been in suspi till she saw the boy. SirWilloughby by no means disapproved tl liveliness that promised him health in bis mate; in their conversations that she did not sufficiently think of making herself a nest for him. Steely •d to him when he, figuratively, bared his 1 'ii to b( ■ and fairest. She reasoned : •in other words, armed her ignorance. £ he reasoned against him publicly, and Inn turn to support her. Influence I for !•"'•• ! her influence over Vernon ■ Ii'iilt him to dance <>ne evening "' '-a ■;• Culmer's, after his melancholy exhibitions of him- self in t)i« art : and n • only did lersuade him to stand TITLE FOR SIE WILLOUGHBY SUPPLIED. 85 Tip fronting her, she manoeuvred him through the dance like a clever boy cajoling a top to come to him without reeling, both to Vernon's contentment and to Sir Willoughby's ; for he was the last man to object to a manifestation of power in his bride. Considering her influence with Vernon, he renewed the discourse upon young Crossjay ; and, as he was addicted to system, he took her into his confidence, that she might be taught to look to him and act for him. " Old Vernon has not spoken to you again of that lad ?" he said. " Yes, Mr. Whitford has asked me." " He does not ask me, my dear !" " He may fancy me of greater aid than I am." " You see, my love, if he puts Crossjay on me, he will be off. He has this craze for ' enlisting ' his pen in London, as he calls it ; and I am accustomed to him ; I don't 1 ke to think of him as a hack scribe, writing nonsense from dicta- tion to earn a pitiful subsistence ; I w-ant him here ; and, supposing he goes, he offends me ; he loses a friend ; and it will not be the first time that a friend has tried me too far ; but, if he offends me, he is extinct." " Is what ?" cried Clara, with a look of fright, " He becomes to me at once as if he had never been. He is extinct." " In spite of your affection ?" " On account of it, I might sav. Our nature is mysterious, and mine as much so as any. Whatever my regrets, he goes out. This is not a language I talk to the world. I do the man no harm ; I am not to be named unchristian. But !...." Sir Willoughby mildly shrugged, and indicated a spread- ing out of the arms. " But do, do talk to me as you talk to the world, Wil- loughby ; give me some relief !" "My own Clara, we are one. You should know m&, at my worst, we will say, if you like, as well as at my best." " Should I speak too ?" " What could you have to confess ?" She hung silent : the wave of an insane resolution swelled in her bosom and subsided before she said: " Cowardice, in- capacity to speak." " Women!" said he. Till I W( ...i. i expect bo much ol women; the heroic virti the vices. Thej have not to unfold the scroll of He resumed, and by his tone Bhe undersl I thai she was now in the inner temple of him : " I tell you these thii I quite acknowledge they do nol elevate me. They help to constitute my character. I tell you mosl humbly thai I have in me much x<»< much "i' the fallen archangel's pride." • a bowed her head over a sustained indrawn breath. •• h must I"- pride," he said, in a reverie Buperinduced by though tfulne88 over th.' revelation, and glorying in the ~c Barnes demoniacal wherewith he crowned himself. ■• ( 'an \ mi nut correct it ?" Baid she. He replied, profoundly vexed by disappointment: "I am what I am. It might be demonstrated to you mathematically thai it is corrected by equivalents or substitutions in my character. It' it be a failing— assuming that." •• It seems one to me: bo cruelly to punish Mr. Whitford ing !■> impro\ c Ins fortunes." •• He reflects on my Bhare in his fortunes. Ho has had but ipply to me, for In-- honorarium to be doubled." " lie wishes for independence." " I adept d (■tie,- of me!" " Liberty \ t my expense !" "Oh ■ Willoughby." hut tin- n the world, and T know it, my love ; and Ltiful as your incredulity may be, you will find it more comforting to confide in my knowledge of the selfishness of world. .M t, you will? you do! For a breath of diffen oce between us i- intolerable. Do you not feel how- it bi ir magic ring? One small Bssure, and we have the world with its muddy deluge! -Hut my subject was old I pay for Crossjay, if Vernon consents to I waive my own Bcheme for the lad, though I think i' the better one. Now, then, to induce Vernon to stay. He 1 al t Btaying nnder a mistress of the house- hold ; ami therefore, nol to contest it — he is a man of no imentj a Borl of lunatic determination takes the place of it with old Vernon! lei him settle close by me, in one of I well, ami to settle him we must marry him." TITLE FOR SIR WILLOUGHBY SUPPLIED. 87 " Who is there ?" said Clara, beating for the lady in her mind. " Women," said Willoughby,." are born match-makers, and the most persuasive is a young bride. With a man — and a man like old Vernon ! — she is irresistible. It is my wish, and that arms you. It is your wish, that subjugates him. If he goes, he goes for good. If he stays, he is my friend. I deal simply with him, as with every one. It is the secret nf authority. Now Miss Dale will soon lose her father. He exists on a pension ; she has the prospect of having to leave the neighbourhood of the Hall, unless she is established near us. Her whole heart is in this region ; it is the poor soul's passion. Count on her agreeing. But she will require a little wooing : and old Vernon wooing ! Picture the scene to yourself, my love. His notion of wooing, I suspect, will be to treat the lady like a lexicon, and turn over the leaves for the word, and fly through the leaves for another word, and so get a sentence. Don't frown at the poor old fellow, my Clara; some have the language on their tongues, and some have not. Some are very dry sticks ; manly men, honest fellows, but so cut away, so polished away from the sex, that they are in absolute want of outsiders to supply the silken filaments to attach them. Actually!" Sir Willoughby laughed in Clara's face to relax the dreamy stoniness of her look. " But I can assure you, my dearest, I have seen it. Vernon does not know how to speak — as we speak. He has, or he had, what is called a sneaking affection for Miss Dale. It was the most amusing thing possible : his courtship ! — the air of a dog with an uneasy conscience, trying to recon- cile himself with his master ! We were all in fits of laughter. Of course it came to nothing." " Will Mr. Whitford," said Clara, " offend you to extinc- tion if he declines ?" Willoughby breathed an affectionate " Tush," to her silli- ness. " We bring them together, as we best can. You see, Clara, I desire, and I will make some sacrifices to detain him." "But what do you sacrifice? — a cottage?" said Clara, combative at all points. " An ideal, perhaps. I lay no stress on sacrifice. I strongly object to separations. And therefore, you will say, •II, i. - I n] onnd for anions r Pal your influence to I service, my love. I believe 3 sould persuade him to - the Highland fling on the drawing-room tabic." •• I oof hing i" saj to bim oi I Irossjay 't" " \\ I ,-, in re " I • [a urgent." t me. I bave my ideas I am not idle. That boy r for :i capital horseman. Eventualities might . . . ." '.'. Iloughby murmnred t.» himself, and addri ssing his bridi Th< cavalry? It we put him into the cavalry, we otleman of him — not be ashamed of him. certain eventualities, the Guards. Think it over, niv love. De < . who will, I assume, act best man for in.-. old Vernon to pull at the collar, is a Lieu- I in the Guards, a thorough gentleman — of the brainli • it" you like, but au elegant fellow; an Irish- will see him, and I Bhould like to set a naval beside him in a drawing-room, for you to com; them and consider the model you wmild choose for a boy you jted in. II a grace and gallantry incarnate ; i lily: I have always been too friendly with him mine closely. He mink' himself one of my dogs, thongh my elder, and seemed to like to be at my heels. 1 few mei es I can call admirably handsome ; — with nothing behind it, perhaps. Ls Vernon says, 'a nothing picked by the vultures and bleached by the desert.' a bad talker, if vim tisfied with keeping up the lie u ill an i. (»1<1 Horace does not know how amusing he is '." Hi Mr. Whitford say that of Colonel De Crave?" E whom he said it. So you have oldVernoi ef *, te him one of his epigrams, in motion head and heels! It is an infallible - him. If I want to have him in pood only to remark, 'as you said.' I straighten ■ '■ - ;i d Clara, "have noticed chiefly his anxiety con- : for u hich I admire him." ditable, if not particularly far-sighted and sagacious. I, then, my dear, attack him' at once: lead him to the •ir fair neighbour. She is to be our guest for a 1 affair might be concluded far TITLE FOR SIR WILLODGHBY SUPPLIED. 89 enough to fix him before she leaves. She is at present awaiting the arrival of a cousin to attend on her father. A little gentle pushing will precipitate old Vernon on his knees as far as he ever can unbend them ; but when a lady is made ready to expect a declaration, you know, why, she does not — does she ? — demand the entire formula ? — though some beautiful fortresses . . . ." He enfolded her. Clara was growing hardened to it. To this she was fated ; and not seeing any way of escape, she invoked a friendly frost to strike her blood, and passed through the minute unfeelingly. Having passed it, she reproached herself for making so much of it, thinking it a lesser endurance than to listen to him. What could she do ? — she was caged ; by her word of honour, as she at one time thought ; by her cowardice, at another ; and dimly sensible that the latter was a stronger lock than the former, she mused on the abstract question whether a woman's cowardice can be so absolute as to cast her into the jaws of her aversion. Is it to be conceived ? Is there not a moment when it stands at bay ? But haggard- visaged Honour then starts up claiming to be dealt with in turn ; for having courage restored to her, she must have the courage to break with honour, she must dare to be faithless, and not merely say, I will be brave, but be brave enough to be dishonour- able. The cage of a plighted woman hungering for her dis- engagement has two keepers, a noble and a vile ; where on earth is creature so dreadfully enclosed ? It lies with her to overcome what degrades her, that she may win to liberty by overcoming what exalts. Contemplating her situation, this idea (or vapour of youth taking the godlike semblance of an idea) sprang, born of her present sickness, in Clara's mind ; that it must be an ill- constructed tumbling world where the hour of ignorance is made the creator of our destiny by being forced to the decisive elections upon which life's main issues hang. Her teacher had brought her to contemplate his view of the world. She thought likewise : how must a man despise women, who can expose himself as he does to me ! Miss Middleton owed it to Sir Willoughby Patterne thai she ceased to think like a girl. When had the great change begun ? Glancing back, she could imagine that it was neai 00 in the period we call, in love, the firsi almosi from the first. And Bhe was le I to imagine il throngh !i:i\ ing become barred ning her own emotions of thai Beason. They • ' • even under the forms of shadows in fancy. Without impnting blame to him, for she was . jo far, she deemed hi r elf a person eni rapped. mehow she had committed herself to a life- • imprisonment ; and, oh terror ! noi in a quiel dungeon; the barren wa] d round her, talked, called forardour, ! admiration. She was unable to Bay why Bhe could : e it; whj Bhe retreated more and more inwardly; why Bhe ii '" kill her teuderest feelings. Bhe was in revolt, unt il a whisper of 1 he day of bells reduced her to blank submission; on! of which a breath of pone drew her to revolt again in gradual rapid j, and once hut singular day of merry black' felled her to earth. Jt was alive, ii advanced, it had a mouth, it had a Bong. She received letters of bridesmaids writing of it, and felt them as waves that hurl a log of to Bhore. Following which afflicting sense of anta- -iii to the whole circle sweeping on with her, she con- Bidered the possibility oi her being in a commencement of madi Otherwise mighi Bhe noi be accused of a capri- oiousni ss quite a-- deplorable to consider p She had written E those young ladies noi very long since, of this leman — how F — in \\ hat tone ? And was it her madness then? — her recovery mm f Ii Beemed to her that to have wril him enthusiastically resembled madness more than to shudder away from tie' union; but standing alone, ill she has consented to set in motion, is too to a girl lor perfeci justification to be found in ) -it. Willoughby was destined himself to supply her with that key of special insight which revealed and stamped him in a tit t.ly her spirit of revolt, consecrate it almost. The popular physician of the county and famous anecdotal wit, Dr. Corney, had been a guesi at dinner overnight, and the nexi day there u ;i s talk of him, and of the resources of i ari displayed by Armand Dehors on his hearing that he i minister to the tastes of a gathering of hommes tit. Sir Willoughby glanced at Dehors with his cus- enl irony in speaking of the persons, great in TITLE FOR SIB WILLOUGHBY SUPPLIED. 91 their way, who served him. " Why he cannot give ns daily so good a dinner, one must, I suppose go to French nature to learn. The French are in the habit of making up for all their deficiencies with enthusiasm. They have no reverence; if I had said to him, ' I want something particularly excel- lent, Dehors,' I should have had a commonplace dinner. But they have enthusiasm on draught, and that is what we must pull at. Know one Frenchman and you know France. 1 have had Dehors under my eye two years, and I can mount his enthusiasm at a word. He took kommes d 'esprit to denote men of letters. Frenchmen have destroyed their nobility, so, for the sake of excitement, they put up the literary man— not to worship him ; that they can't do ; it's to put themselves in a state of effervescence. They will not have real greatness above them, so they have sham. That they may justly call it equality, perhaps ! Ay, for all your shake of the head, my good Vernon ! You see, human nature comes round again, try as we may to upset it, and the French only differ from us in wading through blood to discover that they are at their old trick once more : ' I am your equal, sir, your born equal. Oh ! you are a man of letters ? Allow me to be in a bubble about you.' Yes, Vernon, and I believe the fellow looks up to you as the head of the establishment. I am not jealous. Provided he attends to his functions ! There's a French philosopher who's for naming the days of the year after the birthdays of French men of letters, Vol- taire-day, Rousseau-day, Racine-day, so on. Perhaps Vernon will inform us who takes April 1st." " A few trifling errors are of no consequence w T hen you are in the vein of satire," said Vernon. " Be satisfied with knowing a nation in the person of a cook." " They may be reading us English off in a jockey!" said Dr. Middleton. "I believe that jockeys are the exchange Ave make for cooks ; and our neighbours do not get the best of the bargain." " ]S T o, but, my dear good Vernon, it's nonsensical," said Sir Willoug'hby ; "why be bawling every day the name of men of letters ?" " Philosophers." " Well, philosophers." " Of all countries and times. And they are the bene- factors of humanity." [I-J IP' "Bene .... f Sir Willoughby'a derisive tango bro'o : ■• •; [i all that, irreconcilable it?" 11 like, give alternative iternal ii . devoted to onr I merih deeds upon snch a b rebel C h ting in bis banter, was beard; " I irnish " \ I help ' u P I. " "I .1 Dr. Middleton, and bastily in ip tli'' conversation be bad unintentionally i i-k mi new-fangled notii le i" \ . which created the blissfnl sus- lara, thai her father was ind : sposed to second Sir W illonghh sharing i hem. S •■ Willi had led the conversation. Displeased the lead Bhonld !><• withdrawn from him, he turned to « ■ • of the after-dinner anecdotes of Dr. I I another, with a vasi deal of heman nature in it, man, whose wife chanced bob ly ill. and he wenl to the physicians assembled in consultation ontsidi sk-room, imploring them by all i in tears, to Bave the poor patient for him, rwthing to me, thing, and it' ompelli tn the risks of marrying again; I ■■ ■■ stomed me so to the liti Ii in truth I can't, I can't lose I the lo\ ing husband of an .- have the i Ided Willonghb That is tl t Egoist. You The man was utterly un- i the gro Ifishnes my dear!" He bowed ■ blindly Eat aoua did he app< ar to her, that ild hardly believe him guilty of uttering the words her eyes on him vacantly in the thoughts directing TITLE FOR SIR WILLOUGHBY SUPPLIED. 93 her gaze. She looked at Vernon, she looked at her father, and at the ladies Eleanor and Isabel. None of them saw the man in the word, none noticed the word ; yet this word was her medical herb, her illuminating lamp, the key of him (and, alas, but she thought it by feeling her need of one), the advocate pleading in apology for her. Egoist ! She beheld him — unfortunate, self-designated man that he was I — in his good qualities as well as bad under the implacable lamp, and his good were drenched in his first person singu- lar. His generosity roared of I louder than the rest. Con- ceive him at the asre of Dr. Corney's hero : " Pray, save my wife for me. I shall positively have to get another if I lose her, and one who may not love me half so well, or under- stand the peculiarities of my character and appreciate my attitudes." He was in his thirty-second year, therefore a young man, strong and healthy, yet his garrulous return to his principal theme, his emphasis on I and me, lent him the seeming of an old man spotted with decaying youth. " Beware of marrying an Egoist." Would he help her to escape ? The idea of the scene ensuing upon her petition for release, and the being dragged round the walls of his egoism, and having her head knocked against the corners, alarmed her with sensations of sickness. There was the example of Constantia. But that desperate young lady had been assisted by a gallant, loving gentleman ; she had met a Captain Oxford. Clara brooded on those two until they seemed heroic. She questioned herself : Could she . . . . ? were one to come ? She shut her eyes in languor, leaning the wrong way of her wishes, yet unable to say No. Sir Willoughby had positively said beware ! Marrying him would be a deed committed in spite of his express warning. She went so far as to conceive him subsequently saying : "I warned you." She conceived the state of mar- riage with him as that of a woman tied not to a man of heart, but to an obelisk lettered all over with hieroglyphics, and everlastingly hearing him expound them, relishingly renewing his lectures on them. Full surely this immovable stone-man would not release her. This petrifaction of egoism would from amazedly to austerely refuse the petition. His pride would debar him from understanding her desire to be released. And if she Till' BOO] '. Ived on Lt, without doing it Btraightwaj in Constantia's manner, the miserable bewildermi nl of her father, for w) i Bach :i complication would be ,-i tragic dilemma, had to be though! Her father, with all bis tenderness for his child, would make a stand on a point of honour; though ,ni to yield to her, be would be distressed, in a tempest of worry; and Dr. Middleton thus afflicted threw up bis arms, he Bhunned books, Bhunned speech, and resembled a away on the ocean, with nothing between himself and unity. As for the world, it would be barking al her heels. She mighl call the man she wrenched her hand from, I. . the world would rail her. She dwelt bitterly on her agreement with Sir Willoughby regarding the world, ing it id bia charge thai her gar len ha i • a place of nettles, her horizon an onlighte I fourth side of a square*. kra passed from person to person visiting the Hall. universal, and a^ Bhe was compelled to see, honest admiration of th< NTol a - ■ . had a suspicion of his cloaked nature. Her agony of hypocrisy in accepting their compliments as the bride of Sir Willoughby Patterne was -rated 1 . \ contempl of them for their infatuation. She tried to cheat herself with the though! that they were nd thai she was the foolish and wicked inconstant. In her anxiety to strangle the rebelliousness which had b i municated from her mind to her blood, and was present with her whether her mind was in action or not, she en- 1 the ladies Eleanor and [sabel to magnify the fieti- an of their idolatry, hoping thai she might enter into them imaginatively, thai she mighl to some degree subdue jity of her position. If she partly sue. in Btupefying her antagonism, five minutes of him t be work. He I I her to wear the Patterne Pearls for a dinner-] if grand ladies, telling her that he would com. I i to ta :e them to her. Clara begged •line them, on the plea of having no righl to wear t. He lau : her modish modesty. "But really it bl almost b ation," said he. " I give • Virtual I \ ■. o ; are my wii'e." (t XT ' No. " Before hi av< □ " No We are no1 man icd." TITLE FOR SIR WILLOUGHBY SUPPLIED. 95 " As my betrothed, will you wear them, to please me?" " I would rather not. I cannot wear borrowed jewels. These I cannot wear. Forgive me, 1 cannot. And Wil- loughby," she said, scorning herself for want of fortitude in not keeping to the simply blunt provocative refusal, " does one not look like a victim decked for the sacrifice ? — the garlanded heifer you see on Greek vases, in that array of jewelry ?" "My dear Clara!" exclaimed the astonished lover, "how can you term them borrowed, when they are the Pattern e jewels, our family heirloom pearls, unmatched, I venture to affirm, decidedly in my county and many others, and passing to the use of the mistress of the house in the natural course of things ?" " They are yours, they are not mine." " Prospectively they are yours." " It would be to anticipate the fact to wear them." " With my consent, my approval ? at my request P" "I am not yet .... I never may be . . . ." " My wife ?" He laughed triumphantly, and silenced her by manly smothering. Her scruple was perhaps an honourable one, he said. Perhaps the jewels were safer in their iron box. He had merely intended a surprise and gratification to her. Courage was coming to enable her to speak more plainly, when his discontinuing to insist on her wearing the jewels, under an appearance of deference to her wishes, disarmed her by touching her sympathies. She said, however : " I fear we do not often agree, Wil- longhby." " When you are a little older !" was the irritating answer. " It would then be too late to make the discovery." " The discovery, I apprehend, is not imperative, my love." "It seems to me that our minds are opposed." " I should," said he, " have been awake to it at a single indication, be sure." "But I know," she pursued, "I have learnt, that the ideal of conduct for women, is to subject their minds to the pait of an accompaniment." " For women, my love f my wife will be in natural har» mony with me." mi: boo] \h!" 31 her lips. The yawn would •' 1 eepier here t ban anyvi her j, my Clara, is the finest air of the kingdom. It Las •• Bnl it' I am always asleep hei We shall have to make a public exhibition of the B This dash df ln's livelim ated her. Slu- lefl him, feeling the contempt of the brain feverishly qnickened and fine-pointed, for the brain chewing the cud in tin- happy pastures of onawakenedness. So violent was the :een her introspection, thai she spared few, ami \ rnon was not among them, Xoung Crossjay, whom she lidered th<- least able of all to acl as an ally, was the ! with a real desire to please him; he e she a Ly envie I ; he was t be younj the freest, he had the world before him, and be did not know how horrible the world was, or could be made to look. She loved the boy from expecting nothing of him. Others, Vernon Wnitford, for instance, could help, and moved no haul. Il<- read her case. A scrutiny so penetrating under iir of abstract t hough tfulness, though his eyes did but ■ in her ad or two, signified that he read her lino b;. line, and to I ipting what sin- thought of him for probing her with thai sharp steel of u I without a purpose. She knew her minds injustice. It was her case, entabli -the impatient panic-stricken nerves of ire, which cried for help. She exug- .•'•■1 her Bufferings to get Btrength to throw them off, and lust it in the recognition that they wen- exaggerated: and out of the conflict issued i with a cry as y coming of ma For she did not blush in If; "If some one Loved me!" Before hearing otia, Bhe had mused upon liberty as a virgin • a, — men w< of her thoughts; even tin- figure of i icuer, if one dawned in her mind, was more angel than Thai fair childish maidenliness had i With i itraining in hei di' p, with tin- savour of ■ i. unable to aloud, she 1 . and all the healt h of her nat uro t mtcry womanly : — "If I were loved !" — not for the of love, but for free br< athing ; and her utterance of it THE WILD CHEERY-TREE. 9< was to ensure life and enduringness to the wish, as the yearning of a mother on a drowning ship is to get her infant to shore. " If some noble gentleman could see me as I am and not disdain to aid me ! Oh ! to be caught up out of this prison of thorns and brambles. I cannot tear my own way out. I am a coward. My cry for help confesses that. A beckoning of a finger would change me, I believe. I could fly bleeding and through hootings to a comrade. Oh ! a comrade. I do not want a lover. I should find another Egoist, not so bad, but enough to make me take a breath like death. I could follow a soldier, like poor Sally or Molly. He stakes his life for his country, and a woman may be proud of the worst of men who do that. Constantia met a soldier. Perhaps she prayed and her prayer was altered. She did ill. But, oh, how I love her for it ! His name was Harry Oxford. Papa would call him her Perseus. She must have felt that there was no explaining what she suffered. She had only to act, to plunge. First she fixed her mind on Harry Oxford. To be able to speak his name and see him awaiting her, must have been relief, a reprieve. She did not waver, she cut the links, she signed herself over. O brave girl ! what do you think of me? But I have no Harry Whitford, I am alone. Let anything be said against women ; we must be very bad to have such bad things written of us : only, say this, that to ask them to sign them- selves over by oath and ceremony, because of an ignorant promise, to the man they have been mistaken in, is ... . it is " the sudden consciousness that she had put another name for Oxford, struck her a buffet, drowning her in crimson. CHAPTER XI. THE DOUBLE-BLOSSOM WILD CHERRY-TREE. Sir WillouGHBY chose a moment when Clara was with him and he had a good retreat through folding-windows to the lawn, in case of cogency on the enemy's part, to attack his cousin regarding the preposterous plot to upset the H 'I lil. I ■ to London : " I ' Vernon, wlc.it i^ this mumb bo erj body Bave mi-, •-■•.'. .pot and be , of ': —London i- . and \ oti are I'm rably better. Don't, I beg you, continne to annoy I a run abroad, if yon are r< Take two or e months, and join as as we are travelling home; and : think ttling, pray. Follow my example, if you like, yon can ha of my cottages, or ;i place built for Anything to keep a man from destroying the sense of >ility aboul one. In London, my dear old follow, yon ir identity. Whatareyou there ? I ask yon, what? eeling of the bouse crumbling when a man is ally for shifting and cannot fix himself. Here you ady at your ease; up in London you nobody; I tell you honestly, J feel it myself; a week of I. Inn literally drives me home to discover the individual I hit him. !!'• advised. You don't mean to go." '• I bave the intention," said Vernon. '• Wh; " I 've 'i nt "tied it to you." "To • ;. fa ■■■ :•" "Over your shoulder, is generally the only chance you •• You have not mentioned it to me, to my knowledge. As to the reason, I might hear a dozen of your reasons, and 1" understand ohm. It's against your interests and my wishes. Come, friend, I am not the only one mrself have said that the jlish would be very perfect Jews if they could manage to on the patriarchal system. You said it, yes, you said but I recollect it clearly. Oh! as for your double- 1 the thing, and you jeered at the incj jlish families to live together, on account of 1 : and now you are the first to break up our union! I cidedly I be perfect Jew, but J do . . . ." r Willonghby caught signs of i bly smiling com- his bri his cousin. He raised his I ■ mlting his eyelids,and resolved to laugh : "Well, I it, I do of living patriarchally." He t i. ' 'I'h e Rev. doctor one of us !" " M . r .id. THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. 99 " Why not ?" " Papa's habits are those of a scholar." " That you might not he separated from him, my dear." Clara thanked Sir Willoughby for the kindness of think- ing of her father, mentally analyzing the kindness, in which at least she found no unkindness, scarcely egoism, though she knew it to be there. " We might propose it," said he. " As a compliment ? " " If he would condescend to accept it as a compliment. These great scholars ! . . . . And if Vernon goes, our in- ducement for Dr. Middleton to stay .... But it is too absurd for discussion. Oh, Vernon, about Master Crossjay ; I will see to it." He was about to give Vernon his shoulder and step into the garden, when Cltra said, "You will have Crossjay trained for the navy, Willoughby ? There is not a day to lose." " Yes, yes ; I will see to it. Depend on me for holding the young rascal in view." He presented his hand to her to lead her over the step to the gravel, surprised to behold how flushed she was. She responded to the invitation by putting her hand forth from a bent elbow, with hesitating fingers. " It should not be postponed, Willoughby." Her attitude suggested a stipulation before she touched him. " It's an affair of money, as you know, Willoughby," said Vernon. " If I'm in London, I can't well provide for the boy for some time to come, or it's not certain that I can." " Why on earth should you go !" ; ' That's another matter. I want you to take my place with him." *' In which case the circumstances are changed. I am responsible for him, and I have a right to bring him up according to my own prescription." '' We are likely to have one idle lout the more." " I guarantee to make a gentleman of him.'' " We have too many of your gentlemen already." " You can't have enough, my good Vernon." " They're the national apology for indolence. Training a penniless boy to be one of them is nearly as bad as an educa. h 2 Tfl tion in a thieves' den ; he will be just as mui ar with me for t be poli " Vernon, have you Been C father, the now Cap- tai 11 I i bink yon hi •• I ■ I man and a \ ery ga Hani officer." \ ii < I in Bpite of bis qualities he's a cub, and an old cub. He is a captain now. but he takes thai rank very late, yon will own. There you have what yon call a good man, un- doubtedly a gallant officer, neutralized by the fact that he * man. Holding intercourse with him is out of the question. No wonder Government declines to advance him rapidly. Young Crossjay does not bear your name. He 1 mine, and on thai point alone I should have a voice in i 'iit of bis career. And I say emphatically thai a drawing-room approval of a young man is the best Bcate for his general chances in life. 1 know of a City don merchant of some sort, and 1 know a firm of . who will have none but University men in their offii ; . t hey have t he preference." '•( has a bullet head, fit neither for the University tin- drawing-rooi d Vernon; "equal to fighting i, and t hat 's all." Sir Willoughby contented himself with replying, "The mine." II cape a rejoinder caused him to step into garden, leavii pa behind him. "My love!" - in apology as he turned to her. She could not look stern, but Bhe had a look without a dimple to soften it, and her e had wagered in her heart that the dial be provoked upon Crossjay would expose the I 'ui'l there were other motives, wrapped up and int' d, unrecognizi ifficient to strike her with than the flush of her Belf-knowledge of wickedness when she detained him to I iy before Vernon. At last it had been seen that Bhe was conscious of suffering in her association with this Egoist! Vernon stood for the a into her i The world, then, would not her, she thought hopefully, at the same time Bhe thought most evilly of herself . But self-accusations p the day of reckoning ; Bhe would and must have the world with hi r, or the belief that it was coining to her, in THE WILD CHEKKY-TREE. 101 the terrible struggle she foresaw within her horizon of self, now her utter boundary. She needed it for the inevitable conflict. Little sacrifices of her honesty might be made. Considering how weak she was, how solitary, how dismally entangled, daily disgraced beyond the power of any veiling to conceal from her fiery sensations, a little hypocrisy was a poor girl's natural weapon. She crushed her conscientious mind with the assurance that it was magnifying trifles : not entirely unaware that she was magnifying trifles : not entirely unaware that she was thereby preparing it for a convenient blindness in the presence of dread alternatives ; but the pride of laying such stress on small sins gave her purity a blush of pleasure and overcame the inner warning. In truth she dared not think evilly of herself for long, sailing into battle as she was. Nuns and anchorites may; they have leisure. She regretted the forfeits she had to pay for self-assistance and, if it might be won, the world's ; regretted, felt the peril of the loss, and took them up and flung them. " You see, old Vernon has no argument," Willoughby said to her. He drew her hand more securely on his arm, to make her sensible that she leaned on a pillar of strength. " Whenever the little brain is in doubt, perplexed, un- decided which course to adopt, she will come to me, will she not? I shall always listen," he resumed soothingly. "My own! and I to you when the world vexes me. So we round our completeness. You will know me ; you will know me in good time. I am not a mystery to those to whom I unfold myself. I do not pretend to mystery : yet, I will confess, your home — your heart's — Willoughby is not exactly iden- tical with the Willoughby before the world. One must be armed against that rough beast." Certain is the vengeance of the young upon monotony ; nothing more certain. They do not scheme it, but sameness is a poison to their systems ; and vengeance is their heartier breathing, their stretch of the limbs, run in the fields; nature avenges them. When does Colonel De Craye arrive ?" said Clara. " Horace ? In two or three days. You wish him to be od the spot to learn his part, my love ?" She had not flown forward to the thought of Colonel De Craye's arrival; she knew not why she had mentioned himj 102 Tin: EGOJ • hut now slip flew l»:i<'k, si ked, 6rs< into shadowy snbter. i I i In n into i be criminal's dock. •• | do li liini to be bere. I do not know that he li:i s :ti. I bave no wish. Willoughby, did.you not 1 bould come to yon and yon would Listen? — will yon , ': I am so commonplace thai r shall not be understood ..hi take my worda for the very meaning of the v [am unworthy. I am volatile. I love my liberty. 1 wanl to be free . . . ." - Flitch!" he called, [t so inded necromantic. " Pardon me, my love," he said. "The man yon see yonder violates my express injunction thai he is not to come on my inds, and here 1 find him on the borders of my garden!" Sir Wllloughby waved his hand to the abject figure of a i •• standing to intercept him. " Volatile, unworthy, liberty — my dearesl !" he bent to her when t he man had appeased him by depart ing, " You are at i within the law, like all good women; I shall control and direcl your volatility ; and j our sense of worthiness must be re-established when we are more intimate; it is timidity. The sense of unworthiness is a guarantee of- worthiness en- suing. I i ■• ■ i I am in the vein of a sermon ! Whose the ] : of that man was annoying. Flitch w . and coachman, like bis lather before him, e Hall thirty years ; his father died in our service. Flitch had n< grievance here; only one day the him with the notion of bettering himself, he ts his independence, and he presents himself to me with ry of a shop in our county town. — Flitch! remember, if o for good. — Oh! he quite comprehended. — well; g l-bye, Flitch; — The man was respectful: he ed the fool he was vrery soon to turn out to be. Since then, within a period of several years, 1 have had him, against my • motions, ten times on my grounds. It's cur Of course the shop failed, and Flitch's inde- in walking aboul with his hands in his empty i . and looking at tin; Hall from some elevation t " I- he married ? Has he children ?" said (Mara. • d a wife i not coi .v or wash linen." 41 You could i him employment ?" THE WILD CHEERY-TREE. 103 " Afier his having dismissed himself ?" "It might be overlooked." " Here he was happy. He decided to go elsewhere, to be free — of course, of my yoke. He quitted my service against my warning. Flitch, we will say, emigrated with his wife and nine children, and the ship foundered. He returns, but his place is filled ; he is a ghost here, and I object to ghosts." " Some work might be found for him." " It will be the same with old Vernon, my dear. If he goes, he goes for good. It is the vital principle of my autho- rity to insist on that. A dead leaf might as reasonably demand to return to the tree. Once off, off for all eternity ! I am sorry, but such was your decision, my friend. I have, you see, Clara, elements in me " "Dreadful!" " Exert your persuasive powers with Vernon. You can do well-nigh what you will with the old fellow. We have Miss iJale this evening for a week or two. Lead him to some Wens of her. — Elements in me, I was remarking, which will no more bear to be handled carelessly than gunpow ler. At the same time, there is no reason why they should not be respected, managed with some degree of regard for me and attention to consequences. Those who have not done so have repented." "You do not speak to others of the elements in you," said Clara. " I certainly do not : I have but one bride," was his hand- some reply. " Is it fair to me that you should show me the worst of you ?" " All myself, my own ?" His ingratiating droop and familiar smile rendered 'All myself ' so affectionately meaningful in its happy reliance upon her excess of love, that at last she understood she was expected to worship him and uphold him for whatsoever he might be, without any estimation of qualities: as indeed love does, or young love does : as she perhaps did once, before he chilled her senses. That was before her ' little brain ' had become active and had turned her senses to revolt. It was on the full river of love that Sir Willoughby sup- posed the whole floating' bulk of his personality to be securely sustained : and therefore it was that, believing himself swim- ming at his ease, he discoursed of himself. I' I T)' Sh i i •_- 1 1 1 away from thai idea with her mental i: " Why does be not paint himself in brighter tnd the question: "Has he no ideal of chival • the anfortonate gentleman imagined liimself to be i. \i-vy bosom. He fancied thai everything ited maidenly curiosity, womanly - to know more of him, wjhich he was ever iv by repeating the same things. His notion omen was the primitive black and white : there are go d bad women; and he possessed a good one. His I i himself fortified the belief that Providence,: i ce and fitness, must necessarily select a good for him —or what arc we to think of Providence ? And 1 by that informing hand, would naturally !"■ in harmony with him, from the centre of his profound idei the ra >nL r circle of his variations. Know the yon know the circle, and yon discover that the varia- tion; ■-. but you must travel on the in the circle to gel to the centre. Consequently Sir Willonghby put Miss Middleton on one or other of t. ; rom time to time. Us, too, he drays into the deeps, but wl have liurpooned a whale and are hed to t be rope, down we must go ; the miracle is to lin. Women i ading off the divine to the . wi-vt- his vision of woman. His mit. . Lmit an angel in pottery as a rogue in ir liim they were what they were when fashioned at the beginning; many cracked, many Btained, 1 1 en designed for the elect of At the world he shut the prude's door i; himself would have branded them with the It n the hue of fire. Privately he did so: and he wa bis cm rem,- sensitiveness and taste For alt to be u e critic of them during arnival oi l, the love-season. Con- atantia .... can it be told ? She had been, be it said, a i frank chant with him in that season; she a oat • be a mother of I she met the salute, almost half-way, ingenuously unlike the coming mothers of the regin inettes, who retire in THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. 105 vapours, downcast, as by convention ; ladies most flattering to the egoistical gentleman, for they proclaim him the 'first.' Constantia's offence had been no greater, but it was not that dramatic performance of purity which he desired of an affianced lady, and so the offence was great. The love-season is the carnival of egoism, and it brings the touchstone to our natures. I speak of love, not the mask, and not of the flutings upon the theme of love, but of the passion ; a flame having, like our mortality, death in it as well as life, that may or may not be lasting. Applied to Sir Willoughby, as to thousands of civilized males, the touchstone found him requiring to be dealt with by his betrothed as an original savage. She was required to play incessantly on the first reclaiming chord which led our ancestral satyr to the measures of the dance, the threading of the maze, and the setting conformably to his partner before it was accorded to him to spin her with both hands and a chirrup of his frisky heels. To keep him in awe and hold him enchained, there are things she must never do, dare never say, must not think. She must be cloistral. Now, strange and awful though it be to hear, women per- ceive this requirement of them in the spirit of the man ; they perceive, too, and it may be gratefully, that they address their performances less to the taming of the green and prankish monsieur of the forest than to the pacification of a voracious aesthetic gluttony, craving them insatiably, through all the tenses, with shrieks of the lamentable letter ' I ' for their purity. Whether they see that it has its foundation in the sensual, and distinguish the ultra-refined but lineally great-grandson of the Hoof in this vast and dainty exacting appetite is uncertain. They probably do not ; the more the damage ; for in the appeasement of the glutton they have to practise much simulation ; they are in their way losers like their ancient mothers. It is the pal- pable and material of them still which they are tempted to flourish, wherewith to invite and allay pursuit : a condition under which the spiritual, wherein their hope lies, lan- guishes. The capaciously strong in soul among- women will ultimately detect an infinite grossness in the demand for purity infinite, spotless bloom. Earlier or later they see they have been victims of the singular Egoist, have worn a mask of ignorance to be named innocent, have turned them- TIM. BOO! • produce for his delight, and have really mmodity in ministering n the lust for it, elves to be dragged ages back in playing upon the fleshly inm of happy accidt gratify his jeal ■i. when it should 1 1 : t % « - been their task to il above the fairest fortune, and the gift of gth in women beyond ornamental whiteness. Are t hey nature warriors, like men?— men's mates to b them heroes instead of puppets? But the devouring male -i prefers them as inanimate overwrought polished pure-metal precious vessels, fresh from the hands of the artil r him to walk away with hugging, call all his own, drink of, and till and drink of, and forget th.it he stole them. This running off on a by-road is no deviation from Sir Willoughby Patterne and Miss Clara Middleton. He, a fairly intelligent man, and very sensitive, was blinded to what was going on within her visibly enough, by her pro- on of the article he demanded of her sex. lie had to e tii" fair young lady to ride to his county. town, and his design was to conduct her throuirh the covert of a group of < to revel in her soft confusion. She resisted; lolutely returned to the lawn-sward. He contrasted th Constantia in the amorous time, and rejoiced in lisappointment. He saw the Goddess .Modesty guard- in ■.: Purity; and one would be hold to say that he did not hear the Precepts, Purity's aged grannams maternal and rnal, cawing approval of her over their munching gums. And if you ask whether a man, sensitive and a lover, can be bo blin • i are condemned to re-peruse the foregoing i pli. Miss .Middleton was not sufficiently instructed in the : s to know that she had plunged herself ill the thick of the strife of one of their great battles. Her il position, however, was instilling knowledge rapidly, Hue teaches us what we arc and have tend with. Could she marry this man': He was tly manageable. Could she condescend to the use of ng him to obtain a placable life? — a horror j! So vividly did the Bight of that I ■i unvarying level earth, swim on her fancy, _rry exclusion of it as if it were THE WILD CHERRY-TREE. 107 outside, assailing her : and she nearly stumbled upon young Cross jay. " Oh ! have I hurt you ?" he cried. " No," said she, " it was my fault. Lead me somewhere, away from everybody." The boy took her hand, and she resumed her thoughts; and, pressing his fingers and feeling warm to him both for his presence and silence, so does the blood in youth lead the mind, even cool and innocent blood, even with a touch, that she said to herself : " And if I marry, and then .... Where will honour be then ? I marry him to be true to my word of honour, and if then! . . . . ' An intolerable languor caused her to sigh profoundly. It is written as she thought it ; she thought in blanks, as girls do, and some women. A shadow of the male Egoist is in the chamber of their brains overawing them. 'Were I to marry, and to run !' There is the thought; she is offered up to your mercy. We are dealing with a girl feeling herself desperately situated, and not a fool. " I'm sure you're dead tired, though," said Crossjay. " No, I am not ; what makes you think so ?" said Clara. "I do think so." " But why do you think so ?" " You're so hot." " What makes you think that ?" " Tou're so red." " So are you, Crossjay." "I'm only red in the middle of the cheeks, except when I've been running. And then you talk to yourself, just as boys do when they are blown." " Do they ?" " They say, ' I know I could have kept up longer,' or, 'my buckle broke,' all to themselves, when they break down running." " And you have noticed that ?" " And, Miss Middleton, I don't wish you were a boy, but ] should like to live near you all my life and be a gentleman I'm coming with Miss Dale this evening to stay at the Hal] and be looked after, instead of stopping with her cousin who takes care of her father. Perhaps you and I'll plav chess at night." " At night you will go to bed, Crossjay." 108 Th if I have Sir Willoughby fcocatch bold of. He says inthority on birds' eggs. I can manage rabbits and ponll b a farmer a happy man P But he doesn't A cavalry officer has the besl chance." ■• ! Lng i" I"' a naval officer." •• 1 don'l know. It s n.it positive. I shall bring my two mice, and make them perform gymnastics on the dinner- fcabh rhey're such dear little things. Naval officers are Willoughby." •• No, they are aot," said Clara; "they give their lives to their counl py." \n«l then thcy'i aid Cross jay. I wished Sir Willoughby were confronting her: she (•■ml. I hat e spoken. Sh( i the boy where Mr. Whitford was. Crossjay ecretly in the direction of the double-blossom wild-cherry. Coming within gaze of the stem she beheld •urn stretched at length, reading, she supposed; asleep, she discovered : his finger in t he leai es of a book ; and what book r She had a curiosity to know the title of the book ho would read beneath these boughs, and grasping Crossjay's hand fast she craned her neck, as one timorous of a fall in ling over chasms, for a glimpse of the page; but imme- diately, and still with a bent head, she turned her face to where the load of virginal blossom, whiter than summer- d on the sky, showered and drooped and clustered so thic claim colour and seem, like higher Alpine snows in i alight, a flush of white. From deep to deeper o| white, her eyes perched and soared. Wonder i in her. Happiness in the beauty of the tree pressed ipplant it. and was more mortal and narrower. Reflec- tion came, contracting her vision and weighing her to earth. Her reflection was : •• He must be good who loves to lie and Bleep beneath the branches of this tree!" She would rather mg to her first impression: wonder so divine, so unbounded, was ! iring into homes of angel-crowded ping through folded and on to folded white fountain-bow of wings, in innumerable columns: but the it was | very of it ; she might as well have i child. The sensation of happiness promised t hort-lived in memory, and would have been, had -e of the |. tor happiness ravaged MISS MTDDLETON AND MR. WHITFORD. 109 every corner of it for the secret of its existence. The reflec- tion took root. " He must be good !...." That reflection vowed to endure. Poor by comparison with what it dis- placed, it presented itself to her as conferring something on him, and she would not have had it absent though it robbed her. She looked down. Vernon was dreamily looking up. She plucked Crossjay hurriedly away, whispering that he had better not wake Mr. Whitford, and then she proposed to reverse their previous chase, and she be the hound and he the hare. Crossjay fetched a magnificent start. On his glancing behind he saw Miss Middleton walking listlessly, with a hand at her side. •' There's a regular girl !" said he, in some disgust; for his theory was, that girls always have something the matter with them to spoil a game. CHAPTER XII. MISS MIDDLETON AND MR. VERNON WHITFORD. Looking upward, not quite awakened out of a transient doze, at a fair head circled in dazzling blossom, one may temporize awhile with common sense, and take it for a vision after the eyes have regained direction of the mind. Vernon did so until the plastic vision intcrwound with reality alarmingly. This is the embrace of a Melusine who will soon have the brain if she is encouraged. Slight dalliance with her makes the very diminutive seem as big as life. He ■jumped to his feet, rattled his throat, planted firmness on his brows and mouth, and attacked the dream-giving earth with tremendous long strides, that his blood might be lively at the throne of understanding. Miss Middleton and young Crossjay were within hail: it was her face he had seen, and still the idea of a vision, chased from his reasonable wits, knocked hard and again for readmission. There was little for a man of humble mind toward the sex to think of in the fact of a young lady's bending rather low to peep at him asleep, except that the poise of her slender figure, between 1 10 Till: EGOIST. • ir of spying and of listening, vividly recalled liis liken* to the Mountain Echo. Man or maid sleeping in pen air pro-, pour tip-toe cariosity. Men, it is rn, have in thai state cruelly been kissed; and no rights don them, they arc teased by a vapourish rap- : u li.it has happened to them the poor fellows barely ■■<•: they have a crazy step From that day. But a vision rig; it is our own, we can put it aside and "II to ir. play at rich and poor with it, and are not to be summoned I our laws and rules for secreting it in our B ides, it is tti" go! len key of all the possible: worlds expand beneath the dawn it brings us. Just ide reality, it illumines, enriches and softens real things; — and to desire it in preference to the simple fact, is a damn- ing proof of enervation. 3 Lch was Vernon's winding up of his brief drama of fantasy. He was aware of the fantastical element in him and soon had it under. Which of us who is of any worth is without it ? He had not much vanity to trouble him, and .so his task was not gigantic. Especially be it remarked, thai be was a man of quick pace, the sove- !y for the dispersing of the mental fen-mist. He had tried it and knew that nonsense is to be walked off. Near the end of the park young Crossjay overtook him, and (ting the pumped one a trifle more than needful, I: "I Bay, Mr. Whitford, there's Miss Middleton with her handkerchief out." " What for, my lad ?" said Vernon. "I'm sure I don't know. All of a sudden she bumpl I'ul character." a character." '■ I ;t for an Alpine comrade ?" ''I trades anywhere." ' It i -room sculpture: that is the it !" she dropped a dramatic Bigh. 1 he been willing she would have continued the theme, ■■ a poor creai ore long trnau ing her sensations m the outside. It fell away. A be could not renev it: and he was evidently indif- 1 isfaction dissectel an 1 s'arn^ed MISS MIDDLETON AND MR. WHITFORD. 113 her a foreigner. With it passed her holiday. She had for- gotten Sir Willoughby : she remembered him and said : " You knew Miss Durham, Mr. Whitford." He answered briefly : "I did." " Was she .... ?" some hot-faced inquiry peered forth and withdrew. " Very handsome," said Vernon. "English?" " Yes : the dashing style of English." " Very courageous." " I daresay she had a kind of courage." " She did very wrong." " I won't say no. She discovered a man more of a match with herself ; luckily not too late. We're at the mercy . . ." " Was she not unpardonable ?" " I should be sorry to think that of any one." " But you agree that she did wrong." " I suppose I do. She made a mistake and she corrected it. If she had not, she would have made a greater mistake." " The manner . . . ." " That was bad — as far as we know. The world has not much right to judge. A false start must now and then be made. It's better not to take notice of it, I think." " What is it we are at the mercy of ?" " Currents of feeling, our natures. I am the last man to preach on the subject : young ladies are enigmas to me ; I fancy they must have a natural perception of the husband suitable to them, and the reverse ; and if they have a certain degree of courage, it follows that they please themselves." " They are not to reflect on the harm they do ?" said Miss Middleton. " By all means let them reflect ; they hurt nobody by doing that." ' : But a breach of faith !" " If the faith can be kept through life, all's well." " And then there is the cruelty, the injury !" "I really think that if a young lady came to me to inform me she must break our engagement — I have never been put to the proof, but to suppose it: — I should not think her cruel." " Then she would not be much of a loss." " And I should not think so for this reason, that it is I 114 Til ble for a girl to come to Buch a resolution without .-lv showing signs of n to ber .... the man she is I think ii unfair to engage a girl for longer than elc <>r two, jusl time enough for ber preparations blications." •■ I always intent on himself , signs are likely to be I by him," Baid M iss M Iddleton. llr did nol anawi r, and Bhe said quickly: •• li musi always be a cruelty. The world will think so. It is an acl of inconst •■It' they knew one another well before they were •• An- yon ii"i Bingularly tolerant p" said she. • hidi Vernon replied with airy cordialil •• I -••- it is right to judge by results; we'll leave pity to tin- historian, \\ li" is bonnd to be a professional il:-t and put pleas of human nature out of the scales. lady in question may have been to blame, but no hearts • kin. and here we have four happy instead of two irablo." Ii ality of countenance appealed to her this judgement by results, and she nodded and i he awe-stricken speak. until young Crossjay fi-11 into the and was gol on his legs half- :. with a hanging 1 1 j » and a face like the inside of a tighl have been walking in the desert, and I he pl< be had in societ v. They led the fated lad home between them, singularly ther by their joint ministrations to him, in which v had to -tand fibre, and sweet good nature made any trial. Tiny were hand in hand With the little fello | hysioian aud professional nurse. THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM. 115 CHAPTER XIII. THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM. Crossjat's accident was only another proof, as Vernon told Miss Dale, that the boy was but half monkey. " Something fresh ?" she exclaimed on seeing him brought into the Hall, where she had jiist arrived. " Simply a continuation," said Vernon. " He is not so prehensile as he should be. He probably in extremity relies on the tail that has been docked. Are you a man, Crossjay ?" " I should think I was !" Crossjay replied with an old man's voice, and a ghastly twitch for a smile overwhelmed the compassionate ladies. Miss Dale took possession of him. " Tou err in the other direction," she remarked to Vernon. " But a little bi-acing roughness is better than spoiling him," said Miss Middleton. She did not receive an answer, and she thought, " What- ever Willoughby does is right, to this lady !" Clara's impression was renewed when Sir Willoughby sat beside Miss Dale in the evening; and certainly she had never seen him shine so picturesquely as in his bearing with Miss Dale. The sprightly sallies of the two, their rallyings, their laughter, and her fine eyes, and his handsome gestures, won attention like a fencing match of a couple keen with the foils to display the mutual skill. And it was his design that she should admire the display ; he was anything but obtuse ; en- joying the match as he did and necessarily did to act so excellent a part in it, he meant the observer to see the man he was with a- lady not of raw understanding. So it went on from day to day for three days. She fancied once that she detected the agreeable stirring of the brood of jealousy, and found it neither in her heart nor in her mind, but in the book of wishes, well known to the young, where they write matter which may sometimes be independent of both those volcanic albums. Jealousy would have been a relief to her, a dear devil's aid. She studied the complexion of jealousy to delude herself with the sense of the spirit being in her, and all the while sha i2 1 L6 'l H 3T. i vile theatre whereof the imperfection of the ichinery rather i ban i he performance is the wretched if amusemenl . Vernon had deeply depressed her. She was hunted by the figure 4. Fow happy l of two miserable. He had , it. involving her among the four; and so it must be, she lidered, and Bhe must be as happy as she could ; for not only was he incapable of perceiving her state, he was unable to imagine other circumstam unround her. How, to be jusl to him, were fchey imaginable by him or any one ? Her horrible isolation of Becresy in a world amiable in onsnspectingness, frightene I her. To Sing away her secret, inform, to be unrebellious, uncritical, submissive, became an impatient desire; and the task did not appear so difficult since Miss Dale's arrival. Endearments had been rarer, more formal ; living bodily tmtronbled and unashamed, and, as she phrased it, having no one to care for her, she turned insen- sibly in the direction where she was due; she slightly imitated Miss I tale's colloquial responsiveness. To tell truth, she felt vivacious in a moderate way with Willoughby after Beeing him with Miss Dale. Liberty wore the aspect of a towering prison-wall ; the desperate undertaking of climbing one side and dropping to the other was more than she, unaided, could ilve on ; consequenl ly, as no one cared for her, a worthless i-ure might as well cease dreaming and stipulating for the fulfilmenl of her dreams ; she might as well yield to her make t he best of it. Sir Willoughby was Mattered and satisfied. Clara's adopted vivacity proved his thorough knowledge of feminine nature; nor did her feebleness in sustaining it displease him. A dy look of hers had of Late perplexed the man, and he ltd bj if her inefficiency where he excelled. Tic effort and the failure were both of good omen. Bui she could not continue the effort. He had over- weighted her too much for the mimicry of a sentiment to ■ en and have an apparently natural place among her im- I now an idea came to he]- that he might, it might oped, possibly see in Miss Dale, by present contrast, the iit : by contrast with an unanswering creature herself, he might perhaps realize in Miss Dale's greater implishments and her devotion to him the merit of suit- ability ; he might be induced to do her justice. Dim as the THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM. 117 loophole was, Clara fixed her mind on it till it gathered light. And as a prelude to action, she plunged herself into a state of such profound humility, that to accuse it of being simu- lated would be venturesome, though it was not positive. The tempers of the young are liquid fires in isles of quick- sand ; the precious metals not yet cooled in a solid earth. Her compassion for La?titia was less forced ; but really she was almost as earnest in her self-abasement, for she had not latterly been brilliant, not even adequate to the ordinary re- quirements of conversation. She had no courage, no wit, no diligence, nothing that she could distinguish save discontent- ment like a corroding acid, and she went so far in sincerity as with a curious shift of feeling to pity the man plighted to her. If it suited her purpose to pity Sir Willoughby, she was not moved by policy, be assured ; her needs were her nature, her moods her mird ; she had the capacity to make anything serve her by passing into it with the glance which discerned its usefulness ; and this is how it is that the young, when they are in trouble, without approaching the elevation of scientitic hypocrites, can teach that able class lessons in hypocrisy. " Why should not Willoughby be happy," she said ; and the explanation was pushed forth by the second thought " Then I shall be free !" Still that thought came second. The desire for the happiness of Willoughby was fervent on his behalf, and wafted her far from friends and letters to a narrow Tyrolean valley, where a shallow river ran, with the indentations of a remotely-seen army of winding ranks in column, topaz over the pebbles to hollows of ravishing emerald. There sat Liberty, after her fearful leap over the prison-wall, at peace to watch the water and the falls of sunshine on the mountain above, between descending pine- stem shadows. Clara's wish for his happiness, as soon as she had housed herself in the imagination of her freedom, was of a purity that made it seem exceedingly easy for her to speak to him. The opportunity was offered by Sir Willoughby. Every morning after breakfast, Miss Dale walked across the park to see her father, and on this occasion Sir Willoughby and Miss Middleton went with her as far as the lake, all three discoursing of the beauty of various trees, birches, aspens, poplars, beeches, then in their new green. Miss Dale loved •III. tli.' aspen, Mioa Middleton the beech, Sir Willoughby the ii. and pretty things were Baid by each in praise of the ired object, particularly by Miss Dale. So mnch so that ulnit Bhe bad gone on he recalled one of her remarks, and said: " I bi if the whole place were swept away to- morrow, Lsetitia Dale could reconstruct it, and put those aspens on the aorth of the lake in number and situation cor- rectly where yon have them sow, I would guarantee her iription of it in absence correct." •• Why should Bhe be abseni P" said Clara, palpitating. "Well, why!" returned Sir Willoughby. "As you say, there is no reason why. The art of life, and mine will he principally a country life — town is not life, but a tornado whirling atoms — the art is to associate a group of sympa- thetic friends in our neighbourhood; and it is a fact worth noting that if ever I feel tired of the place, a short talk with tia Dale refreshes it more than a, month or two on the mm hi. She has the well of enthusiasm. And there is a great advantage in having a cultivated person at command, with whom one can chat of any topic under the sun. 1 repeat, you have no need of town if you have friends like Lsetitia Dale within call. My mother esteemed her highly." " Willoughby, she is not obliged to go." " I hope not. And, my love. I rejoice that you have taken to her. Her lather's health is poor. She would be a young spinster to live alone in a country cottage." " What of your Bcheme P" " < > 1 ■ 1 Vernon is a very foolish fellow." "He has declined?" " Nol a word on the subject! I have only to propose it to be snubbed, I know." ' You may not be aware how you throw him into the shade with her." "Nothing seems to teach him the art of dialogue with " Are not gentlemen shy when they see themselves out- • Be hasn't it, my love: Vernon is deficient in the lady's tongue." "I t him for that." tie, vmi say ? I do not know of any shining—' . who lights me, path and person!" THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM. 119 The identity of the one was conveyed to her in a bow and a soft pressure. " Not only has he not the lady's tongue, which I hold to be a man's proper accomplishment," continued Sir Wil- loughby, " he cannot turn his advantages to account. Here has Miss Dale been with him now four days in the house. They are exactly on the same footing as when she entered it. You ask ? I will tell you. It is this : it is want of warmth. Old Vernon is a scholar — and a fish. "Well, perhaps he has cause to be shy of matrimony : but he is a fish." " You are reconciled to his leaving you ?" " False alarm ! The resolution to do anything unaccus- tomed is quite beyond old Vernon." " But if Mr. Oxford — Whitford .... your swans comiug sailing up the lake, how beautiful they look when they are indignant ! I was going to ask you, surely men witnessing a marked admiration for some one else will naturally be dis- couraged ?" Sir Willonghby stiffened with sudden enlightenment. Though the word jealousy had not been spoken, the drift of her observations was clear. Smiling inwardly, he said : and the sentences were not enigmas to her : " Surely, too, young ladies a little ? — Too far ? But an old friendship ! About the same as the fitting of an old glove to a hand. Hand and glove have only to meet. Where there is natural harmony you would not have discord. Ay, but you have it if you check the harmony. My dear girl ! You child !" He had actually, in this parabolic and commendable obscureness, for which she thanked him in her soul, struck the very point she had not named and did not wish to hear named, but wished him to strike : he was anything but obtuse. His exultation, of the compressed sort, was extreme, on hearing her cry out : " Young ladies may be. Oh ! not I, not I. I can con- vince you. Not that. Believe me, Willouebby. I do not know what it is to feel that, or anything like it. I cannot conceive a claim on any one's life — as a claim : or the con- tinuation of an engagement not founded on perfect, perfect sympathy. How should I feel it, then ? It is, as you say of Mr. Ox — Whitford, bevond me." Sir Willoughby caught up the Ox — Whitford. Bursting with laughter in his joyful pride, he called it a '1 I! For she thought and tin re a raw young li the iV of ber plighted man : which is e properly belonging to him: as it were, cpenditure in genuflexions to way- • ■ ■ ace Bhe should bring intact to the Deris ion ins< roots her. subjecl - ber jealousy — he bad no desire to She bad winced: the woman bad been toucl I _■ in the girl : enough. She attempted the subject lintly, and Ins careless parrying threw her i bitten her tongue Eor that reiterated stupid on the name of Whitford; and because she was innocent at f bed in asking herself how she could be guill •ill know the botanic titles of these wildflowers," I. '• W bo ':" he inquired, and Miss Kale." Sir Willoughby shrugged. He was amused. ■ No woman on earth will grace a barouche so exquisitely 1 llai .1 !" ■• W id she. ing our annual two months in London. I drive a ■ tere, and venl prophecy that my equipage t excitement of any in London. I see old Hoi i •■ I >■ I zing !" Sh ed. She could not drag him to the word, or a ssary to her subject. ' then -. she saw it. She had marly let it go, .t being obliged to name it. in mean, Willoughhy ? the people in would he jealous? — Colonel De Craye? How Thi ' jentiment I cannot understand." -; ioul.it. .I the " Of course not" of an i he conl riry. "Il "• . .., I .1 . Dot." ■ in hertrap. Ami he was imagining himself • ■ nature. "' Willoughby P I am so utterly THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM. 121 incapable of it that — listen to me — were you to come to me to te'l me, as you might, how much better suited to you Miss Dale has appeared than I am — and I fear I am not ; it should be spoken plainly ; unsuited altogether, perhaps — I would, I beseech you to believe — you must believe me — give you .... give you your freedom instantly; most truly; and engage to speak of you as I should think of you. Willoughby, you would have no one to praise you in public and in private as I should, for you would be to me the most honest, truthful, chivalrous gentleman alive. And in that case I would undertake to declare that she would not admire you more than I : Miss Dale would not ; she would not admire you more than I ; not even Miss Dale !" This, her first direct leap for liberty, set Clara panting, and so much had she to say that the nervous and the intel- lectual halves of her clashed like cymbals, dazing and stunning her with the appositeness of things to be said,, and dividing her in indecision as to the cunningest to move him of the many pressing. The condition of feminine jealousy stood revealed. He had driven her farther than he intended. " Come, let me allay these . . . ." he soothed her with hand and voice while seeking for his phrase ; " these magni- fied pin-points. Now, my Clara ! on my honour ! and when I put it forward in attestation, my honour has the most serious meaning speech can have ; ordinarily my word has to suffice for bonds, promises or asseverations : on my honour ! not merely is there, my poor child ! no ground of suspicion, I assure you, I declare to you, the fact of the case is the very reverse. Now, mark me ; of her sentiments I cannot pretend to speak ; I did not, to my knowledge, originate, I am not responsible for them, and I am, before the law, as we will say, ignorant of them : that is, I have never heard a declaration of them, and I am, therefore, under pain of the stigma of excessive fatuity, bound to be non- cognizant. But as to myself, I can speak for myself, and, on my honour ! Clara — to be as direct as possible, even to baldness, and you know I loathe it — I could not, I repeat, I could not marry Lcetitia Dale ! Let me impress it on you. No flatteries — we are all susceptible more or less — no con- ceivable condition could bring it about ; no amount of admi- ration. She and I are excellent friends ; we cannot be more. TB ttural concord of our minds a. .man of genius. I do 1 miration of her. There are I require a Lrotitia Dale to bring me 1 indebted to her for the enjoymenl •• ith, fewer still are privilej i' playing with a human being. I am I own, :n ■ I ■ ep gratitude; I own to a livi Dale, i'H if she is displeasing in the : V by .... by the breadth of an eyelash, I Willoughby's arm waved Miss Dale off away into ;ness in i he wildern -hat her 1 led her eyeballs in a frenzy of ■ It from t be Egoisl . I in tin- colloquy to be an advocate common humanity. \h:' said, simply determining that the subject "And, ah! 1 he mocked her tenderly. " True, though! - better than my Clara that I require youth, i the other undefinable attributes fitting mine and beseeming the station of the lady called to r my household and represent me? What says ; per? But you are ! my love, you are ! i tly, and you . . . ." ••I do! I do!" interposed Clara: "if 1 did not by this dd be idiotic. Lei me assure you, I understand < >h ! 1 Miss 1 >ale regards me imanon earth. Willoughby, if I possessed . her hearl and mind, no doubt I should you musi hear me, hear me out — my burning prayer, my wish to She appreciates you: I do not — to my ! you : I do not, I cannot. to her. It has been so for yi ars. No I daresay nol for the impossibility .... vhere we should ; all love bewilders lit. I !'H she loves you, i pined. [ b< 1 1 be health you l!ut you, Willoughby, can . and your society, the THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM. 123 pleasure of your society would certainly restore it. You look so handsome together ! She has unbounded devotion : as for me I cannot idolize. I see faults ; I see them daily. They astonish and wound me. Tour pride would not bear to hear them spoken of, least of all by your wife. You warned me to beware — that is, you said, you said some- thing." Her busy brain missed the subterfuge to cover her slip of the tongue. Sir Willouorhby struck in: "And when I sav that the entire concatenation is based on an erroneous observation of facts, and an ei-roneous deduction from that erroneous obser- vation ! — ? No, no. Have confidence in me. I propose it to you in this instance, purely to save you from deception. You are cold, my love ? you shivered." " I am not cold," said Clara. " Some one, I suppose, was walking over my grave." The gulf of a caress hove in view like an enormous billow hollowing under the curled ridge. She stooped to a buttercup ; the monster swept by. " Your grave !" he exclaimed over her head ; " my own girl!" " Is not the orchis naturally a stranger in ground so far away from the chalk, "Willoughby r" " I am incompetent to pronounce an opinion on such important matters. My mother had a passion for every description of flower. I fancy I have some recollection of her scattering the flower you mention over the park." " If she were living now !" " We should be happy in the blessing of the most esti- mable of women, my Clara." " She would have listened to me. She would have realized what I mean." "Indeed, Clara— poor soul!" he murmured to himself aloud : " indeed you are absolutely in error. If I have seemed — but I repeat, you are deceived. The idea of ' fitness ' is a total hallucination. Supposing you — I do it even in play painfully — entirely out of the way, unthought of . . . ." " Extinct," Clara said low. "Non-existent for me," he selected a preferable lerm. " Suppose it ; I should still, in spite of an admiration I havo 124 tii r. i I it incnmbenl on me to conceal, still be — I < /• of my hand It may be thai i ibedded in my mind i nothing bul ;i friend. I received the stamp ith. People havi ed it — we do, it seems, her "ii inter-reflecting." i him with a shrewd satisfaction to see i\ irk. l, 1 it is ;i common remark," she said. "The she comes near, any one ned the iron gate into the garden, anghty litl le suspicion." •• Bui n i- atiful sight, Willoughby. I like to see r. I like il as I li ee colours match." ■ 11. There is no barm, then. We shall often be fair friend. Bui the instant! — you timent of disapprobation." - I I her. That is, as to the word, I constitute iho, to clear any vestige of suspicion. She of a person doomed to extinction without for whoever offends my bride, my wife, e : very deeply offends me." - of your wife . . . ." Clara stamped ;eptibly on the lawn-sward, which was irre- her fretfulness. She broke from the - mild tone of irony, and said : have their honour to swear by equally have: veto swear an oath at the rake it for uttered when I tell Id make me happier than your union much as I can. Tell me ell-ki v-smile of duty upholding on, he I : "" Allow me once repulsive, inconceivable, that 1 Y to the You reduce me to tiably childish ! But, 1 THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM. 125 my love, have I to remind you that you and I are plighted, and that I am an honourable man ?" " I know it, 1 feel it, release me !" cried Clara. Sir Willoughby severely reprehended his shortsighted- ness for seeing but the one proximate object in the par- ticular attention he had bestowed on Miss Dale. He could not disavow that they had been marked, and with an object, and he was distressed by the unwonted want of wisdom through which he had been drawn to overshoot his object. His design to excite a touch of the insane emotion in Clara's bosom was too successful, and, " I was not thinking of her," he said to himself in his candour, contrite. She cried again : " Will you not, Willoughby ? — release me ?" He begged her to take his arm. To consent to touch him while petitioning for a detach- ment, appeared discordant to Clara, but, if she expected him to accede, it was right that she should do as much as she could, and she surrendered her hand at arm's length, disdaining the imprisoned fingers. He pressed them and said : " Doctor Middleton is in the library. I see Vernon is at work with Crossjay in the West-room — the boy has had sufficient for the day. Now, is it not like old Vernon to drive his books at a cracked head before it's half-mended ?" He signalled to young- Crossjay, who was up and out through the folding windows in a twinkling. " And you will go in, and talk to Vernon of the lady in question," Sir Willoughby whispered to Clara. "Use your best persuasions in our joint names. You have my warrant for saying that money is no consideration ; house and income are assured. You can hardly have taken me seriously when I requested you to undertake Vernon before. I was quite in earnest then as now. I prepare Hiss Dale. I will not have a wedding on our wedding-day : but either before or after it, I gladly speed their alliance. 1 think now 1 give you the best proof possible ; and though I know that with women a delusion may be seen to be groundless and still be cherished, I rely on your good sense." Vernon was at the window and stood aside for her to enter. Sir Willoughby used a gentle insistance with her. She bent her head as if she were stepping into a cave. So frigid was she, that a ridiculous dread of calling Mr. Whit- Till ' . only present nnxiety -when Si* \. .1 the window on them. CHAPTEB XIV. WILLOl GHB* AND I..1TITIA. "I M ISS Dale." - : Willoughby thonght of his promise to Clara. He with young Ci , and then sent the 1 and wrapped himself in meditation. So shall you my a statue of statesmen -who have died in ; | heir country. In the hundred and fourth chapter of the thirteenth' Booh of Egoism, it is written: Possession o lite object possesse I approaches felicity. It ie the rarest condition of ownership. Fur example: on of land is not without obligation both to the . the tax-collector ; the possession of fine clothing is by obligation: gold, jewelry, works of art, bold Furniture, are positive : the pos- a wife we find surcharged with obligation. In all 11 is a gentle term for enslavemi Felicity attained to by the helol drunk. . the pride, the intoxication of posses- no • "ill. sion, and that the most & • a shadow of obliga- r if L;'i\ ing, giving only aui vol re respecl I, by foi-m of iation, if you like; unconscious poral ■ cess For the sysh Female's worship, is this hardly I asou other • yov continue , utional ei roar: a ; supply. SIR W1LL0UGHBY AND L-ETITIA. 127 ing spirit to your matter, while at the same time presenting matter to your spirit, verily a comfortable apposition. The Gods do bless it. That they do so indeed is evident in the men they select for such a felicitous crown and aureole. Weak men would be rendered nervous by the flattery of a woman's worship ; or they would be for returning it, at least partially, as though it could be bandied to and fro without einulgence of the poetry ; or they would be pitiful, and quite spoil the thing. Some would be for transforming the beautiful soli- tary vestal flame by the first effort of the multiplication- table into your hearth-fire of slippered affection. So these men are not they whom the Gods have ever selected, but rather men of a pattern with themselves, very high and very solid men, who maintain the crown by holding divinely indepen- dent of the great emotion they have sown. Even for them a pass of danger is ahead, as we shall see in our sample of one among the highest of them. A clear approach to felicity had long been the portion of Sir Willoughby Patterne in his relations with Lrctitia Dale. She belonged to him; he was quite unshackled by her. She was everything that is good in a parasite, nothing that is bad. His dedicated critic she was, reviewing him with a favour equal to perfect efficiency in her office; and whatever the world might say of him, to her the happy gentleman could constantly turn for his refreshing balsamic bath. She flew to the soul in him, pleasingly arousing sensations of that inhabitant ; and he allowed her the right to fly, in the manner of kings, as we have heard, consenting to the privi- leges acted on by cats. These may not address their Majesties, but they may stare; nor will it be contested that the attentive circular eyes of the humble domestic creatures are an embellishment to Royal pomp and grandeur, such truly as should one day gain for them an inweaving and figurement — in the place of bees, ermine tufts, and their various present decorations — upon the august great robes back-flowing and foaming over the gaspy page-boys. Further to quote from the same volume of The Book: fhere is pain in the surrendering of that we are fain to relinquish. The idea is too exquisitely attenuate, as are those of the whole body-guard of the heart of Egoism, and will slip 'Ill '! li.-r [e a study of the ond seel : '>n~ of The will ta ap i" senility ; or you m into the pages, perchance; or an , iem . There was once a venerable gentleman ■ i.- cop <>f his nose, langhing i i ed himself to it in the end, and tpparil ion. It does no! concern was i I on his c :e and lifs thai he i fine thing, bnt not so fine as , bove; which has been between the two e; ighl in marriage. hi ii may have been a ghostly hair bnt for us it is a i profitably imitate him in his it. by Pat! ly in the pursuit of I conple) to casi .Miss Dalo ; j i der that he was not simply, so to speak, as casting her for a man to i this was :i much greater trial than it had . w hen she went over bump to I",i of i husband, there was no know- }he mighl her soul's fidelity. It had tch the project of the conjunction; iitu; lint he winced and smarted on 1 • L his idea of Loetitia. a change in her fortune, her ;eless, he, for t lie sake of I to kt bwo serviceable persons nd, mighl resolve to join them. The . w it li it a certain pallid con. lally faithless woman; no wonder be . and opened Li on the score! . and tic able wiles of that e, who runs for life. She is But close it. nil having been doi By by men, men - wisdom, and Eor the confusion of h like sombre gold) # I his undertaking. SIR WILLOUGHBY AND L.ETITIA. 129 An examination of Lastitia's faded complexion braced him very cordially. His Clara jealous of this poor leaf ! He could have desired the transfusion of a quality or two from Laetitia to his bride ; but you cannot, as in cookery, obtain a mixture of the essences of these creatures ; and if, as it is possible to do, and as he had been doing recently with the pair of them at the Hall, you stew them in one pot, you are far likelier to intensify their little birth-marks of individuality. Had they a tendency to excellence, it might be otherwise ; they might then make the exchanges we wish for ; or scientifically concocted in a harem for a sufficient length of time by a sultan anything but obtuse, they might. It is however fruitless to dwell on what was only a glimpse of a wild regret, like the crossing of two express trains along the rails in Sir Willoughby's head. The ladies Eleanor and Isabel were sitting with Miss Dale, all three at work on embroideries. He had merely to look at Miss Eleanor. She rose. She looked at Miss Isabel, and rattled her chatelaine to account for her depar- ture. After a decent interval Miss Isabel glided out. Such was the perfect discipline of the household. Sir Willoughby played an air on the knee of his crossed leg. Laetitia grew conscious of a meaning in the silence. She said, " You have not been vexed by affairs to-day ? " " Affairs," he replied, " must be peculiarly vexatious to trouble me. Concerning the country or my personal affairs ? " " I fancy I was alluding to the country." " I trust I am as good a patriot as any man living," said he ; " but I am used to the follies of my countrymen, and we are on board a stout ship. At the worst it's no worse than a rise ic rates and taxes ; soup at the Hall-gates, perhaps ; license to fell timber in one of the outer copses, or some dozen loads of coal. You hit my feudalism." " The knight in armour has gone," said -Lastitia, " and the castle with the draw-bridge. Immunity for our island has gone too since we took to commerce." " We bartered independence for commerce. You hit our old controversy. Ay, but we do not want this overgrown population ! However, we will put politics and sociology K 1 I! ( their i is words aside. Ton been, I will not say annoyed, I iuch to do, an ig into Parliament t helpless it I a. Von know lie lias ? •. fame, and bachelor's ; a chop-hou I i he resi ol it." thinking differently in the matter of she flnshed, an i ashame I of the flush, frowned. ||. to her with the perusing earnestness of a kbonl to trifle. "1 end that frown?" "I rn?" •■ « I are me ? " M Wil - I can." \ me him. With no woman on earfL u;J I.e dl to himself seigneur and da ineold he did with Laetitia Dale Ho aid not riod revived, but reserved it jarde^ to stray mood for displaying elegance and in the a lady ; and in speei a Leet it ia She was nut devoid of grace Would she j e her beautiful responsiveness to his Eitherto she had, and for . and quite l. But f her as a married woman? Gar souls are ie conditions of our animal nature! A mother, it was within sober calculation that could be great changes in her. And the nint of any a total change to one of the lofty order C llled on to relinquish possession insl . & 11 or nothin N\ ■ if ther< of the marriage-tie effecting 'i of her character or habit of mind, ilerably hardened spinster ! t I hand in Y ernon's for itely that the injury then done sen-it iveir SS had sic 1 e of two or three successive SIR WILLOUGHBY AND L.ETITIA. 131 anniversaries of his coming of age. Nor had he altogether yet got over the passion of greed for the whole group of the well-favoured of the fair sex. which in his early youth had made it bitter for him to submit to the fickleness, not to say immodest fickleness, of anv handsome one of them in vieldinsf her hand to a man and suffering herself to be led away. Ladies whom he had only heard of as ladies of some beauty, incurred his wrath for having lovers or taking husbands. He was of a vast embrace ; and do not exclaim, in covetousness ; — for well he knew that even under Moslem law he could not have them all ; — but as the enamoured custodian of the sex's purity, that blushes at such big spots as lovers and husbands > and it was unbearable to see it sacrificed for others. With- out their purity what are they ! — what are fruiterer's plums ? — unsaleable. for the bloom on them ! "As I said, I lose my right hand in Vernon," he resumed, " and I am, it seems, inevitably to lose him, unless we con- trive to fasten him down here. I think, my dear Miss Dale, you have my character. At least, I should recommend my future biographer to you — with a caution, of course. You would have to write selfishness with a dash under it. I can- not endure to lose a member of my household — not under any circumstances ; and a change of feeling to me on the pat fc of any of my friends because of marriage, I think hard. I would ask you, how can it be for Vernon's good to quit an easy pleasant home for the wretched profession of Literature? — wretchedly paying, I mean," he bowed to the authoress. "Let him leave the house, if he imagines he will not har- monize with its young mistress. He is queer, though a good fellow. But he ought, in that event, to have an establish- ment. And my scheme for Vernon — men, Miss Dale, do not change to their old friends when they marry — my scheme, which would cause the alteration in his system of life to be barely perceptible, is to build him a poetical little cottage, large enough for a couple, on the borders of my park. I have the spot in my eye. The point is, can he live alone there ? Men, I say, do not change. How is it that we can- not say the same of women ? " Lastitia remarked : " The generic woman appears to have an extraordinary faculty for swallowing the individual.'' "As to the individual, as to a particular person, I may be wrong. Precisely because it is her case I think of, ray k2 . ■ he fear: unworthy of both, no i- to the source. Even pure friendship, . . Lin 1 of jealousy ; though I and near me, happy and my I,; a with her incomparable social H,t 1 d erically, re." the honour t<- allude to me, Sir Willoughby," I am my fi 3 housemai< ;• would take that for a refusal ? He would third in the house and a sharer of your affectionate | tly, why not? And I may be arguing own happiness : it may be the end of me ! " ■• i >K1 friends are captious, exacting. jSTo, not the end. 1 lie same to me, it is the end to that hip: not to the degree possibly. But when L to the form ! And do you, in i s application to friendship, scorn the word 'user 1 ' We are creatures of i, I con a poltroon in my affections; I The shadow of the tenth of an inch in the vation of an eyelid! — to give you an idea of ibility. And, my dear Miss Dale, I throw myself on your charity, with all my weakness bare, let me add, as I i to none but you. Consider, then, if I lose you! :• is due to my pusillanimity entirely. High-souled v be wives, mothers, and still reserve that home < • ■!. They can and will conquer the viler con- human life. Our states, I have always contended, phases have to be passed through, and there is ace in it so long as they do not levy toll on the al, the spiritual element. You understand me ? in these abstract elucidations." cself clearly," said Lsetitia. pretended that psychology was my forte," y overshadowed by her cold commendation: he -itive to the fractional divisions of ,: were, a melody with which i of tune that did not modestly or mutely • lelody in your person is incom- thau ihe best of touchstones and "Your father's health has im* ■ SIR WILLOUGHBY AND L^TITIA. 133 " He did not complain of his health when I saw him this morning. My cousin Amelia is with him, and she is an excellent nurse." " He has a liking for Vernon." " He has a great respect for Mr. Whitford." " You have ? " " Oh ! yes ; I have it equally." " For a foundation, that is the surest. I would have the friends dearest to me begin on that. The headlong match is ! — how can we describe it ? By its finale. I am afraid. Vernon's abilities are really to be respected. His shyness is his malady. I suppose he reflected that he was not a capitalist. He might, one would think, have addressed himself to me ; my purse is not locked." " No, Sir Willoughby ! " La?titia said warmly, for his donations in charity were famous. Her eyes gave him the food he enjoyed, and basking in them, he continued : " Vernon's income would at once have been regulated commensurately with a new position requiring an increase. This money, money, money ! But the world will have it so. Happily I have inherited habits of business and personal economy. Vernon is a man who would do fifty times more with a companion appreciating his abilities and making light of his little deficiencies. They are palpable, small enough. He has always been aware of my wishes : — when perhaps the fulfilment might have sent me off on another tour of the world, home-bird though I am ! When was it that our friendship commenced ? In my boyhood, I know. Very many years back." " I am in my thirtieth year," said Lcetitia. Surprised and pained by a baldness resembling the deeds of ladies (they have been known, either through absence of mind, or mania, to displace a wig) in the deadly intimacy which slaughters poetic admiration, Sir Willoughby punished her by deliberately reckoning that she did not look less. "Genius," he observed, "is unacquainted with wrinkles : " hardly one of his prettiest speeches ; but he had been wounded, and he never could recover immediately. Coming on him in a mood of sentiment, the wound was sharp. He could very well have calculated the lady's age. It was the in i] r. ■i of it upon his low . . dral-clock on tlie mantel- il] on the law d before dinner, ip her ■ lery work. !. •• inn aot needlewomen." "I shall] ■ a< die Oi the pen if it stamps me an ■ plied. II 1 a compliment on her truly exceptional \> when the player's finger rests in distraction : as without measure and disgusted his own he had been so good as to dimii "ii thai the marriage of a lady in her thirtieth a Vi aon would be so much of a loss to parading the lawn, now and then casting window of the room where his Clara and -chemes he indulged for his :i and ' Lings of the moment were in 3 that to which we hear orchestral their instruments under the pro. is not ] t, l>ut it promises to he so -. which have their dulcimers ever h. We arc mortals, attaining the celestial through a mere of pain. Some degree of to Sir Willoughby, otherwise he would ronting him. He grew, incline!] to Laetitia once more, so far as bin hi: ■ For conversation she -would be a A ; this valuable wife he was presenting duration of the conference of -in required strong persuasion | UTIlIi XV. TTTE PETITK A RELEASE. ' the i lid-day tahle. I with .Miss Dale on :al matters, THE PETITION FOR A RELEASE. luO like a good-natured giant giving a child the jump from stone to stone across a brawling mountain ford, so that an unedified audience might really suppose, upon seeing her over the difficulty, she had done something for herself. Sir Willoughby was proud of her, and therefore anxious to settle her business while he was in the humour to lose her. He hoped to finish it by shooting a word or two at Vernon before dinner. Clara's petition to be set free, released from him, had vaguely frightened even more than it offended his pride. Miss Isabel quitted the room. She came back, saying, "They decline to lunch." " Then we may rise," remarked Sir Willoughby. " She was weeping," Miss Isabel murmured to him. " Girlish enough," he said. The two elderly ladies went away together. Miss Dale, pursuing her theme with the Rev. doctor, was invited by him to a course in the library. Sir Willoughby walked up and down the lawn, taking a glance at the West-room as he swung round on the turn of his leg. Growing impatient, he looked in at the window and found the room vacant. Nothing was to be seen of Clara and Vernon during the afternoon. Near the dinner-hour the ladies were informed by Miss Middleton's maid that her mistress was lying down on her bed, too unwell with headache to be present. Young Crossjay brought a message from Vernon (delayed by birds' eggs in the delivery), to say that he was off over the hills, and thought of dining with Dr. Corney. Sir Willoughby despatched condolences to his bride. He was not well able to employ his mind on its customary topic, being, like the dome of a bell, a man of so pervading a ring within himself concerning himself, that the recollection of a doubtful speech or unpleasant circumstance touching him closely, deranged his inward peace; and as dubious and unpleasant things will often occur, he had great need of a worshipper, and was often compelled to appeal to her for signs of antidotal idolatry. In this instance, when the need of a worshipper was sharply felt, he obtained no signs at all. The Rev. doctor had fascinated Miss Dale ; so that, both within and without, Sir Willoughby was uncomforted. His themes in public were those of an English gentleman; horses, dogs, game, sport, intrigue, scandal, politics, wine3, Til : 3T. mrtnlv tTirm.^ ; with a i lension to ladies' tattle, racy . Whai interest could lily take in the Athenian Theatre and bhe girl wl | I ing the nightingale, k audience! lie would have suspected a : in Miss Dale's eager attentiveness, if the motive ■ been conceived. Besides, the ancients were not - ; they did not, as we make our i lerns do, write ii hi.. I at tlit; dinner- table to interrupt M i.ldl. will do wisely, I think, sir, by confining ; edil ion of i ' ics." "Tl it," replied Dr. Middleton, "is the observation of a of the dictionary of classical mythology in the is a matter of climate, sir. Tou will grant • 3 come of climate, it is as you say, sir." " • ■ a itter of painful fostering, or the . of it," Baid Miss Dale, with a question to Dr. Middle- - Sir Willonghby, as though he had been a ce of the flow of their dialogue. • and Isabel, previously excellent arned talk, saw the necessity of coming to ; but you cannot converse with your aunts, ii- house, on general subjects at table; the ! his discomposure; he considered that he ill-chosen bis father-in-law; that scholars are an ag or youngish women are devo y form, and will be a d by a scholar for : man; concluding that he must have a round . i specially ladies, apprecial ing isit. Clara's headache above, and annerliness below, affected his instincts him apprehend thai a stroke of misfortune _'; thunder was in the air. Still he iearnt ithii which he i profit subsequently. The v the doctor from his classics; it was A Btrong aity of taste was discovered sanest upon particular wines one another by naming great md if Sir Willoughby had to sacrifice THE PETITION FOR A RELEASE. 1C7 the ladies to the topic, he much regretted a condition of things that compelled him to sin against his habit, for the sake of being in the conversation and probing an elderly gentleman's foible. Late at night he heard the house-bell, and meeting Vernon in the ball, invited him to enter the laboratory and tell him Dr. Corney's last. Vernon was brief ; Corney bad not let ily a single anecdote, be said, and lighted his candle. " By the way, Vernon, you had a talk with Miss Middleton ? " " She will speak to you to-morrow at twelve." " To-morrow at twelve ? " " It gives her four and twenty hours." Sir Willoughby determined that his perplexity should be seen ; but Vernon said good night to him, and was shooting up the stairs before the dramatic exhibition of surprise had yielded to speech. Thunder was in the air and a blow coming. Sir Willoughby 's instincts were awake to the many signs, nor, though silenced, were they hushed by his harping on the frantic excesses to which women are driven by the passion of jealousy. He believed in Clara's jealousy because he really had intended to rouse it ; under the form of emulation, feebly. He could not suppose she bad spoken of it to Vernon. But as for the seriousness of her desire to be released from her engage- ment, that was little credible. Still the fixing of an hour for her to speak to bim after an interval of four and twenty hours, left an opening for the incredible to add its weight to the suspicious mass : and who would have fancied Clara Middleton so wild a victim of the intemperate passion ! lie muttered to himself several assnageing observations to excuse a young lady half-demented, and rejected them in a lump for their nonsensical inapplicability to Clara. In order to obtain some sleep, he consented to blame himself slightly, in the style of the enamoured historian of erring Beauties alluding to their peccadilloes. He had done it to edify her. Sleep, however, failed him. That an inordinate jealousy argued an overpowering love, solved his problem until he tried to fit the proposition to Clara's character. He had discerned nothing southern in her. Latterly, with the blushing Day in prospect, she had contracted and fr< v, n. There Avas no reading either of her or the mvsterv. TB [ST. • fche bi ' ible, a confession of epting Miss 1 >ale and 1 h: a w ink. " J, sir," i he doctor . •• alepl like a lexicon in your Whitford and I b of it.'' \. A\ mentioned thai ho had been writing I lit. -." Sir Willonghby reproved [ make it a principle to get throngh : d her father f< iptom of ridicule. He matic worker. She was unable to would have in him an ally or a jndge. ared. Now thai she had embraced the the division of the line where she stood from here the world places girls who are affianced ild hardly be with her; it had cone too : i t he would certainly take her to be . maddish whim ; he would not try to understand station of a disarrangement of had been by miracle contrived to run d of itself rank him against her; and with w of her, he might behave like a How could she defend herself before him ? Sir Willonghby, her tongue made ready, •rt to prompt it; but to her father ild imagine herself opposing only dumbness and '.. ind of work," she said. warded her with a bush] eyebrow's beam iur ai the baronet's notion of work, ded to quicken her that she sunned her- : i i'- eyes to stay with 1 Id, and beginning to hope he mighi be won ■ she had been more in the wrong thai is, her error in not earlier ed Sir Willonghby, 1 of opinion. "My poor work is for ; . for the day to come. 1 r t lie preservation of health, as the I THE PETITION FOK A RELEASE. 139 " Of continued work : there I agree with yon," said Dr. lliddleton cordially. Clara's heart sank ; so little "was needed to deaden her. Accuse her of an overweening antagonism to her betrothed; vet remember that though the "words had not been uttered to give her good reason for it, nature reads nature ; captives may be stript of everything save that power to read their tyrant; remember also that she was not, as she well knew, blameless ; her rage at him was partly against herself. The rising from table left her to Sir Willoughby. She Bwam away after Miss Dale, exclaiming, " The laboratory ! Will you have me for a companion on your walk to see your father ? One breathes earth and heaven to-day out of doors. Isn't it Summer with a Spring - breeze ? I will wander about your garden and not hurry your visit, I promise." " I shall be very happy indeed. But I am going imme- diately," said Lretitia, seeing Sir Willoughby hovering to snap up his bride. " Yes ; and a garden-hat and I am on the march." " I will wait for you on the terrace." " You will not have to wait." " Five minutes at the most," Sir Willoughby said to La?titia, and she passed out, leaving them alone together. " Well, and my love ! " he addressed his bride almost hnggingly ; " and what is the story ? and how did you succeed with old Vernon yesterday ? He will and he won't ? He's a very woman in these affairs. I can't forgive him for giving you a headache. You were found weeping." " Yes, I cried," said Clara. " And now tell me about it. You know, mv dear erirl, whether he does or doesn't, our keeping him somewhere in the neighbourhood — perhaps not in the house — that is the material point. It can hardly be necessary in these days to urge marriages on. I'm sure the country is over .... Most marriages ought to be celebrated with the funeral knell ! " " I think so," said Clara. "It will come to this, that marriages of consequence, and none but those, will be hailed with joyful peals." " Do not say such things in public, Willoughby." " Only to you, to you ! Don't think me likely to expose mvself to the world. Well, and I sounded Miss Dale, TI T. will be no violent cle. And now about • ! • . Willoughb; n I return from •tli Mi-s hair, bood after twelve." he. "i . ,!•. Ii • childish. I can explain it. I cannot deny, because I am a rather ■i perhaps, and have it prescribed to me to lin length of time. I may tell At. WTiitford is not to be persuaded by ment would not induce lin." I ords ? " dng of our engagement!' Come into the ' , my 1"'. •• I -iiall IMl have til:. " ] p rather than interfere with our conversa- 1 Tl ang . . . . !' but it's a sort of sacrilege I it." it has to be spoken of." Wny ? I can't conceive the occasion. know, to m<- a, plighted faith, the afliancing of . is a piece of religion. I rank it as holy as it is holier; I really cannot tell you i 1 to you in your bosom to understand I of divorces with comparative indifference. en couples who have rubbed off all ro- i Sh< 1 him in her fit of ironic iciness, on him thus blindly challenge her to speak out, whether •_ r ht be his piece of religion. !!• I the more anwarlike .-entiments in her by lei them go their several ways. ■ in the category of the Tint 1 1 . he breaking of an engage- Oh ! " Cli ith a swan's note swelling il imit him to dolorousness illimitable. ' it be now. Do not speak My head may not be clear by-and- eyoi d my endurance. THE PETITION FOR A RELEASE. 141 I am penitent for the wrong I have done you. I grieve for you. All the blame is mine. Willoughby, you must release me. Do not let me hear a word of that word ; jealousy is unknown to me .... Happy if I could call you friend and see you with a worthier than I, who might by-and-by call me friend ! You have my plighted troth .... given in ignorance of my feelings. Reprobate a weak and foolish girl's ignorance. I have thought of it, and I cannot see wickedness, though the blame is great, shameful. You have none. You are without any blame. You will not suffer as I do. You will be generous to me ? I have no respect for myself when I beg you to be generous and release me." " But this was the . . . . " Willoughby preserved his calmness, " this, then, the subject of your interview with Vernon ? " " I have spoken to him. I did my commission, and 1 spoke to him." " Of me ? " " Of myself. I see how I hurt you ; I could not avoid it. Yes, of you, as far as we are related. I said I believed you would release me. I said I could be true to my plighted word, but that you would not insist. Could a gentleman insist 't But not a step beyond ; not love ; I have none. And, Willoughby, treat me as one perfectly worthless ; I am. I should have known it a year back. I was deceived in myself. There- should be love." " Should be ! " Willoughby 's tone was a pungent com- ment on her. "Love, then, I find I have not. I think I am antagonistic to it. What people say of it I have not experienced. I find I was mistaken. It is lightly said, but very painful. You understand me, that my prayer is for liberty, that I may not be tied. If you can release and pardon me, or promise ultimately to pardon me, or say some kind word, I shall know it is because I am beneath you utterly that I have been unable to give you the love you should have with a wife. Only say to me, go ! It is you who break the match, discovering my want of a heart. What people think of me matters little. My anxiety will be to save you annoyance." She waited for him : he seemed on the verge of speaking. He perceived her expectation; he had nothing but clown- I !'2 TH] I * within, and his dignity counselled him to dis. bis head, li i oriental palm whose shade is n bl the perfervid wanderer below, smiling gravely, :ing his dignity what he could say to al this mad young woman a bitterly com- What lO think, hung remoter. The him first. th her h threw the door wide open, 1, with countless blinkings: "In the laboratory we rrnpted. 1 was at a loss to guess where that most uii]' m the senses came from. They are always h the nose. I mean, the remainder of Perhaps I satirized them too smartly — if the letters. When they are not 'calculating.' Mori usive than debris of a midnight banquet! An Ami tour is instructive, though not so romantic. Xot Italy, I mean. Let us escape." SI From his arm. She had scattered his it was pitiable: hut she was in the torrent and !• a pause or a change of place. " !t m i-t be here; one minute more — I cannot go else- wh( in. Speak to me here; answer my word. If you forgive me, it will be •i. Km , release n ly," he rejoined, "tea-cups and coffee-cups, bread- s-shells, caviare, butter, beef, bacon! Can we? ■ m re< !. ii I will go for my walk with Miss Dale. And you will me when I return ? " STou shall go with Miss Dale. But, i'.' my love! S -ly, where are we? One h< . Now,] never quarrel. It is a character- And you speak of me to my cousin Vernon ! ly, plighted faith signifies plighted faith, as much as "" i iron to hold by. Some little twist of the To Vernon, of all men! Tnsh! she has been of perfection, and the comparison is I i her Willoughby. But, my Clara, when I thai bride is b ide, and you are mine, mine ! " ty, you mei I them. — those separations of THE PETITION FOR A RELEASE. 143 two married. Yon said, if they do not love .... Oh ! say, is it not better .... instead of later ? " He took advantage of her modesty in speaking- to exclaim: " Where are we now ? Bride is bride, and wife is wife, and affianced is, in honour, wedded. You cannot be released. We are united. Recognize it : united. There is no possibility of releasing a wife ! " " Not if she ran ? This was too direct to be histrionically misunderstood. He had driven her to the extremity of more distinctly imagining the circumstance she had cited, and with that cleared view the desperate creature gloried in launching such a bolt at the man's real or assumed insensibility as must, by shivering it, waken him. But in a moment she stood in burning rose, with dimmed eyesight. She saw his horror, and seeing shared it ; shared just then only by seeing it; which led her to rejoice with the deepest of sighs that some shame was left in her. " Ran ? ran ? ran ? " he said as rapidly as he blinked. " How ? where ? what idea ?...." Close was he upon an explosion that would have sullied his conception of the purity of the younger members of the sex hauntingly. That she, a young lady, maiden, of strictest education, should, and without his teaching, know that wives ran ! — know that by running they compelled their husbands to abandon pursuit, surrender possession! — and that she should suggest it of herself as a wdfe ! — that she should speak of running ! — His ideal, the common male Egoist ideal of a waxwork sex would have been shocked to fragments had she spoken further to fill in the outlines of these awful interjections. She was tempted: for during the last few minutes the fire of her situation had enlightened her understanding upon a subject far from her as the ice-fields of the North a short while before ; and the prospect offered to her courage if she would only outstare shame and seem at home in the doings of wickedness, was his loathing and dreading so vile a young woman. She restrained herself ; chiefly, after the first bridling of maidenly timidity, because she could not bear to lower the idea of her sex even in his esteem. T! T. n. She had thoughts ot flying out to ! of tn; .1 on her situation hurriedly askance: • ■ - in be disentangled from an hat mnst it be to poor women seeking to be it, Sir Willoughby might have learnt that • iniquitously wise of the things of this world as I instinct, ronsed to the intemperateness of ling with fetters, had made her appear in apon, indicated moreover by him. k up the old broken vow of women to vow it bo any man will I give my hand.' Sir Willoughby: "I have said all. I cannot 3aid." ■ in the e. Vernon entered. Pi s* them, lie stated his mission in apology : "Dr. a book in this room. I see it ; it's a "Ha! by the way, a book; books -would not be left .here : lure, with my compliments to Dr. who may do as he p] . i hough seriously aid Sir Willoughby. " Come away to the 1 It's a comment on human beings that er they have been there's a mess, and you admirers ivided a sickly nod between Vernon and the t table, "'must make what you can of it. 1 ted that she was engaged to walk with Miss Dale is waiting in the hall," said Vernon. I ing," said Clara. ; with Hale: walk with Miss Dale," Sir '-'•d'\ ssingly. "I will beg her to wait Yon shall find her in the hall when a. be bell and went out. our confidence; she is quite trust- ■ ne step," she replied. in a posil in of your own , you d a to escape THE PETITION FOR A RELEASE. 145 you must make up your mind to pitched battles, and not be dejected if you are beaten in all of them ; there is your only chance." " Not my choosing ; do not say choosing, Mr. Whitford. I did not choose. I was incapable of really choosing. I consented." " It's the same in fact. But be sure of what you wish." "Yes," she assented, taking it for her just punishment that she should be supposed not quite to know her wishes. " Tour advice has helped me to-day." " Did I advise ? " " Do you regret advising ? " " I should certainly regret a word that intruded between you and him." " But you will not leave the Hall yet ? You will not leave me without a friend ? If papa and I were to leave to- morrow, I foresee endless correspondence. I have to stay at least some days, and wear through it, and then, if I have to speak to my poor father you can imagine the effect on him." Sir Willoughby came striding in, to correct the error of his going out. " Miss Dale awaits you, my dear. You have bonnet, hat ? — No ? Have you forgotten your appointment to walk with her ? " " I am ready," said Clara, departing. The two gentlemen behind her separated in the passage. They had not spoken. She had read of the reproach upon women, that they divide the friendships of men. She reproached herself, but she was in action, driven by necessity, between sea and rock. ] )readf ul to think of 1 she was one of the creatures who are written about. TH BT. CHAPTER XVI. CL.\l:.\ a \ D LSTLTIJL I\ irable c , Vernon had said thii Middleton m< rily determined than Bhe n in th with Sir Willot His counting it for her in all of i hem, made • slack in comparison with the i iiuw animating her. Ami Bhe could vein thai Bhe had not chosen; she was too ignorai hoose. Hi- had wrongly used that I malicious; and to call consenting the ring, was wilfully unjust. Mr. Whitford :it well; he was conscientious, very conscientious. But • the hero descending from heaven bright-sworded man's fetters off her Limbs and deliver her ■. iiinir mouth-abyf His logical coolness of • lation with her when Bhe casl aside tin- silly mission I t" her by Sir Willoughby and wept for herself, rtion to it^ praiseworthiness. Hi' had • i her to d ■ thing she wished done, stipulating hould !"• a pause "!' four and t w< I ir her to •• of it before she proceeded in the elf. Of consolation there had not - ' ' I : 1 1 r i t lie lasl inan to give advice had by qo means astonished him on raim- out. It came out. she knew not i ii]> to by his declining the idea of mar- her cong m on his exemption from bul memory v* i dull to revive of broken la when Bhe dire misconduct. Th 1 sman carcely a friend. Ho could look mi her hing her. Sip h I - lothed her ted in her bosom to dash ight. She neverthe hi transparent ; his air of mch, hut why plead your case to CLAItA AND KEITH A. 147 me ?" And his recommendation to her to be qnite sure she did know what she meant, was a little insulting. She exonerated him from the intention ; he treated her as a girl. By what he said of Miss Dale, he proposed that lady for imitation. " I must be myself or I shall be playing hypocrite to dig my own pitfall," she said to herself, while taking counsel with Lastitia as to the route for their walk, and admiring a becoming- curve in her companion's hat. Sir Willoughby, with many protestations of regret that letters of business debarred him from the pleasure of accom- panying them, remarked upon the path proposed by Miss Dale : " In that case you must have a footman." " Then we adopt the other," said Clara, and they set forth. "Sir Willoughby," Miss Dale said to her, "is always in alarm about our unprotectedness." Clara glanced up at the clouds and closed her parasol. She replied, " It inspires timidity." There was that in the accent and character of the answer which warned La^titia to expect the reverse of a quiet chatter with Miss Middleton. " You are fond of walking ?" She chose a peaceful topic. " Walking or riding ; yes, of walking," said Clara. " The difficulty is to find companions." " We shall lose Mr. Whitf ord next week." " He goes ? " " He will be a great loss to me, for I do not ride," Lastitia replied to the off-hand inquiry. " Ah ! " Miss Middleton did not fan conversation when she simply breathed her voice. Laetitia tried another neutral theme. " The weather to-day suits our country," she said. " England, or Patterne Park ? I am so devoted to moun- tains that I have no enthusiasm for flat land." " Do you call our country flat, Miss Middleton ? We have undulations, hills, and we have sufficient diversity, meadows, rivers, copses, brooks, and good roads, and pretty by-paths." " The prettiness is overwhelming. It is very pretty to see; but to live with, 1 think 1 prefer ugliness. I can imagine learning* to love ugliness. It's honest. However young you are, you cannot be deceived by it. These parks l2 1 { - TB T. prettiness. I would rather I ightful green walks, paths through lit of way for the public." should 1 Dale, wondering ; and Clara 1 chafe at restraint; hedges and palings every- Id have t<> travel ten years to sit down • fortifications. <)f course I can read us rich kind of English country with pleasure in poetry. > require poetry. What would you say airing it ? " ompanionable but that the haze of e i 1 1 1 j >i< »\ es the view." ■• Then yon do know thai you arc the wisi Lfletitia raised her dark eyelashes; she Bought to under- I. She could only fancy she did ; and if she did, it meant thai Bliss Middle tou thought her wise iu remaining single. Clara was full of a sombre preconception that her ' ' had been hinted to .M isa I 'ale. ■ V..; knew Miss Durham ?" she said. •• No! inl imately." j mi know me ? " '' 1 1 v more of her ? " .id with me." M Oh! M Dale, I would no! be r< served with you." thrill of the voi< d Lsetitia to steal a look. 1 bright, and she had the readiness to run ken: otherwise she did not i will never allow any of these noble trees to be ddleton." ban decay, do you not think ? " "1 t. ; ir influence will be great and always used to Miss I 'ale ? I have begged a favour this in the j d, bui Clara's face was more significant. "Whal ? " 1( m I.atitia's lips. je herself, Clara had answered: CLAKA AND L.ETITIA. 149 In another and higher tone Laetitia said : " What ? " and she looked round on her companion ; she looked in doubt that is open to conviction by a narrow aperture, and slowly and painfully yields access. Clara saw the vacancy of her expression gradually filling with woefulness. " I have begged him to release me from my engagement, Miss Dale." " Sir Willoughby ? " " It is incredible to yon. He refuses. Ton see I have no influence." " Miss Middleton, it is terrible ! " " To be dragged to the marriage service against one's will? Yes." " Oh ! Miss Middleton." " Do you not think so ? " " That cannot be your meaning." " You do not suspect me of trifling ? Yon know I wonld not. I am as much in earnest as a mouse in a trap. ' " No, you will not misunderstand me ! Miss Middleton, such a blow to Sir Willoughby would be shocking, most cruel ! He is devoted to you." " He was devotpd to Miss Durham." " Not so deepty : differently." " Was he not very much courted at that time ? He is now ; not so much : he is not so young. But my reason for speaking of Miss Durham was to exclaim at the strangeness of a girl winning her freedom to plunge into wedlock. Is it comprehensible to you ? She flies from one dungeon into another. These are the acts which astonish men at our conduct, and cause them to ridicule and, I daresay, despise us." " But, Miss Middleton, for Sir Willoughby to grant such a request, if it was made . . . . " "It was made, and by me, and will be made again. I throw it all on my unworthiness, Miss Dale. So the county will think of me, and quite justly. I would rather defend him than myself. He requires a different wife from any- thing I can be. That is my discovery ; unhappily a late one. The blame is all mine. The world cannot be too hard on me. But I must be free if 1 am to be kind in my judge- ments even of the gentleman I have injured." '• So noble a gentleman ! " Lrctitia sighed. " I will subscribe to any eulogy of him," said Clara, with I Hi EGOIST. thought the ] ibility of a lady expe- iii him like Lsetitia taking him for noble. "He has ble air. I ■ sincerely, thai your appreciation of bis Dobilil Eer feeling of opposition to Sir Willonghby pnshed ber to this extravagance, gravely per- L:i utia. •' And it is," added Clara, as if to snpport what she had said, "a withering rebuke to me ; I know him less, at least have no! had bo long an experience of him." a pondered on an obscurity in these words which would have accused her thick intelligence but for a glimmer it threw on v most obscure communication. She ed it might be, strange though it seemed, jealousy, a shade of jealousy affecting Miss Middleton, as had been lely intimated by Sir Willoughby when they were wait- ing in the hall. "A little feminine ailment, a want of tension of a perfect friendship;" those were his words to her: and he suggested vaguely that care must be ■ n i he eulogy of her friend, esoh ed to be explicit . •• I have not said that I think him beyond criticism, Miss Middleton." "Noble?" " He has faults. "When Ave have known a person for - the faults come out, but custom makes light of them; and I suppose we feel flattered by seeing what it would be to be blind to! A very little flatters us! — Now, do you not admire that view ? It is my favourite." Clara gazed over rolh'ng richness of foliage, wood and and church spire, a town and horizon hills. There -k y-lark. ■■ Not even the bird thai does not fly away ! " she said; no I n -art for the bird satisfied to rise and • ■ in t his place. I- titia travelled to Borne notion, dim and immense, of Middleton's fever of distaste. She shrank from it in of dread lest it might be contagious and rob her of ion of the homely picturesque; her by saying: "For your sake I could it ... . in time: or some dear old English scene. • . . this .... this change in me, I find I irate landscape from itions. Now I learn youth ifors. I have grown years older in a week. — CLARA AND KETITIA. 151 Miss Dale, if lie were to give me my freedom ? if he were to cast me off ? if lie stood alone ? " " I should pity him." " Him — not me ! Oh ! right. I hoped you would ; I knew you would." Lartitia's attempt to shift Miss Miduleton's shiftiness was vain ; for now she seemed really listening to the language of jealousy : — jealous of the ancient Letty Dale ! — and im- mediately before, the tone was quite void of it. " Yes," she said, " but you make me feel myself in the dark, and when I do I have the habit of throwing myself for guidance upon such light as I have within. You shall know me, if you will, as well as I know myself. And do not think me far from the point when I say I have a feeble health. I am what the doctors call anaemic; a rather blood- less creature. The blood is life, so I have not much life. Ten years back — eleven, if I must be precise, I thought of conquering the world with a pen ! The result is that I am glad of a fireside, and not sure of always having one : and that is my achievement. My days are monotonous, but if I have a dread, it is that there will be an alteration in them. My father has very little money. We subsist on what private income he has, and his pension : he was an army doctor. I may by-and-by have to live in a town for pupils. I could be grateful to any one who would save me from that. I should be astonished at his choosing to have me burden his household as well. — Have I now explained the nature of my pity ? It would be the pity of common sym- pathy, pure lymph of pity, as Jiearly disembodied as can be. Last year's sheddings from the tree do not form an attractive garland. Their merit is, that they have not the ambition. I am like them. Now, Miss Middleton, I cannot make myself more bare to you. I hope you see my sincerity." " I do see it," Clara said. "With the second heaving of her heart, she cried : " See it, and envy you that humility ! proud if I could ape it ! Oh ! how proud if I could speak so truthfully true ! — You would not have spoken so to me without some good feeling out of which friends are made. That I am sure of. To be very truthful to a person, one must have a liking. So I judge by myself. Do I presume too much ? " Kindness was on Laetitia's face. Ti: [ST. "Bui now," said Clara, swimming on the wave in her | -l tax yon with the silliest suspicion ever enter- tained • '• rank. Lady, you have deemed me of the meanest of our vices! — Hold this hand, . my friend, will you? Something is going on in Lffltitia took her hand, and saw and felt that something og on* i !lara said :»" Yon are a woman." Ii was her effort to accounl i'or t lie something. She Bwam for a brilliant instant on tears, and. yielded to the overflow. When they had fallen, she remarked upon her first long breath quite coolly ; " An encouraging picture of a rebel, is •t?" Her companion murmured to soothe her. " It's little, it's nothing," said Clara, pained to keep her They walked forward, holding hands, deep-hearted to one another. '• I like this country better now," the shaken girl resumed. "I could lie down in it and ask only for sleep. I should like to think of you here. How nobly self-respecting you • be, to speak as you did! Our dreams of heroes and ild glitter beside the reality. I have been ly thinking of myself as an outcast of my sex, and to have a good woman liking me a little .... loving? Oh! I. ■ itia, my friend, I should have kissed you, and not made ■ exhibition of myself — and if you call it hysterics, woe to I for I hit my tongue to keep it off when I had hardly i, teeth together — if that idea of jealousv been in your head. You had it from him." "• I have not alluded to it in any word that I can recollect." •lie ran imagine no other cause for my wish to be re- I. I have notieed, it is his instinct to reckon on women by their nature. T hey are the needles, and he net. .lealousy of you, Miss Dale 1 Lastitia, may I • thing you please." "I could \.'^'n : — Do you know my baptismal name?" "At last! I could wish .... that is, if it were your CLARA AND L^TITIA. 153 wish. Yes, I could wish that. Next to independence, my wish would be that. I risk offending you. Do not let your delicacy take arms against me. I wish him happy in the only way that he can be made happy. There is my jealousy." " Was it what you were going to sav just now ? " " No." " I thought not." " I was going to say — and J believe the rack would not make me truthful like you, Laetitia — well, has it ever struck you : remember, I do see his merits ; I speak to his faith- fullest friend, and I acknowledge he is attractive, he has manly tastes and habits ; but has it never struck you .... I have no right to ask ; I know that men must have faults, I do not expect them to be saints ; I am not one ; I wish I were." " Has it never struck me .... ?" La?titia prompted her. " That very few women are able to be straightforwardly sincere in their speech, however much they may desire to be?" " They are differently educated. Great misfortune brings it to them." " I am sure your answer is correct. Have you ever known a woman who was entirely an Egoist ?" " Personally known one ? We are not better than men." " I do not pretend that we are. I have latterly become an Egoist, thinking of no one but myself, scheming to make use of every soul I meet. But then, women are in the position of inferiors. They are hardly out of the nursery when a lasso is round their necks; and if tbey have beauty, no wonder they turn it to a weapon and make as many captives as they can. I do not wonder ! My sense of shame at my natural weakness and the arrogance of men would urge me to make hundreds captive, if that is being a coquette. I should not have compassion for those lofty birds, the hawks. To see them with their wings clipped would amuse me. Is there any other way of punishing them ?" " Consider what you lose in punishing them." " T consider what they gain if we do not." Lsetitia supposed she was listening to discursive obser- vations upon the inequality in the relations of the sexes. A suspicion of a drift to a closer meaning had been lulled, and the colour flooded her swiftly when Clara said : "Here is the THK EGOIST. 1 lit; 1 am certain of it: women who iqu I tea mak< their c uot of the best of i men who a have good women for their : women on whose devoted constancy they feed ; they I am sure 1 am nol taking the merely i bey punish themselves too by passing over one Buitable to them, who could really give them what in have, and they go where they . . . ." Clara. stopped. "I have not your power to express ideas," she said. ■' Miss Middleton, yon have a dreadful power," said Laetitia. 1 smiled affectionately: "I am not aware of any. Whose cottage is this ?" '• My lai hers. Will you not come in ? into the garden ?" i';i took note of ivied windows and roses in the porch. She i hanked Laditia and said: "1 will call for you in an hour." \rc you walking on the road alone," said Laetitia in- credulously, with an eye to Sir Willoughby's dismay. "I put my trust in the highroad," Clara replied, and turned away, hut turned back to Laetitia and offered her • to he kissed. The 'dreadful power' of this young lady had fervently impressed Laetitia, and in kissing her she marvelled at her gentleness ami girlishness. Clara walked on, unconscious of her possession of power of any kind. CIIA PTER XVII. THE PORCELAIN VASE. 1 ' niN'G the term of Clara's walk with Laetitia, Sir Wil- ttby's shrunken self-esteem, Like a garment hung to the mpestuous went hei% recovered some velvet pile in the society of Mrs. Mo »n, who represented to him the world I tried to keep sunny for himself by all the id exercise. She expected him to be the gay Sir THE PORCELAIN VASE- 155 Willoughby, and her look being as good as an incantation- summons, he produced the accustom el sprite, giving her sally for sally. Queens govern the polite. Popularity with men, serviceable as it is for winning favouritism with women, is of poor value to a sensitive gentleman, anxious even to prognostic apprehension on behalf of his pride, his comfort and his prevalence. And men are grossly purchaseable ; good wines have them, good cigars, a goodfellow air : they are never quite worth their salt even then ; you can make head against their ill looks. But the looks of women will at one blow work on you the downright difference which is between the cock of lordly plume and the moulting. Happily they may be gained : a clever tongue will gain them, a leg. They are with you to a certainty if Nature is with you ; if you are elegant and discreet : if the sun is on you, and they see you shining in it ; or if they have seen you well-stationed and handsome in the sun. And once gained they are your mirrors for life, and far more constant than the glass. That tale of their caprice is absurd. Hit their imaginations once, they are your slaves, only demanding common courtier service of you. They will deny that you are ageing, they will cover you from scandal, they will refuse to see you ridiculous. Sir Willoughby's instinct, or skin, or outfloating feelers, told him of these mysteries of the influence of the sex ; he had as little need to study them as a lady breathed on. He had some need to know them, in fact ; and with him the need of a protection for himself called it forth ; he was intuitively a conjuror in self-defence, long-sighted, wanting no directions to the herb he was to suck at when fi^htino" a serpent. His dulness of vision into the heart of his enemy was compensated by the agile sensitiveness obscuring but rendering him miraculously active, and without supposing his need immediate, he deemed it -oolitic to fascinate Mrs. Mountstuart and anticipate ghastly possibilities in the future by dropping a hint ; not of Clara's fickleness, you may be sure ; of his own, rather ; or more justly, of an altered view of Clara's character. He touched on the rogue in porcelain. Set gently laughing by his relishing humour: "I get nearer to it," he said. " Remember, I'm in love with her," said Mrs. Mountstuart. " That is our penalty." "A pleasant one for you." Till, i QOIST. II. " [h the ' ' to be eliminated ?" . my dear Sir Willoughby." •■ This ia bow - : — " •• | shall a ay interpretation that is complimentary." will Batisfy me of being sufficiently so, and so I to fill out the epigram." "Do. WTial hurry is there? And don't be misled by tion to which would be reasonable if you . of a hollow chamber of horrible reverberation within him by t his remark. II • hat it was not always a passionate admiration that held the rogue East; but he muddled it in the thick of h .-ions thunder, and Mrs. Mountstuart smili d i" -' e bam slmt from the smooth-flowing dialogue into imple reminder to the lover of his luck. [all, the pitch of their conversation • "Miss Dale is looking well," he said. ly : sh« ght to marry," said .Mrs. Mountstuart. lie- shook his head. "Persuade her." i !v- .i':: pit- may have some effect." II' ctremely abstracted. " Yes, it is time. Where . could recommend for her complement? She now what was missing before, a ripe intelligence in addi- tion to her happy disposition — romantic, you would say. I : think women the worse for that." \ dash alls it ' leafag. 1 have you relented about your horse Acli " i him under four hundred." Ym i forge! that his wife doles him out his money. You're a hard bargainer, Sir Wil- I mean I he price to be prohibitive." y well is good for hide and seek; no rogue in ambush. And that's the worst 1 j of Laetitia Dale. An exaggerated devo- They say you're the hardest e county too, and I can believe it ; for at h d your aim is to g t of everybody. THE PORCELAIN VASE. I £7 Ton see I've no leafage, I am perfectly matter-of-fact, bald." " Nevertheless, my clear Mrs. Mountstuart, I can assure you that conversing with yon has much the same exhilarating effect on me as conversing with Miss Dale." " But, leafage ! leafage ! You hard bargainers have no compassion for devoted spinsters." " I tell you my sentiments absolutely." " And you have mine moderately expressed." She recollected the purpose of her morning's visit, which was to enofacre Dr. Middleton to dine with her, and Sir Wil- loughby conducted her to the library door. " Insist," he said. Awaiting her reappearance, the refreshment of the talk he had sustained, not without point, assisted him to distin- guish in its complete abhorrent orb the offence committed against him by his bride. And this he did through project- ing it more and more away from him, so that in the outer distance it involved his personal emotions less, while obser- vation was enabled to compass its vastness, and, as it were, perceive the whole spherical mass of the wretched girl's guilt impudently turning on its axis. Thus to detach an injury done to us, and plant it in space, for mathematical measurement of its weight and bulk, is an art ; it may also be an instinct of self-preservation ; other- wise, as when mountains crumble adjacent villages are crushed, men of feeling may at any moment be killed out- right by the iniquitous and the callous. But, as an art, it should be known to those who are for practising an art so beneficent, that circumstances must lend their aid. Sir Willoughby's instinct even had sat dull and crushed before his conversation with Mrs. Mountstuart. She lifted him to one of his ideals of himself. Among gentlemen he was the English gentleman ; with ladies his aim was the Gallican courtier of any period from Louis Treize to Louis Quinze. He could doat on those who led him to talk in that character — backed by English solidity, you understand. Boast beef stood eminent behind the souffle and champagne. An Eng- lish squire excelling his fellows at hazardous leaps in public, he was additionally a polished whisperer, a lively dialoguer, one for witty bouts, with something in him — capacity for a drive and dig or two — bevond mere wit, as they soon learnt TH1 -T. | up hi- and had ;i bosom for pinking. h for bis ideal of bimself. Now, Clara not only onded to it. sbe repelled it ; there risbing I near her. He considerately o^ I j in his ordinary calculations; he was a i and -In' was :i girl ol beauty; but the acci- of Ins ideal, with Mrs. Mountstuart, on . restored him to lull com- i of detachment, and he thrust her out, quite himself, to contemplate herdif d revolutions. Deeply read in tin- !>• >« >k of Egoism that he was, he knew the sentence : .1 • I pridt that strikes not What was h - to strike with ? Ten . I. titia might ha q the instrument. To r now was preposterous. Beside Clara she had ber under the springing bough. He tossed > the very soul by an ostentatious decay ink En o with the blooming creature he -defence, by sotue agency or other. M uart was on the step of her carriage when the young ladies were descried on a ark. where the yellow creen of May-clothed ■ r the brown ground of last year's leaves. " Who's the cavalier?" she inquired, 'eman i 1 them. No ! he's pegging at Crossjay," quoth Wil- \ ime out for the boy's half-hour's run i s .-.,-, 9pied Miss Middleton and ber at a bound. Vernon followed him y. lli s no cousin, has she':'' said -Mrs. Mount- ly of one son or one daughter for generations," - ' hi i. as if wealth had been imputed • " No male cousin." a fly drove out of the avenue on the circle tch was driver. lb- had no rierht wrong, but he was doing it under and young ones, and THE PORCELAIN VASE. l- r >9 his deprecating touches of the hat spoke of these apologies to his former master with dog-like pathos. Sir Willoughby beckoned to him to approach. " So you are here," he said. " You have luggage." Flitch jumped from the box and read one of the labels aloud : " Lieut-Colonel H. De Craye." li And the colonel met the ladies ? Overtook them ?" Here seemed to come dismal matter for Flitch to relate. He began upon the abstract origin of it : he had lost his place in Sir Willoughby 's establishment, and was obliged to look about for work where it was to be got, and though he knew he had no right to be where he was, he hoped to be forgiven because of the mouths he had to feed as a flyman ■attached to the railway station, where this gentleman, the colonel, hired him, and he believed Sir Willoughby would excuse him for driving a friend, which the colonel was, he recollected well, and the colonel recollected him, and he said, not noticing how he was rigged : " What ! Flitch ! back in your old place ? — Am I expected?" and he told the colonel his unfortunate situation ; " Xot back, colonel ; no such luck for me :" and Colonel De Craye was a very kind-hearted gentleman, as he always had been, and asked kindly after his family. And it might be that such poor work as he was doing now he might, be deprived of, such ia misfortune when it once harpoons a man ; you may dive, and you may fly, but it sticks in you, once do a foolish thing. " May I humbly beg of you, if you'll be so good, Sir Wil- loughby," said Flitch, passing to evidence of the sad mishap. He opened the door of the fly, displaying fragments of broken porcelain. " But, what, what ! what's the story of this ?" cried Sir Willoughby. " What is it ?" said Mrs. Mountstuart, pricking up her ears. " It was a vaws," Flitch replied in elegy. "A porcelain vase !" interpreted Sir Willoughby. "China !" Mrs. Mountstuart faintly shrieked. One of the pieces was handed to her inspection. She held it close, she held it distant. She sighed hor- ribly. " The man had better have hanged himself," said she. i !. BOO! •h bestirred his misfortun Lot features and mcm« : inuation of the doleful narrative. • EJow did this occur ?" Sir Willoughby peremptorily • I him. tch appealed to his former master for testimony that ] ; a ad a careful driver. Willoughby thundered: "I tell you to tell me how a drop, my lady! nol since my supper last night, if thei truth in me;" Flitch implored succour of Mrs. I uart. ■ Drive straight," she said, and braced him. • i\ e was then direct. mill, where the "Wicker brook crossed the 1; iad, one of Hoppner's waggons, overloaded as the horses uphill, when Flitch drove ti at an ace. am! saw himself between Hoppner's to a stand, and a young lady advancing: and just - his whip, the horses pull half mad. Tin- young lady starts be?und the cart, and up jumps the and to save the young lady. Flitcb dashed ahead save her. he thanked heaven for it, and more when i see who the young lady v. one P" said Sir Willoughby, in tragic amaze. :it Flitch. • Very well, yon saved her, and you upset the fly," Mrs. • • uart jogged him on. "I! i' ir old head-k er, was a witness, my lady; p the bank, and it's true — over the Hy it shoots out against the twelfth mile- •j-h then was the chance for it! for nobody injured, and knocked against anything else, it ould have flown all to pieces, so that it took Bartlett ■s to collect every one, down to the smallest and he said, and I can't help thinking If, thei a Providence in it, for we all come yon might Bay we was made to do as we !! he prudent course of walking I of trusting his limbs again to this Sir Willoughby said to Mrs. Mountstuart ; B lined : " Lucky that no one was hurt." COLONEL DE CTJAYh'. 161 Poth of tliera eyed the nose of poor Fiitch, and simulta- neously they delivered a verdict of ' Humph/ Mrs. Mountstuart handed the wretch a half-crown from her purse. Sir Willoughby directed the footman in attend- ance to unload the fly and gather up the fragments of porce- lain carefully, bidding Flitch be quick in his departing. " The colonel's wedding present ! 1 shall call to-morrow," Mrs. Mountstuart waved her adieu. " Come every day ! — Yes, I suppose we may guess the destination of the vase." He bowed her off : and she cried : " "Well, now the gift can be shared, if you're either of vou for a division." In the crash of the carriage-wheels he heard : " At any rate there was a rogue in that porcelain." These are the slaps we get from a heedless world. As for the vase, it was Horace De Crave's loss. Weddino- present he would have to produce, and decidedly not in chips. It had the look of a costly vase, but that was no question for the moment : — What was meant by Clara being seen walking on the high road alone ? — What snare, traceable ad inferas, had ever induced Willoughby Patterne to make her the repository and fortress of his honour ! CHAPTER XVIII. COLONEL DE CRATE. Clara came along chatting and laughing with Colonel de Craye, young Crossjay's hand under one of her arms, and her parasol flashing ; a dazzling offender ; as if she wished to compel the spectator to recognize the dainty rogue in porce- lain ; really insufferably fair : perfect in height and grace of movement; exquisitely-tressed; red-lipped, the colour strik- ing out to a distance from her ivory skin : a sight to set the woodland dancing, and turn the heads of the town ; though beautiful, a jury of art-critics might pronounce her not to be. Irregular features are condemned in beauty. Beautiful figure, they could say. A description of her figure and her walking would have won her any praises : and she wore a dress cunning to embrace the shape and flutter loose about it, in the spirit of a Summer's day. Calypso-clad, Dr. Middletoc M [led her. See the silver birch in a bre | . . d il is puffed to a round . ■ ennon, and now gives the glimpse and .shim- of the white stem's line within, now hurries overit, denying that i I iible, with a ch dong th( ping ■ U the white peeps through. She had the won- ;1 ,-n-t of dressing to suit the aandthesky. To-day impanionable with her sweet-lighted ividly-meaningful for pretty, if not of rity for beautiful. Millinery would tell us that sin- wore a Kchu of thin while muslin I in fronl on a ime lighl stuff, trimmed with deep rose. She rey-silk parasol, traced at the borders with green 3 the arm devoted to ( Jrossjay, a length of and in thai hand a bunch of the first long These hues of red rose and green and pale green, ited in the billowy white of the dress imlloon- ly, like a yacht before the sail bendi . hut Bhe '■. like one blown against ; resembling rather the day of I th-west driving the clouds, gallantly a; interfusing colour and varying in her ■ in laugh to > in i li- and look of settled pleasure, 1 ke t be hi above I he breeze. • Willoughl he frequently had occasion to protest : he was a more than commonly candid atleman in his avowed dislike of the poet's non- : nut oneof those latterly terrorized by ■ the J ! low into silent contempl ; a b< n- timent thai may sleep, and has nol to be defended. He thed the fellow, fought the fellow. Bat he was one with thai prevailing thei if verse, the charms of He was, to his ill-luck, intensely susceptible, and men after him to admire, bis admiration became iry. II" could Bee al a glance thai Horace De Craye ! M if diddleton. Horace was a man of taste, could do other than admire; but how curious forth of < llara and Miss I >ale, in his own mparison of them. Sir Willoughby had ipprobai on of his bride's appi arance ! "'■ iveighl to it recently. ly, her having been by his friend Horace, walking on COLONEL DE CRAYE. lb'3 the high road without companion or attendant, increased a sense of pain so very unusual with him that he had cause to be indignant. Coming on this condition, his admiration of the girl who wounded him was as bitter a thing as a man could feel. Resentment, fed from the main springs of his nature, turned it to wormwood, and not a whit the less was it admiration when he resolved to chastise her with a formal indication of his disdain. Her present gaiety sounded to him like laughter heard in the shadow of the pulpit. " You have escaped !" he said to her, while shaking the hand of his friend Horace and cordially welcoming him : " My dear fellow ! and by the way, you had a squeak for it, I hear from Flitch." " I, Willoughby ? not a bit," said the colonel ; " we get into a fly to get out of it ; and Flitch helped me oat as well as in, good fellow; just dusting my coat as he did it. The only bit of bad management was that Miss Middleton had to step aside a trifle hurriedly." " You knew Miss Middleton at once ?" " Flitch did me the favour to introduce me. He first pre- cipitated me at Miss Middleton's feet, and then he introduced me, in old oriental fashion, to my sovereigm." Sir Willoughby 's countenance was enough for his friend Horace. Quarter- Avheeling to Clara, he said : " 'Tis the place I'm to occupy for life, Miss Middleton, though one is not always fortunate to have a bright excuse for taking it at the commencement." Clara said : " Happily you were not hurt, Colonel De Crave." " I was in the hands of the Loves. Not the Graces ; I'm afraid ; I've an image of myself. Dear, no! My dear Wil- loughby, you never made such a headlong declaration as that It would have looked like a magnificent impulse, if the posture had only been choicer. And Miss Middleton didn't laugh. At least I saw nothing but pity." " You did not write," said Willoughby. " Because it was a toss up of a run to Ireland or here, and I came here not to go there ; and by the way, fetched a jug with me to offer up to the Gods of ill-luck; and they accepted the propitiation." " Wasn't it packed in a box ?" " No, it was wrapped in paper, ti show its elegant form m 2 TH 1 [\ in the shop ; and carried i* off , ,1 it t Middl ■ d .it noon, wil Willoughbj knew bis friend Horace's mood when the ■ him th ed to ws •■ ^ may happen," he Baid to Clara. in faull I • t," she answered. " Flitch says the accid lurred ihrough his driving up the bank to save yon from the wheels." "Flitch maj d whisper that down the neck of his I Horace De Crave. " A.nd then h"' ii e is that we have a porcelain vase broken. ; nol walk on the road alone, Clara. You ought ; in, always. Jt is the rule here." " I had lefl Miss Dale at the cottage." tight to have had the dog Would they Ii q any protection to the vase?" De ( !raj e crowed cordially. '• I in b raid not, Miss Middleton. One must go to the for protection to vases; and they're all in the air i>ving their own way with us, which accounts for the nsion in po and society, and the rise in the price of cks, to prove it true, as they tell us, that every i and a n i r waul - a mighty sweeping. Miss Dale looks tning," said De Craye, wishing to divert Willoughby with sense as well as nonsense. ! re noi been visiting Ireland recently," said Sir ■ v. making acquaintance with an actor in an Irish a drama cast in I en island. "lis Flitch, my Willoughby, has been and stirred the native in me, and m to yon for the like good office when we a number o that you've not wrinkled your head on al your H< ly. Take the poor old dog ; I »me, will yon r He's crazed to be at the Hall. I Willoughby, it would be a good bit of work to take him Think of it : you'll do the popular thing, I'm sure. ! thai Flitch ought to drive you from the church-i i ■<■ in luck, I'd have him drive me." i drunkard, Horace." is poor nose. Tis merely unction to the COLONEL DE CEAYE 1Q'\ exile. Sober struggles below. He drinks to rock bis heart, because be bas one. Now let me intercede for poor Flitch." " Not a word of him. He threw up his place." " To try his fortune in the world, as the best of us do, though livery runs after us to tell us there's no being an independent gentleman, and comes a cold day we haul on the metal-button coat again, with a good ha ! of satisfaction. You'll do the popular thing. Miss Middleton joins in the pleading." "No pleading!" " When I've vowed upon my eloquence, Willoughby, I'd bring you to pardon the poor dog ?" "Not a word ot him!" " Just one !" Sir Willoughby battled with himself to repress a state of temper that put him to marked disadvantage beside bis friend Horace in high spirits. Ordinarily he enjoyed these fits of Irish of him, which were Horace's fun and play, at times involuntary, and then they indicated a recklessness that might embrace mischief. De Craye, as Willoughby had often reminded him, was properly Norman. The blood of two or three Irish mothers in his line, however, was enough to dance him, and if his fine profile spoke of the stiffer race, his eyes and the quick run of the lip in the cheek, and a number of his qualities, were evidence of the maternal legacy. " My word has been said about the man," Willoughby replied. " But I've wagered on your heart against your word, and can't afford to lose; and there's a double reason for revoking for you!" " I don't see either of them. Here are the ladies." "You'll think of the poor beast, Willoughby." " I hope for better occupation." " If he drives a wheelbarrow at the Hall he'll be happier than on board a chariot at large. He's broken-hearted." " He's too much in the way of breakages, my dear Horace." "'Oh! the vase! the bit of porcelain!" sang De Craye. "Well, we'll talk him over by-and-by." " If it pleases you; but my rules are never amended." " Inalterable, are they ? — like those of an ancient people 166 '"ii: E00I8T. well have worn a jackel of lend for the com- : ad of their boast. The I eauty of laws for human - their adaptability to new stitching I lonel De Craye walked .-it the heels of his leader to ■ his bow to the Ladies Eleanor and Isabel. Willonghby had guessed the person who inspired his friend Borace to plead so pertinaciously and inopportunely for the man Flitch ; and it had not improved his temper or e of his rejoinders; lie had winced under the contrast lis friend Eorai y, laughing, sparkling, musical air an I manner with his own stiffness; and he had seen Clara's . scanning the contrast — lie was fatally driven to Ins discontentment, which did not restore him to • •.. Id' would have learnt more from what his abrupt _r round of the shoulder precluded his beholding. There an interchange between Colonel De Craye and Miss Middleton ; spontaneous on both sides. His was a look that I; "Ton were right;" hers # : "Iknewit." Her look was calmer, and after the tirst instant clouded as bv wcarifulness Ins was brilliant, astonished, speculative, and admiring, pitiful: a look that poised over a revelation, called up the hosts of wonder to question strange fact. It had passed unseen by Sir Willoughby. The observer i lie one who could also supply the key of the secret. I 'ile had found Colonel De Craye in company with Middleton at her gateway. They were laughing and ether like friends of old standing, De Craye as I 3 he could he: and the Irish tongue and gentlemanly an irresistible challenge to the opening steps of familiarity when accident has broken the ice. Flitch was their theme; and: "Oh! hut if we go up to Willoughby i in hand, and bob a curtsey to 'm and beg his pardon ter Flitch, won'1 lie melt to such a pair of sup- he will!"' Miss Middleton said he would De Craye wagered he would; he knew Wil- hby best. Miss Middleton looked simply grave; away of asserting the contrary opinion that tells of rueful ex- " We'll see," said the colonel. They chatted like dly discovering in one another a common mgers. Can there he an end to it whea prattle, they fill the minutes, as ! re violently to be torn asunder at a coming COLONEL DE CRAYE. 167 signal, and must nave it out -while they can ; it is a meeting of mountain brooks ; not a colloquy but a chasing, impossiblo to say which flies, which follows, or what the topic, so inter- linguistic are they and rapidly counterchanging. After their conversation of an hour before, Lsetitia watched Miss Middleton in surprise at her lightness of mind. Clara bathed in mirth. A boy in a Summer stream shows not heartier refreshment of his whole being. Lastitia could now understand Vernon's idea of her wit. And it seemed that she also had Irish blood. Speaking of Ireland, Miss Middleton said she had cousins there, her only relatives " The laugh told me that," said Colonel De Craye. Laatitia and Vernon paced up and down the lawn. Colonel De Craye was talking with English sedateness to the ladies Eleanor and Isabel. Clara and young Crossjay strayed. " If I might advise, I would say, do not leave the Hall immediately, not yet," Laatitia said to Vernon. " You know, then ?" " I cannot understand why it was that I was taken into her confidence." " I counselled it." "But it was done without an object that I can see." " The speaking did her good." " But how capricious ! how changeful !" " Better now than later." " Surely she has only to ask to be released ? — to ask earnestly : if it is her wish." " You are mistaken." " Why does she not make a confidant of her father ?" " That she will have to do. She wished to spare him." " He cannot be spared if she is to break the engagement.*' " She thought of sparing him the annoyance. Now there's to be a tussle he must share in it." *' Or she thought he might not side with her?" "She has not a single instinct of cunning. Y< u ,'udge her harshly." " She moved me on the walk out. Coming home I felt differently." Vernon glanced at Colonel De Crave. " She wants good guidance," continued Lastitia. " She has not an idea of treachery." T. "Yon think so? It may be true. But she seems one i of pa easily made is. There is a .1 . : [ge by ber way of speaking; that at red sini She does Dot practise concealment. will naturally find it almost incredible. The change in Budden, so wayward, is unint iligible to me. To me of a creature untamed. He may hold her :• w ord and be just Lfied." " Lei 1 1 in» look out if he docs !" m Ib in .t thai harsher than anything I have said of her ?" " I'm nol appointed to praise her. I fancy I read the • of opposition of temperaments. V.'o person quite suited to us; it strikes us in b." " That they are not suited to us ? Oh, no; that comes by '• Fes, but the accumulation of evidence, or sentience, it' you like, is combustible; we'don't command the spark: it be late in falling. And you argue in her favour. Con- sider her as a generous and impulsive girl, outwearied at la • ty what anything; by his loftiness, if you like. lie flies too hiirh for her, we will say." Sir Willoughbj an eagle?" " She may be ( ired of his eyrie." word in Vernon's mouth smote on a con- i.e had of his full grasp of Sir Willougbby, and I knowledge, though he was not a man who "II WOT I' i eased his heart in stressing the first syllable, iporary relief. H,. was heavy-browed enough. what she expects me to do by e "I her position to me," said Laetitia. • We le.ne of us know what will be done. We hang on by, who I on whatever it is i hat supports him: ■ arm." ing, Mr. Whit ford." in a >\-.ix or two. Yes, I stay." ii." take my authority on her obedience, ling about Crossjay, and get the COLONEL DE CEAYE AND CLARA MIDDLETON. 169 money for his crammer, if it is to be got. If not, I may get a^ man to trust me. I mean to drag the boy away. Wil- loughby has been at him with the tune of gentleman, and has laid hold of him by one ear. When I say ' her obedience,' she is not in a situation, nor in a condition, to be led blindly by anybody. She must rely on herself, do everything her- self. It's a knot that won't bear touching by any hand save hers." " I fear . . . ." said Lcetitia. " Have no such fear." " If it should come to his positively refusing." " He faces the consequences." " You do not think of her." Vernon looked at his companion. CHAPTER XIX. COLONEL DE CEAYE AND CLARA MIDDLETON. Miss Middleton finished her stroll with Crossjay by winding her trailer of ivy in a wreath round his hat and sticking her bunch of grasses in the wreath. She then com- manded him to sit on the ground beside a big rhododen- dron, there to await her return. Crossjay had informed her of a design he entertained to be off with a horde of boys nesting in high trees, and marking spots where wasps and hornets were to be attacked in Autumn : she thought it a dangerous business, and as the boy's dinner-bell had very little restraint over him when he was in the flush of a scheme of this description, she wished to make tolerably sure of him through the charm she not unreadily believed she could fling on lads of his age. " Promise me you will not move from here until I come back, and when I come I will give you a kiss." Crossjay promised. She left him and forgot him. Seeing by her watch fifteen minutes to the ringing of the bell, a sudden resolve that she would speak to her father without another minute's delay, had prompted her like a superstitious impulse to abandon her aimless course and be 17i> Till. EGOIST. •t. She knew what was good for her; she knew it now rly than in the moraing. To be taken away • ]\ : was her cry. There could be no further doubt. been any befi Bui she would not in the elf of a capacity for evil, and of a pi aeed to be saved frum herself. She was not pure of nature : it may be thai w< breed saintly souls which are: Bhe was pure of will: fire rather than ice. And in beginning the element was made of, she did not shuflle them to a heap with her sweet looks to front her. She put to h< ml some strength, much weakness; she almost unblinking at a perilous evil tendency. The gli; it ilru\ e her to her father. ' J 1.- ti '. ay at once ; to-morrow ! ' ■ ■ wished to spare her father. So unsparing of herself was Bhe, that in her hesitation to speak to him of her change of ft >r Sir Willonghby, she would not suffer it to be attributed in her own mind to a daughter's anxious con- ation about her father's loneliness; an idea she hail Igcd formerly. Acknowledging that it was imperative she I Bpeak, she understood that she had refrained, the inflicting upon herself of such humiliation as to run dilating on her woes to others, because of the silliest of i to preserve her reputation for consistency. had heard women abused for shallowness and flightiuess : had heard her father denounce them as veering weather- Ins oft-repeated quid femina possit : for her sex's . and also to appear an exception to her sex, this reason- i ii re desired to he thought consistent. Ju the instant of her addressing him, saying:: : a noie of serii in his ear; it struck her ' tie- all had not jei arrived, and she quickly interposed : " Papa;" and helped him to look lighter. i a to be taken away was at tered. To London?" said Dr. Middleton. "I don't know who'll take as in." papa r " That means hotel-life." o or three wee m under an en{ nt to dine with Mrs. t Jenkinson five days hence: that is, on Thurs- COLONEL DE CRAYE AND CLARA MIDDLETON. 171 " Could we not find an excuse ? " " Break an engagement ? No, my dear, not even to escape drinking a widow's wine." " Does a word bind us ? " "Why, what else should ? " " I tliink I am not very well." " "We'll call in that man we met at dinner here : Corney : a capital doctor ; an old-fashioned anecdotal doctor. How is it you are not well, my love ? You look well. T cannot conceive your not being well." " It is only that I want a change of air, papa." " There we are — a change ! semper eadem ! "Women will be wanting a change of air in Paradise; a change of angels too, I might surmise. A change from quarters like these to a French hotel, would be a descent! — 'this the seat, this mournful gloom for that celestial light ? ' I am perfectly at home in the library here. That excellent fellow Whitford and I have real days : and I like him for showing fight to his elder and better." " He is going to leave." " I know nothing of it. and I shall append no credit to the tale until I do know. He is head-strong, but he answers to a rap." Clara's bosom heaved. The speechless insurrection threatened her eyes. A South-west shower lashed the window-panes and susrerested to Dr. Middleton shuddering- visions of the CO o channel-passage on board a steamer. " Corney shall see you : he is a sparkling draught in per- son ; probably illiterate, if I may judge from one interruption of my discourse when he sat opposite me, but lettered enough to respect Learning and write out his prescri, .ion : I do not ask more of men or of physicians." Dr. Middleton said this rising, glancing at the clock and at the back of his hands. " ' Quod autem secundum litteras difficillimum esse artifi- ciura ? ' But what after letters is the more difficult practice ? ' Ego puto medicum.' The medicus next to the scholar : though I have not to my recollection required him next me, nor ever expected child of mine to be crying for that milk. Daughter she is — of the unexplained sex : we will send a messenger for Corney. Change, my dear, you will speedily have, to satisfy the most craving of women, if Willoughby, I 7_* HI 1ST. M I in tin- Ti' ■ ashion of spending a honey- ■■in and perpetuation to the ins! itution ! In my iii I on happiness; we had no though! of incut, mistaking hurly-burly clotli< ; le him he had one chance I bi • be, I 1! believe in heaven if ye'll ■ 1 burls it : and the botl le broke and be suspicion of her laying a :■ him. These showers curling away and leaving ts, are divine, Miss Middleton. I have the privi- the Christian name on the nuptial-day. This park one of the besl things in England. ;• the lake that smokes of a corner of Kill ipts the eye to dream, I mean." De Crave spirally upward like a smoke- wreath. ■r [rish Bcenery ? " •• 1 : • glish, S ih." as it's beautiful: yes; yon speak for :i of races is a different affair. I beg q of some ; Irish and Saxon, for Cupid be master of the ceremonies and the the happy couple at the mouth of a Con VI: lower of Erin worn by a ; and the Hibernian courtiu > what I said, and consider it can- the rebel party, Colonel de Craye?" re, Miss Middleton." politics." I have seen would temp c me to that opiii "Did Willoughby say when he would be bacs " 11' ■ icular time. Dr. Middleton and Mr. d the i upon a battle of the books." •• li olars. They are rather in- • ■ t of p< " V presume." " Be Latin as I could take. The fault k." t like a feather.'* " L I light " COLONEL DE CRAYE AND CLARA MIDDLETOW. 177 "Miss Middleton, I could sit down to be instructed, old as 1 am. When women beat us, I verily believe we are the most beaten dogs in existence. You like the theatre ? " " Ours ? " " Acting, then." " Good acting, of course." " May I venture to say you would act admirably ? " "The venture is bold, for I have never tried." " Let me see ; there is Miss Dale and Mr. Whitford : you a»»d I ; sufficient for a two-act piece. The Irishman in S^ain would do." He bent to touch the grass as she stepped on it. " The lawn is wet." She signified that she had no dread of wet, and said : ,K English women afraid of the weather might as well be Gnut up." De Craye proceeded : " Patrick O'Neill passes over from Hibernia to Iberia, a disinherited son of a father in tbe claws of the lawyers, with a letter of introduction to Don Beltran d'Arragon, a Grandee of the First Class, who has a daughter Dona Serafina (Miss Middleton), the proudest beauty of her day, in the custody of a duena (Miss Dale), and plighted to Don Fernan, of the Guzman family (Mr. Whitford). There you have our dramatis personae." " You are Patrick ?" " Patrick himself. And 1 lose my letter, and I stand on the Prado of Madrid with the last portrait of Britannia in the palm of my hand, and crying in the purest brosrue of my native land : ' It's all through dropping a letter I'm here in Iberia instead of Hibernia, worse luck to the spelling!' ' " But Patrick will be sure to aspirate the initial letter of Hibernia." " That is clever criticism, upon my word, Miss Middleton ! So he would. And there we have two letters dropped. But he'd do it in a groan, so that it wouldn't count for more than a ghost of one ; and everything goes on the stage, since it's only the laugh we want on the brink of the action. Besides you are to suppose the performance before a London au- dience, who have a native opposition to the aspirate and wouldn't bear to hear him spoil a joke, as if he were a lord or a constable. It's an instinct of the English democracy. So with my bit of coin turning over and over in an unde- cided way, wdicther it shall commit suicide to supply me a N |78 'llli BQ0I8T. I beholda pair of Spanish eyes like riolet lightnings be black heavens of thai favoured elime. Won't you i i o 1 et r •• Violet forbids my impersonation." ■• Hut the lustre on black is dark violet blue." • Y..ti remind me that I have no pretenti in to black." Colonel de Craye permitted himself to take a flitting eraze I 39 Middleton's eyes. "Chestnut," he said. "Well, and Spain is the land of chestnuts." •• Then it follows that I am a daughter of Spain." early." " Logically !" " By positive deduction." \'ml how do 1 behold Patrick P M ' \- one looks upon a beast of burden." - Oh!" Miss Middleton's exclamation was louder than the matter of the dialogue seemed to require. She caught her hands up. Iu the line of the outer extremity of the rhododendron, ened from the house windows, young Crossjay lay at his length, with his head resting on a doubled arm, and his ivy- wn at lied hat on his cheek, just where she had left him, □landing him to stay. Half-way toward him up the lawn, she saw the poor boy, and the spur of that pitiful sight set her gliding swiftly. Colonel De Craye followed, pullinir an end of his moustache. 1 .i y jumped to h dear, dear Crossjay!" she addressed him and re- •lii'd him. " And how hungry you must be ! And you must be drenched ! This is really too bad. - ' d me to wait here," said Crossjay, in shy self- rice. • I did, and yon should not have done it, foolish boy! I told him to wait for me here before luncheon, Colonel Do I and the foolish foolish boy! — he has had nothing to he must have been wet through two or three times: )-<■ F did uot come to him te right. And the lava mighl overflow him and take mould of him, like the sentinel at Pompeii, if he's of the i • iff." .<■ caught cold, he may have a fever." " i I ler your orders to stay.'* COLONEL DE CKAYE AND CLARA MIDDLETON. 179 " I know, and I cannot forgive myself. Run in, Crossjay. and change your clothes. Oh ! run, run to Mrs. Montague, and get her to give you a warm bath, and tell her froni me to prepare some dinner for you. And change every garment you have- This is unpardonable of me. I said — ' not for politics ' ! — 1 begin to think I have not a head for anything. But could it be imagined that Crossjay would not move for the dinntr-bell! through all that rain! I forgot you, Cross- jay T am so sorry ; so sorry ! You shall make me pay any forte. ou like. Remember I am deep deep in yonr debt. And now let me see you run fast. You shall come in to dessert this evening." Cross'a, T did not run. He touched her hand. " You said something ?" " What did I say, Crossjay ?" " You promised." " What did I promise ?" " Something." " Name it, dear boy." He mumbled " . . . . kiss me." Clara plumped down on him, enveloped him and kissed him. The affectionately remorseful impulse was too quick for a conventional note of admonition to arrest her from paying that portion of her debt. When she had sped him off to Mrs. Montague, she was in a blush. " Dear, dear Crossjay !" she said sighing. " Yes, he's a good lad," remarked the colonel. " The fellow may well be a faithful soldier and stick to his post, if he receives promise of such a solde. He is a great favourite with you." " He is. You will do him a service by persuading Wil- loughby to send him to one of those men who get boys through their naval examination. And, Colonel de Craye, will you be kind enough to* ask at the dinner-table that Crossjay may come in to dessert ?" " Certainly," said he, wondering. " And will you look after him while you are here ? See that no one spoils him. If you could get him away before you leave, it would be much to his advantage. He is bom for the navy and should be preparing to enter it now." " Certainly, certainly," said De Craye, wondering more. n2 'llli. EQOIST. '• I thank yon in ad •■ ball 1 not be usurping? . . . -" ., we I -morrow." '• For a da '• I i- "Two " It will be 1' mger." - , : I shall not see you again?" " 1 fear, not." i »lonel 1 1 tniit rolled his astonishment; lie smothered •ion of veritable pain, and amiably said: " I feel a it J am sure yon would not willingly strike. We are all involved in t In- regrel s. Miss Middleton spoke of having to see Mrs. Montague, the eeper, with reference to the bath for Crossjay, and iped otT tie II'' bowed, watched her a moment, for parallel reasons, running close enough to hit one mark, he commiserated his I Willoughby. The winning the losing of thai young lady struck him as equally ible for Willoughby. CHAPTER XX. AN AGED AND A GREAT WINE. Thf leisurely promenade up and down the lawn with ladies arid atlemen, in anticipation of the dinner-bell, Dr. Middleton's evening pleasure. He walked as one who had formerly danced (in Apollo's time and the young i • • on the muscles of the calf and foot, ring his broad iron-grey head in grand ele^ation.^ The the day approved the cooling exercise and the amenta of French cookery and wines of known i' raa happy at that hour in dispensing wisdom h< arers, like the Western sun, whose habit it < hen he is fairly treated, to break out in quiet splendours, which byno mi ury. Blest indeed above . by the height of the how- winded bird in a fair - ' sky a!> ve the pecking sparrow, is he that 1TI the recum hia day sees the best of it 1 I e. He has the rieh reward of a youth AN AGED AND A GREAT WINE. 1ST and manhood of virtuous living. Dr. Middleton misdoubted the future as well as the past of the man who did not, in becoming- gravity, exult to dine. That man he deemed unfit for this world and the next. An example of the good fruit of temperance, he had a com- fortable pride in his digestion, and his political sentiments were attuned by his veneration of the Powers rewarding virtue. We must have a stable world where this is to be done. The Rev. doctor was a fine old picture ; a specimen of art peculiarly English; combining in himself piety and epicurism, learning and gentlemanliness, with good room for each and a seat at one another's table : for the rest, a strong man, an athlete in his youth, a keen reader of facts and no reader of persons, genial, a giant at a task, a steady worker besides, but easily discomposed. He loved his daughter and he f eared her. However much he liked her character, the dread of her sex and age was constantly present to warn him that he was not tied to perfect sanity while the damsel Clara remained unmarried. Her mother had been an amiable woman, of the poetical temperament nevertheless, too enthusiastic, imagi- native, impulsive, for the repose of a sober scholar ; an admirable woman, still, as you see, a woman, a firework. The girl resembled her. Why should she wish to run away from Patterne Hall for a single hour ? Simply because she was of the sex born mutable and explosive. A husband was her proper custodian, justly relieving a father. With dema- gogues abroad and daughters at home, philosophy is needed for us to keep erect. Let the girl be Cicero's Tullia : well, she dies ! The choicest of them will furnish us examples of a strange perversity. Miss Dale was beside Dr. Middleton. Clara came to them and took the other side. " I was telling Miss Dale that the signal for your subjec- tion is my enfranchisement," he said to her, sighing and smiling. " We know the date. The date of an event to come certifies to it as a fact to be counted on." "Are you anxious to lose me ?" Clara faltered. " My dear, you have planted me on a field where I am to expect the trumpet, and when it blows I shall be quit oi my nerves, no more." 1 32 'I Hi: BG01 found nothing to seize on for a reply in these words. She thonghl upon the Bilence of Lcetitia. \\ illoughby advanced, appearing in a cordial mood. •I need no( ask you whether yon are better," lie said to I :led to Laatitia, and raised it key to the level of Middleton's breast, remarking : "I am going down to sellar." •• An inner cellar!" exclaimed the doctor. , ,| from the bntler. It is inter lieted to Stoneman. I I offer myself a- guide to you ? My cellars are worth a visit." "Cell 1 1 . . t catacombs. They are, if rightly con- .ditlv considered, • 3, where the bottle medi- i.) bestow, not on dust misused! Have you •■ A v. ine aged ninety. "U it ass I with your pedigree, that you pronounct tin- b _'!• with - ich assnranci '■ My grandfather inherited it." " rour gran Ifather, Sir Willonghby, had meritorious off- jpeak of generous progenitors. What would i. bad it fallen into the female line! I shall accompauy you Port? Herm tage ?" \ h ! We are in 1 Ingland !' ; ill jusl be time," said Sir Willonghby, inducing M iddleton to Btep out. A chirrup was in the Rev. doctor's tone: "Hocks, too, I ha ted senior Hocks. Their of many voices; they have depth .il Port ! we Bay. We cannot say that of any othi ' • is deep-sea deep. It is in its flavour di o: k the difference. It is like a classic tragedy, organic An ancient Hermitage has the light of the il it can grow to an extreme old age ; Hermitage nor of Hook can you Bay is the b I those long years, retaining the strength of youth with the wi . c. To Port for that ! Port < >1 I do not compare the wines; I di h the qualitii Let them li\ ■ for our • ; they are not rivals like the Id can Three. Were th would challenge them. Burgundy has AN AGED AND A GREAT WINE. 183 great genius. It does wonders within its period ; it does all except to keep up in the race ; it is short-lived. An aged Burgundy runs with a beardless Port. I cherish the fancy that Port speaks the sentences of wisdom, Burgundy sings the inspired Ode. Or put it, that Port is the Homeric hex- ameter, Burgundy the Pindaric dithyramb. What do you say?" " The comparison is excellent, sir." "The distinction, you would remark. Pindar astounds. But his elder brings us the more sustaining cup. One is a fountain of prodigious ascent. One is the unsounded purple sea of marching billows." " A very fine distinction." " I conceive you to be now commending the similes. They pertain to the time of the first critics of those poets. Touch the Greeks, and you can nothing new : all has been said : ' Graiis, .... pra?ter laudem, nullius avaris.' Genius dedi- cated to Fame is immortal. We, sir, dedicate genius to the cloaealine floods. We do not address the un forgetting Gods, but the popular stomach." Sir Willoughby was patient. He was about as accordantly coupled with Dr. Middleton in discourse as a drum due ting with a bass-viol ; and when he struck in he received cor- rection from the paedagogue-instrument. If he thumped affirmative or negative, he was wrong. However, he knew scholars to be an unmannered species ; and the doctor's learnedness would be a subject to dilate on. In the cellar, it was the turn for the drum. Dr. Mid- dleton was tongue-tied there. Sir Willoughby gave the history of his wine in heads of cl a -iters ; whence it came to the family originally, and how it had come down to him in the quantity to be seen. " Curiously, my grandfather, who inherited it, was a water-drinker. My father died early." "Inde?d! Dear me !" the doctor ejaculated in astonish- ment and condolence. The former glanced at the contrariety of man, the latter embraced his melancholy destiny. He was impressed with respect for the family. This cool vaulted cellar, and the central square block, o^ enceinte, where the thick darkness was not penetrated by the intrud- in ; lamp, but rather took it as an eye, bore witness to fore- thoughtful practical solidity in the man who had built the house on such foundations. A house having a great wine I v t TH T. . ! below, lives in otir imaginations as a joyful h didly rooted in the soil. And imagination has for the heir of the house. 1 1 is grandfather a water- drinker, his father dying early, present circumstances to us ling predestination to an illustrious heirship and career. Middleton's mnsings were coloured by the friendly of glasses of tin- great wine; his mind was festive; ■ ■■I him, and he chose to indulge in his whimsical- robustious, grandiose-airy style of thinking: from which the ive mind will sometimes take a certain print that we obliterate immediately. Expectation is grateful, you know ; in fche mood of iriatitude we are waxen. And lie was f-humouring gentleman. Be li W'illoughby's tone in ordering the servant at his heels to take up ' those two bottles:' it prescribed, with- out overdoing it, a proper amount of caution, and it named an agreeable number. Watching the man's hand keenly, lie said: " Bui here is the misfortune of a thing super-excellent: — not more than one in twenty will do it justice." Willonghby replied: "Very true, sir, and I think we : . er t he nineteen." " Women, for example : and most men." " This wine would be a sealed book to them." "I it would. It would be a grievous waste." i> a claret-man: and so is Horace De Crave. They are both below the mark of this wine. They will join Perhaps you and I, sir, might remain r." • With the utmost nr 00C l w in on my part." " 1 am anxious for your verdict, sir." . .-hall have it, sir, and not out of harmony with the preceding me, I can predict. Cool, not frigid." Dr. •li summed the attributes of the cellar on quitting ■ »rth Bide and South. No musty damp. A pure air! 1 ' ' One might lie down oneself and all our venerable British of the two Isles professing a ttachmeni to an ancient port-wine, lawyer, doctor, Imiral, city merchant, the classic scholar is he blood ! nuptial to the webbed bottle. The nrasl be, that In- is full of the old poets. He has AN AGED AND A GKEAT WINE. 185 their spirit to sing with, and the best that Time has done on earth to feixl it. He may also perceive a resemblance in the wine to the studious mind, which is the obverse of our -mortality, and throws oft* acids and crusty particles in the piling of the years, until it is fulgent by clarity. Port hymns to his conservatism. It is magical : at one sip he is off swimming in the purple flood of the ever-youthful antique. By comparison, then, the enjoyment of others is brutish , they have not the soul for it ; but he is worthy of the wine, as are poets of Beauty. In truth, these should be severally apportioned to them, scholar and poet, as his own good thing. Let it be so. Meanwhile Dr. Middleton sipped. After the departure of the ladies, Sir Willoughby had practised a studied ctfrtness upon Vernon and Horace. " Tou drink claret," he remarked to them, passing it round. *' Port, I think, Dr. Middleton ? The wine before you may serve for a preface. We shall have your wine in five minutes." The claret jug empty, Sir Willoughby offered to send for more. De Craye was languid over the question. Vernon rose from the table. " We have a bottle of Dr. Middleton's Port coming in," Willoughby said to him. " Mine, you call it ?" cried the doctor. " It's a royal wine, that won't suffer sharing," said Vernon. " We'll be with you, if you go into the billiard-room, Vernon." " I shall hurry my drinking of good wine for no man," said the doctor. " Horace ?" " I'm beneath it, ephemeral, Willoughby. I am going to the ladies." Vernon and De Craye retired upon the arrival of the wine ; and Dr. Middleton sipped. He sipped and looked at the owner of it. " Some thirty dozen ?" he said. " Fifty." The doctor nodded humbly. " I shall remember, sir," his host addressed him, " when. 186 1I1E EGOIST. ' ; .■ t';<- honour of entertaining you, I am cellarer of The I Ii\-. doctor set down his glass. " You have, sir, in . an enviable post. It is a responsible one, if that sing Un you it devolves to retard the day of the in." " 5Toux opinion of the wine is favourable, sir?" •• I will Bay this: — shallow souls run to rhapsody: — I will . that 1 am consoled for not having lived ninety years .. or at any period but the present, by this one glass of your ancestral wine." '■ I am careful of it," Sir Willoughby said modestly; ituial destination is to those who can appreciate i». Y"ii do, sir." ' Still, my good friend, still ! It is a charge : it is a pos- ton, hut part in trusteeship. Though we cannot declare it an entailed estate, our consciences are in some soi-t that it shall be a succession not too considerably dim I." ' Yon \\ ill not object to drink it, sir, to the health of your dchildren. And may you live to toast them in it on their marriage-day !" " 5Tod colour the idea of a prolonged existence in seductive Ea! It is a wine for Tithonus. This wine would I him to the rosy Morning — aha!" " I will undertake to sit you through it up to morning," Baid Sir Willoughby, innocent of the Bacchic nuptiality of the allusion. Dr. Middleton eyed the decanter. There is a grief in ra premonil ion of our mortal state. The amount ine in the decanter did not promise to sustain the starry ni_-lit and greel the dawn. "Old wine, my friend, is the full bottle !" bottle is to follow." " No!" " 1 d." "1 protest." " It is unco '.• 1." '• I it." " 1- 1." " I Bu *. mark, it must be honest partnership. > on are my worthy host, sir, on that stipulation. Note the AN AGED AND A GKE AT WINE. J 87 superiority of wine over Venus ! — I may say, the magna- nimity of wine ; our jealousy turns on him that will not share ! But the corks, Willoughby. The corks excite my amazement." " The corking is examined at regular intervals. I re- member the occurrence in my father's time. I have seen to it once." " It must be perilous as an operation for tracheotomy ; which I should assume it to resemble in surgical skill and firmness of hand, not to mention the imminent gasp of the patient." A fresh decanter was placed before the doctor. He said : " I have but a girl to give !" He was melted. Sir Willoughby replied : " I take her for the highest prize this world affords." " I have beaten some small stock of Latin into her head . and a note of Greek. She contains a savour of the classics. I hoped once .... but she is a girl. The nymph of the woods is in her. Still she will bring you her flower-cup of Hippocrene. She has that aristocracy — the noblest. She is fair ; a Beauty, some have said, who judge not by lines. Fair to me, Willoughby ! She is my sky. There were appli- cants. In Italy she was besought of me. She has no history. You are the first heading of the chapter. With you she will have her one tale, as it should be. ' Mulier turn bene olet,' you know. Most fragrant she that smells of naught. She goes to you from me, from me alone, from her father to her husband. ' Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis.' .... He murmured on the lines to, ' Sic virgo, dum ' I shall feel the parting. She goes to one who will have my pride in her, and more. I will add, who will be envied. Mr. Whitford must write you a Carmen Nuptiale." The heart of the unfortunate gentleman listening to Dr. Middleton set in for irregular leaps. His offended temper broke away from the image of Clara, revealing her as he had seen her in the morning beside Horace De Craye, distressingly sweet ; sweet with the breezy radiance of an English soft- breathing day ; sweet with sharpness of young sap. Her eyes, her lips, her fluttering dress that played happy mother across her bosom, giving peeps of the veiled twins ; and her laughter, her slim figure, peerless carriage, all her terrible sweetness touched his wound to the smarting quick. Till: KGOIST. Her wish to be free of him was his anguish. In his pain ely. When the pain was easier he muffled himself in the idea of her jealousy of La'titia Dale, and . the wish a lift ion. Bui she had expressed it. That the wound he sough! to comfort; for the double reason, thiit he could love her better after punishing her, and that editate on doing so masked the fear of losing her — the dread abyss she had succeeded in forcing his nature to shudder at ddy edge possibly near, in spite of his arts ace. •What I shall do to-morrow evening!" he exclaimed. "I do not cair to fling a bottle to Colonel De Crave and aon. I cannot open one for myself. To sit with the s will he sitting in the cold for me. When do you brin«, r me back my bride, sir p" ".My d»ar YVilloughby !" The Rev. doctor puffed, com- posed himself, and sipped. " The expedition is an absurdity. I am unable to see the aim of it. She had a headache, vapours. They are over, and she will show a return of good sense. I have ever maintained that nonsense is not to 1 in girls. I can put my foot on it. My arrangements arc for staying here a further ten days, in the ten our hospitable invitation. And I stay." " I applaud your resolution, sir. Will you prove firm ?" " I am never false to my engagement, Willoughby." " No t under pressnre." " I nder no pressure." " Persuasion, 1 should have said." ly not. The weakness is in the yielding, either on or to pressure. The latter brings weight to ; the former blows at our want of it." i gratify me, Dr. Middleton, and relieve me." ■ I cordially dislike a breach in good habits, Willoughby. ■ I do remember — was I wrong? — informing Clara that ared Light-hearted in regard to a departure, or gap Bit, thi ot, 1 must confess, to my liking." " Simply, my dear doctor, your pleasure was my pleasure; hut my pleasure yours, and you remain to crack many daw.*' You have a courtly speech, Wil- [ can ■ i to conduct a lover's quarrel with i*I a to well-bred damsels. Aha?" AN AGED AND A GREAT WINE. 189 " Spare me the futility of the quarrel." "Alfs well?" " Clara," replied Sir Willoughby, in dramatic epigram, "is perfection." " I rejoice," the Rev. doctor responded ; taught thus to understand that the lover's quarrel between his daughter and his host was at an end. He left the table a little after eleven o'clock. A short dialogue ensued upon the subject of the ladies. They must have gone to bed ? Why yes ; of course they must. It is good thai/ they should go to bed early to pre erve their complexions for us. Ladies are creation's glory, but they are anti-climax, following a wine of a century old. They are anti-climax, recoil, cross-current ; morally, they are repentance, penance ; iniagerially, the frozen ^Xorth on the young brown buds bursting to green. What know they of a critic in the palate, and a frame all revelry ! And mark you, revelry in sobriety, containment in exultation : classic revelry. Can they, dear though they be to us, light up candelabras in the brain, to illuminate all history and solve the secret of the destiny of man ? They cannot; they can- not sympathize with them that can. So therefore this division is between us ; yet are we not turbaned Orientals, nor are they inmates of the harem. We are not Moslem. Be assured of it in the contemplation of the table's de- caliter. Dr. Midclleton said : " Then I go straight to bed." " I will conduct you to your door, sir," said his host. The piano was heard. Dr. Middleton laid his hand on the banisters, and remarked : "The ladies must have gone to bed ?" Vernon came out of the library and was hailed : " Fellow- student !" He waved a good night to the doctor and said to Willoughby : " The ladies are in the drawing-room." " I am on my way upstairs," was the reply. " Solitude and sleep, after such a wine as that ; and fore- fend us human society!" the doctor shouted. " But, Wil- loughby !" " Sir." " One to-morrow !" *' You dispose of the cellar, sir." 190 THE EGOIST. ■ I am fitter to drive the horses of the sun. I would rigidly sel, one and no more. We have made a breach in ihe fiftieth dozen. Daily one, will preserve us from having to name the fortieth < piite so unseasonably. The couple of bottles per diem prognosticates disintegration, with its ac- companying recklessn >ss. Constitutionally, let me add, I 1 Bpeak for posterity." Daring Dr. Middleton s allocation the ladies issued from the drawing-room, Clara foremost, f >r she had heard her voice, and desired to ask him this in reference 10 their departure: "Papa, will you tell me the hoar to- morrow ':" She ran up the stairs to kiss him, saying a^ain : "When will you be re kdy to-morrow morn n : ?" Dr. Middleton announced a s;o it ly deliberative mind in the bugle-notes of a repeated ahem. He bethought him o ! replyinginhisdoct ina tongue. C a a's eager face admonished him to brevity: it began to look starved. Intru ling on his vision of the hour is couched in the inner cellar to be the i' I of valiant men.it anno} el him. His brows joined. Hi I shall not be ready to-morrow morning." •• In il, • o m P" ' N r in the afternjon." "When?" My d( a I am ready for bed at this moment, and hnow of no other readiness. Ladies" he bowed to thegrmpin the hall helow him, "may fair dreams pay court to you this 1 Willoughby had hastily descended and sh ken the if ih ladies, directed Horace De Ciaye to ihelabo- ry tor a smoking-room, and returned to Dr. Middleton. ed by the icertain of bis temper if he stayed with CI wh in he bad arranged that her disaproint- bould take place on the morrow, in his absence, ha • 1 night, good night," t> her. with due fervour, ■ r ber flaccid finger-tips ; than offered his arm to the " Ay. - »n Wilh nghby, in trie ndliness, if yon wi I, though bear my loa I," the father of the stuj efi ir > ! e blood directed. It was a vain I fate, the defemcelessness of )hm- to wild bo: backs, tossed claba's meditations. 193 her on savage wastes. In her case duty was shame : hence, it could not be broadly duty. That intolerable difference proscribed the word. But the fire of a brain burning- high and kindling every- thing, lit up herself against herself : — Was one so volatile as she a person with a will ? — Were they not a multitude of flitting wishes that she took for a will Y — Was she, feather- headed that she was, a person to make a stand on physical pride ? — If she could yield her hand without reflection (as she conceived she had done, from incapacity to conceive herself doing it reflectively), was she much better than pur- chasable stuff that has nothing to say to the bargain ? Furthermore, said her incandescent reason, she had not suspected such art of cunning in Willoughby. Then might she not be deceived altogether — might she not have misread him ? Stronger than she had fancied, might he not be like- wise more estimable ? The world was favourable to him : he was prized by his friends. She reviewed him. It was all in one flash. It was not much less intentionally favourable than the world's review and that of his friends, but, beginning with the idea of them, she recollected — heard Willoughby 's voice pronouncing his opinion of his friends and the world ; of Vernon Whitford and Colonel De Craye, for example, and of men and women. An undefined agreement to have the same regard for him as his friends and the world had, provided that he kept at the same distance from her, was the termination of this phase, occupying about a minute in time, and reached through a series of intensely vivid pictures : — his face, at her petition to be released, lowering behind them for a background and a comment. " I cannot ! I cannot ! " she cried aloud ; and it struck her that her repulsion was a holy warning. Beiter be graceless than a loathing wife : better appear inconsistent. Why shouid she not appear such as she was ? Why ? We answer that question usually in angry reliance on certain superb qualities, injured fine qualities of ours undiscovered hj the world, not much more than ouspected by ourselves, which are still our fortress, where pride sits at home, solitary and impervious as an octogenarian conser- vative. But it is not possible to answer it so when the brain is raging like a pine-torch and the devouring illuminatioE o 194 THE EGOIST. not ft spot of our nature covert. The aspect of her unrelieved, and frightened her back to her hing. Prom her loathing, as Boon as her sensations had dto realize it, she was hurled on her weakness. Graceless, Bhe was inconsistent, she was volatile, she unprincipled, she was worse than a prey to wickedness ipable of it ; she was only waiting to be misled. Nay, the idea of being misled suffused her with languor; for then battle would be over and she a happy weed of the sea no Buffering those tugs at the roots, but leaving it to the '.i heave and contend. She would be like Constantia then : like her in her fortunes: never so brave, she feared. Perhaps very like Constantia in her fortunes! Poor troubled bodies waking up in the night to behold ally the Bpectre east forth from the perplexed machinery inside them, Btare at it for a space, till touching conscious- they 'live down under the sheets with fish-like alacrity. a looked at her thought, and suddenly headed down- ward in a crimson gulf. She must have obtained absolution, or else it was oblivion, So >n alter the plunge, her first object of meditation lonel De ("rave. She thought of him calmly: he aed a refuge. He was very nice, he was a holiday cha- r. His lithe figure, neat iirm footing of the stag, swift intelligent expression, and his read/ frolicsomeness, pleasant humour, cordial temper, and his Erishry, whereon he was at liberty to play, as on the emblem harp of the Isle, were ling to think of. The suspicion that she tricked herself with this calm observation of him wa" dismissed. Issuing of torture, her young nature eluded the irradiating arch of refreshment, and she luxuriated at a feast in considering him— shower on a parched land that he was! He spread new air abroad. She had no reason to suppose not a good man: she could securely think of him. he was bound by his prospective office in support of ml Willoughby to be quite harmless. And besides to expect logical sequences) the showery re- in thinking of him lay in the sort of assurance it I, that the mo thought, the less would he lie • as an obnoxii ial: that is. as the man by Willoughby at the altar what her father would Clara's meditations. 19u under the supposition, be doing by her. Her mind reposed on Colonel De Craye. His name was Horace. Her father had worked with her at Horace. She knew most of the Odes and some of the Satires and Epistles of the poet. They reflected benevolent beams on the gentleman of the poet's name. He too was vivacious, had fun, common sense, elegance ; loved rusticity, he said, sighed for a country life, fancied retiring to Canada to cultivate his own domain ; ' modus agri non ita magnus : ' a delight. And he, too, when in the country sighed for town. There vvere strong features of resemblance. He had hinted in fun at not being rich. ' Quae virtus et quanta sit vivere parvo.' But that quotation applied to and belonged to Ver- non Whit ford. Even so little disai-ranged her meditations. She would have thought of Vernon, as her instinct of safety prompted, had not his exactions been excessive. He proposed to help her with advice only. She was to do everything for herself, do and dare everything, decide upon everything. He told her flatly that so would she learn to know her own mind ; and flatly that it was her penance. She had gained nothing by breaking down and pouring herself out to him. He would have her bring Willoughby and her father face to face, and be witness of their interview — herself the theme. What alternative was there ? — obedience to the word she had pledged. He talked of patience, of self-ex- animation and patience. But all of her — she was all marked urgent. This house was a cage, and the world — her brain was a cage, until she could obtain her prospect of freedom. As for the house, she might leave it ; yonder was the dawn. She went to her window to gaze at the first colour along the grey. Small satisfaction came of gazing at that or at herself. She shunned glass and sky. One and the other stamped her as a slave in a frame. It seemed to her she had been so long in this place that she was fixed here: it was her world, and to imagine an Alp, was like seeking to get back to childhood. Unless a miracle intervened, here she would have to puss her days. Men are so little chivalrous now, lliiit no miracle ever intervenes. Consequently she was doomed. She took a pen and began a letter to a dear friend, Lucy Darlelon, a promised bridesmaid, bidding her countermand orders tor her bridal dress, and purposing a tour in Switzer- o2 196 i hi: kgoist. ; She wrote of the mountain country with real aban- menl to imagination. It became a visioned loophole of .!.«•. She rose and clasped n .shawl over her night-dress t.i ward off dullness, and sitting to the table again, conld not luce a word. The lines she had written were condemned : they were ludicrously inefficient, The letter was torn to She stood verj clearly doomed. ■ > 9 fall of tears, upon looking at the scraps, she herself, and sat by the window and watched the blackbird on the lawn as he hupped from shafts of dewy sun- ■ i the long-stretched dewy tree-shadows, considering in her mind that Mark dews are more meaningful than bright, the beauty of the dews of woods more sweet than meadow- ' aified only that she was quieter. She had gone crisis in the anticipation of it. That is how quick natures will often be cold and hard, or not much moved, when the positive crisis arrives, and why it is that for astonishing leaps over the gradations which should render their conduct comprehensible to us, if able. She watched the blackbird throw up his tiff, and peck to right and left, dangling the worm each side his orange beak. Speckle-breasted thrushes were ■ irk, and a wagtail that ran as with Clara's own littla Thrush and blackbird flew to the nest. They had wingn. The lovely morning breathed of sweet earth into her •i window and made it painful, in the dense twitter, chirp, p, and song of the air, to resist the innocent intoxication. was not said by her, but if she had sung, as her tod, it would have been. Her war with Wil- li desire to love repelled by distaste. Her cry for freedom was a cry to be free to love : she discovered it. half- ring: to love, oh! no — no shape of man, nor ilpable nature either: but to love unselfishness, and help- ful' d planted strength in something. Then, loving and being loved ;i little, what strength would be hers! She all the wi sded to Willoughby and to her ' locked in her love: walking in this world, living in Pri had cried, despairing : If I were loved! ' happiness, envy of her escape, ; her then : and she remembered the cry, though not er plain-speaking to herself : she chose to^ think clara's meditations. 197 she had meant: If Willaughby were capable of truly loving! For now the fire of her brain had sunk, and refuges and subterfuges were round aboac it. The thought of personal love was encouraged, she chose to think, for the sake of the strength it lent her to carve her way to freedom. She had just before felt rather the reverse, but she could not exist with that feeling ; and it was true that freedom was not so indistinct in her fancy as the idea of love. Were men, when they were known, like him she knew too well r The arch-tempter's question to her was there. She put it away. Wherever she turned, it stood ob- serving her. She knew so much of one man, nothing of the rest: naturally she was curious. Vernon might be sworn to be unlike. But he was exceptional. What of the other in the house ? Maidens are commonly reduced to read the masters of their destinies by their instincts ; and when these have been edged by over-activity they must hoodwink their maidenli- ness to suffer themselves to read : and then they must dupe their minds, else men would soon see they were gifted to discern. Total ignorance being their pledge of purity to men, they have to expunge the writing of their perceptives on the tablets of the brain : they have to know not when they do know. The instinct of seeking to know, crossed by the task of blotting knowledge out, creates that conflict of the natural with the artificial creature to which their ulti- mately-revealed double-face, complained of by ever-dissatis- fied men, is owing. Wonder in no degree that they indulge a craving to be fools, or that many of them act the character. Jeer at them as little for not showing growth. You have reared them to this pitch, and at this pitch they have partly civilized you. Supposing you to want it done wholly, you must yield just as many points in your requisitions as are needed to let the wits of young women reap their due har- vest and be of good use to their souls. You will then have a fair battle, a braver, with better results. Clara's inner eye traversed Colonel De Craye at a shot. She had immediately to blot out the vision of the Captain Oxford in him, the revelation of his laughing contempt for Willoughby, the view of mercurial principles, the scribbled histoi-ies of light love-passages. n; i. t, kept it from her mind: so she lo him, knew him to be i rod a variable Willoughby, ■ kind of Willoughby, a Willonghby-butti without having the free mind to summarize him and picture him f ■;• n warning. Scattered featnres of him, such as tlie a call up, were not sufficiently impressive. Be- led mind was opposed to her receiving im- Young Crossjay's voice in the still morning air came to - The dear guileless chatter of the boy's voice! Why, assuredly it was young Crossjay who was the man loved. And he loved her. And he was going to be an ning, true Btrong man, the man she longed for, for anchorage. <>h the dear voice! woodpecker and Bh in one. He never ceased to (hatter to Vernon Whit- : walki] le him with a swinging stride off to the their morning swim. Happy couple! The morning • in both a freshness and innocence above human. They b« Died to Clara made of morning air and clear lake- water. Crossjay's voice ran up and down a diatonic scale, with h< re ;i query in semitone and a laugh on a She wondered what he could have to talk of tly, and imagined all the dialogue. He prattled : i-day and to-morrow; which did not imply and future, but his vivid present. She felt like one • L r to fly in hearing him ; she felt old. The con- arrived at was to feel maternal. She wished to Trol arid Btride, I y and Vernon entered the park, -. nol once looking at the house. 1 ahead and picked flower-, bounding back them. Clara's heart beat at a fancy that her I. If those Eowers were for her she ■ o bathers dipped over an undulation. II | rat I led her chains. • ply dwelling on their troubles lias the effect upon the ■ ng to forgetf ulness ; for they cat, not think aing, their imaginations are saturated with iollision, though they are unable to i I for sweet, distils an opiate. Clara's meditations. 199 M Am I solemnly engaged ? " she asked herself. She seemed to be awakening. She glanced at her bed, where she had passed the night of ineffectual moaning ; and out on the high wave of grass, where Crossjay and his good friend had vanished. Was the struggle all to be gone over again ? Little by little her intelligence cf her actual position crept up to submerge her heart. "I am in his house!" she said. It resembled a discovery, so strangely had her opiate and power of dreaming wrought through her tortures. She said it gasping. She was in his house, his guest, his betrothed, sworn to him. The fact stood out cut in steel on the pitiless daylight. That consideration drove her to be an early wanderer in the wake of Crossjay. Her station was among beeches on the flank of the boy's return ; and while waiting there, the novelty of her waiting to waylay any one — she who had played the contrary part ! — told her more than it pleased her to think. Yet she could admit that she did desire to speak with Vernon, as with a counsellor, harsh and curt, but wholesome. The bathers reappeared on the grass-ridge, racing and flapping wet towels. Some one hailed them. A sound of the galloping hoof drew her attention to the avenue. She saw Willoughby dash across the park-level, and dropping a word to Vernon, ride away. Then she allowed herself to be seen. Crossjay shouted. Willoughby turned his head, but not his horse's head. The boy sprang up to Clara. He had swum across the lake and back; he had raced Mr. Whitford — and beaten him ! How he wished Miss Middleton had been able to be one of them ! Clara listened to him enviously. Her thought was : We women are nailed to our sex ! She said : " And you have just been talking to Sir Wil- loughby." Crossjay drew himself up to give an imitation of the baronet's hand- waving in adieu. He would not have done that, had he not smelt sympathy with the performance. She declined to smile. Crossjay repeated it, and laughed. TP T. II.- • ade a broader exhibition of ittoVtraon approaching: •• I My Mr. Whitford, who's this ?" \ arnon doubled to catch bim. Grosajay fled and resumed magnificent air in the distance. "Good morning, Mies Middlel m; you are out early," said ion, rather pale and stringy from his cold swim, and father bard-eyed with the Bharp exercise following it. She bad expected some Of the kindness she wanted to i. t'.>r be could speak very kindly, and she regarded him • ■r doctor Of medicine, who would at least present the futile drug. •' < ' ■ ! morning," she replied. •• Willoughby will not be home till the evening. " " You muld not have had a finer morning for your bath. ' "I will walk as fast as you like." " I'm perfect ly warm." " I; it von prefer fast walking." "Out." M All ! 3 as, that I understand. The walk back ! Why is Willoughby away to-day P " '• He has business." After Mveral steps, she said: " He makes very sure of ■ without reason, you will find," said Vernon. "Call it be P I am bewildered. I had papa's promise." " To ! ai e the Hall for a day or two." " [1 would ha ■• e been . . . ." sibly. Hut other heads are at work as well as yours If you bad been in earnest about it, you would have tal ea ther into your confidence at once. That was the I ventured to propose, on the supposition." "In i I cannot imagine that you doubt it. I pare him." ' Tl in which be can't be spared." "If I had been bound to any other ! I did not know then d me a prisoner. I thought I had only to speak to >'• " riv men would !_ r ive up their prize for a word; Willoughbj ag through her thrillinely from Vernon's i b, and soot hed her deen adat ion. Clara's meditations. 201 She would have liked to protest that she was very little of a prize ; a poor prize ; not one at all in general estima- tion ; only one to a man reckoning his property ; no prize in the true sense. The importunity of pain saved her. " Does he think I can change asrain ? Am I treated as something won in a lottery ? To stay here is indeed indeed more than I can bear. And if he is calculating — Mr. Whit- ford, if he calculates on another change, his plotting to keep me here is inconsiderate, not very wise. Changes may occur in absence." " Wise or not, he has the right to scheme his best to keep you." She looked on Vernon with a shade of wondering re- o proach. " Why ? What right ? " " The right you admit when you ask him to release you. He has the right to think you deluded; and to think you may come to a better mood if you remain — a mood more agreeable to him, I mean. He has that right absolutely. You are bound to remember also that you stand in the wrong. You confess it when you appeal to his generosity. And every man has the right to retain a treasure in his hand if he can. Look straight at these facts." " You expect me to be all reason ! " " Try to be. It's the way to learn whether you are really in earnest." " I will try. It will drive me to worse ! " ' Try honestly. What is wisest now is, in my opinion, for you to resolve to stay. I speak in the character of the person you sketched for yourself as requiring. Well, then, a friend repeats the same advice. You might have gone with your father : now you will only disturb him and annoy him. The chances are, he will refuse to go." " Are women ever so changeable as men, then ? Papa consented ; he agreed ; he had some of my feeling; I saw it. That was yesterday. And at night ! He spoke to each of us at night in a different tone from usual. With me he was hardly affectionate. But when you advise me to stay, Mr. Whitford, you do not perhaps leflect that it would be at the sacrifice of all candour." " Regard it as a probational term " Till B0OI8T. "I r :ir w itli n ter into the bead : try the case there." - me aa ii J were a woman of - in hen Id him that tears were near !!,• shudd slightly. "You have intellect," he said, sed tli" lawn, leaving her. He had to was Ti"t permitti d to feel lonely, for she was imme- L by Colonel De Crave. CHAPTKR XXII. THE RIDE. j\y darted up to her a nose ahead of the colonel. "I Miss Middleton, we're to have the whol^ day to :• morning lessons. Will you come and fish see me bird's-nesl ? " a of beholding another cracked •n, my son:" the colonel interposed: and bowing to Middleton is handed over to my exclusive for tin- day — with her consent r " sely know." said she, consulting a sensation of t" contain some reminiscence. " If I i p'b plane are uncertain. I will speak to him. I i (',. jay would like a ride in ' u Oh ! 1 the hoy ; " out over Bournden, through ap to Closham beacon, and down on Aspenwell. on for racing. And ford the stream! " r.t for yon," \)< < Iraye said to her. ■ 1 and - l t In- 1). iv's hai d. • witlioiit you. i iv." lb, my man. when you bathe ? " At olonel'e g Crossjay conceived THE RIDE. 20tf the appearance of his matied locks in the eyes of his adorable lady. He gave her one dear look through his redness, and fled. " I like that boy," said De Craye. " I love him," said Clara. Crossjay's troubled eyelids in his honest young face be- came a picture for her. " After all, Miss Middleton, Willoughby's notions about him are not so bad, if we consider that you will be in the place of a mother to him." "I think them bad." " You are disinclined to calculate the good fortune of the boy in having more of you on land than he would have in crown and anchor buttons ! " " You have talked of him with Willoughby." " We had a talk last night." Of how much ? thought she. " Willoughby returns ? " she said. "He dines here, I know; for he holds the key of the inner cellar, and Dr. Middleton does him the honour to applaud his wine. Willoughby was good enough to tell me that he thought I might contribute to amuse you." She was brooding in stupefaction on her father and the wine as she requested Colonel De Craye to persuade Wil- loughby to take the general view of Crossjay's future and act on it. " He seems fond of the boy, too ! " said De Craye musingly. " You speak in doubt ? " "Not at all. But is he not — men are queer fish! — make allowance for us — a trifle tyrannical, pleasantly, with those he is foud of ? " " If they look right and left ? " It was meant for an interrogation : it was not with the sound of one that the words dropped. " My dear Cross- jay ! " she sighed. " I would willingly pay for him out of my own purse, and I will do so rather than have him miss his chance. I have not mustered resolution to propose it." " I may be mistaken, Miss Middleton. He talked of the boy's fondness of him." " He would." 20 t I in: EGOIST. ■• [ suppose he is hardly peculiar in liking to play Polo. Kt:i!\ •• Be may di t be." •• For the rest, your influence should be all powerful." '• U la not." I li I looked with a wandering eye at the heavens. •• We are having a spell of weather perfectly superb. And the odd thing is, that whenever we have splendid ther at home we're all for rushing abroad. I'm booked i Mediterranean cruis< — postponed to give place to your mony." -In' could not control her accent. - What worthier?" She was guilty of a pause. De Craye Baved it from an awkward lencrth. "I have written half an essay on Honeymoons, Miss Middleton." ■• I- that the same as a I mil- written essay, Colonel De "Just the same, with the difference that it's a whole i v written all on one side." 'On which Bide? " "The bachelor's" " W'hv does be trouble himself with such topics ! M " To warm himself for bring left out in the cold." " I loea he feel envy ? " " He has to confess it." " He has liberty." "A commodity he cun't tell the value of if there's no one • Mould he wish to sell?" " II'-'- b nt on completing his essay." I'm make t be reading dull." "There we touch the key of the subject. For what is ie the pair from a monotony multiplied by two? bachelor's recommendation, when each has dis- i the riL r iit sori of person to be dull with, pushes them from the Church door on a round of adventures con- 3 i" be had. Let them be in their lives the first or seconu day. A bachelor's private affair of his own; he hasn't to look kshamed of feeling it and inflicting it at me; 'til How; 1 punch it an he pleases, THE RIDE. 205 and turn it over t other side, if he's for a mighty variation ; there's a dream in it. But our poor couple are staring wide awake. All their dreaming's done. They've emptied their bottle of elixir, or broken it ; and she has a thirst for the use of the tongue, and he to yawn with a crony ; and they may converse, they're not aware of it, more than the desert that has drunk a shower. So as soon as possible she's away to the ladies, and he puts on his Club. That's what your bachelor sees and would like to spare them; and if he didn't see something of the sort he'd be off with a noose round his neck, on his knees in the dew to the morning milkmaid." " The bachelor is happily warned and on his guard," said Clara, diverted, as he wished her to be. " Sketch me a few of the adventures you propose." " I have a friend who rowed his bride from the Houses of Parliament up the Thames to the Severn on into North Wales. They shot some pretty weirs and rapids." " That was nice." " They had an infinity of adventures, and the best proof of the benefit they derived is, that they forgot everything about them except that the adventures occurred." " Those two must have returned bright enough to please you." " They returned, and shone like a wrecker's beacon to the mariner. You see, Miss Middleton, there was the landscape, and the exercise, and the occasional bit of danger. I think it's to be recommended. The scene is always changing, and not too fast ; and 'tis not too sublime, like big mountains, to tire them of tneir everlasting big Ohs. There's the dif- ference between going into a howling wind, and launching among zephyrs. They have fresh air and movement, and not in a railway carriage ; they can take in what they look on. And she has the steering ropes, and that's a wise com- mencement. And my lord is all clay making an exhibition of his manly strength, bowing before her some dozen to the minute; and she, to help him, just, inclines when she's in the mood. And they're face to face, in the nature of things, and are not under the obligation of looking the unutterable, because, you see, there's business in hand ; and the boat's just the right sort of third party, who never interferes, but must be attended to. And they feel they're labouring to- gether to get alorg, all in the proper proportion; and whethei 206 Tin: i: ."isT. he has to labour in lifo or not, he proves his ability. "What • hink of it. Miss Mid 11 ton ? " •• I think yon h tve only fco propose it, Colonel De Craye." "And if tl size, why, 'us a aatnral ducking ! " " Y la ly's dressing-hag." .in on the metal for a constant reminder of his in Baying it! Well, and there's an alternative to thai Bcheme and a finer: — This, then: they read dramatic iring courtship, to stop the saying of things over •i till the drum of the ear becomes nothing but a dram • oor hea I. and a Little before they affix their signatures to t he fatal Registry-hook of the vestry, they enter into an ■'n nt with a I o lv of provincial actors to join the troop on the day of their nuptials, and away they go in their coach and four, and she is Lad} Kitty Caper for a month, and he Sir Barry Highflyer. See the honeymoon spinning ! The marvel to me is, thai none of the young couples do it. They could enjoy the world, see life, amuse the company, and fresh to their own characters, instead of giving tli"- a doSi of Africa without a savage to diversify it: an impression they never get over, I'm told. Many a cha- ter of the happiest auspices has irreparable mischief done it by the ordinary honeymoon. For my part, I rather lean to the second plan of campaign." Clara was expected to reply, and she said: "Probably 1 i are fond of acting. It would require capacity on b 'tli siil "Miss Middleton, J would undertake to breathe the en- thu- or the stage and the adventure." " You are recommending it generally." • I.' ■ my gentleman only have a fund of enthusiasm. The lady will kindle. She always does at a spark." • : If be has not any P " "Then I'm afraid they must be mortally dull." She allowed her silence to speak ; she knew that it did so ■ loqnently, and could not control the personal adumbra- t . the one point of light revealed in, 'If he has any. 1 Her figure seemed immediately to wear a cap and if dnlni She was full of revolt and anger, she was burning with ible of shame now at anything that she it turn. I to wrath and threw the burden on the author THE RIDE. 207 of her desperate distress. The hour for blaming herself had gone by, to be renewed ultimately perhaps in a season ot freedom. She was bereft of her insight within at present, so blind to herself that, while conscious of an accurate reading of 'Willoughby's friend, she thanked him in her heart for seeking simply to amuse her and slightly succeed- ing. The afternoon's ride with him and Crossjay was an agreeable beguilement to her in prospect. La?titia came to divide her from Colonel De Craye. Dr. Middleton was not seen before his appearance at the break- fast-table, where a certain air of anxiety in his daughter's presence produced the semblance of a raised map at intervals on his forehead. Few sights on earth are more deserving of our sympathy than a good man who has a troubled conscience thrust on him. The Rev. doctor's perturbation was observed. The ladies Eleanor and Isabel, seeing his daughter to be the cause of it. blamed her and would have assisted him to escape, but Miss Dale, whom he courted with that object, was of the opposite faction. She made way for Clara to lead her father out. He called to Vernon, who merely nodded while leaving the room by the window with Crossjay. Half an eye on Dr. Middleton's pathetic exit in captivity sufficed to tell Colonel De Craye that parties divided the house. At first he thought how deplorable it would be to lose Miss Middleton for two days or three : and it struck him that Vernon Whitford and Lsetitia Dale were acting oddly in seconding her, their aim not being discernible. For he was of the order of gentlemen of the obscurely- clear in mind, who have a predetermined acuteness in their watch upon the human play, and mark men and women as pieces of a bad game of chess, each pursuing an interested course. His ex- perience of a section of the world had educated him — as gal- lant, frank and manly a comrade as one could wish for — up to this point. But he soon abandoned speculations, which may be compared to a shaking of the anemometer, that will not let the troubled indicator take station. Reposing on his perceptions and his instincts, he fixed his attention on the chief persons, only glancing at the others to establish a pos- tulate, that where there are parties in a house, the most bewitching person present is the origin of them. It is ever Helen's achievement. Miss Middleton appeared to him be. THE EGOIST. witching beyond mortal ; sunny »n her langhter, shadowy in her smiling ; a young lady shaped for perfect music with a lover. She was tli;it. and no less, to every man's eye on earth. ! ling 'lid not freeze her lovely girlishness. — But Willoughby did. Tin's reflection intervened to blot luxurious picturings of her. and made itself acceptable by leading him back to several instances of an evident want of harmony of the pair. And now (for purely undirected impulse all within us is not, thougb we may be eye-bandaged agents under direction) it became necessary for an honourable gentleman to cast vehement rebukes at the fellow who did not comprehend the jewel lie had won. How could AVillonqhby behave like so pletc a donkey ! De Craye knew him to be in his interior stilT, strange, exacting: women had talked of him; he had been too much tor one woman — the dashing Constantia : he liad worn one woman, sacrificing far more for him than Con- stantia, to death. Still, with such a prize as Clara Middle- ton. VVilloughby's behaviour was past calculating in its con- t absurdity. And during courtship ! And courtship of that girl! It was the way of a man ten years after The idea drew him to picture her doatingly in her young only bloom ten years after marriage: without a touch of matronly wise, womanly sweet: perhaps with a couple of little ones to love, never having known the love of a man. To think of a girl like Clara .Middleton never having, at nine and twenty, and with two fair children ! known the love of a man. or the loving of a man, possibly, became torture to tie' ( 'oloiiel. :■ a pacification, he had to reconsider that she was as ' only nineteen and unmarried. But she was engaged and she was unloved. One might ii- to it. that she was unloved. And she was not a girl to be satisfied with a big house and a high-nosed husband. There was a rapid alteration of the sad history of Clara I unloved matron solaced by two little ones. A childless 1 ti-apically loving and beloved, Hashed across the dark ( I ■ her way her fate was cruel. De Craye in the contemplation THE RIDE. 209 of the distance he had stepped in this morass of fancy. He distinguished the choice open to him of forward or back, and he selected forward. But fancy was dead : the poetry hover, ing about her grew invisible to him : he stood in the morass; that was all he knew ; and momently he plunged deeper ; and he was aware of an intense desire to see her face, that he might study her features again : he understood no more. It was the clouding of the brain by the man's heart, which had come to the knowledge that it was caught. A certain measure of astonishment moved him still. It had hitherto been his portion to do mischief to women and avoid the vengeance of the sex. What was there in Miss Middleton's face and air to ensnare a veteran handsome man of society numbering six and thirty years, nearly as many conquests? ' Each bullet has got its commission.' He was hit at last. That accident effected by Mr. Flitch had fired the shot. Clean through the heart, does not tell us of our mis- fortune till the heart is asked to renew its natural beating'. It fell into the condition of the porcelain vase over a thought of Miss Middleton standing above his prostrate form on the road, and walking beside him to the Hall. Her words ? What have they been ? She had not uttered words, she had shed meanings. He did not for an instant conceive that he had charmed her : the charm she had cast on him was too thrilling for coxcombry to lift a head ; still she had enjoyed his prattle. In return for her touch upon the Irish fountain in him, he had manifestly given her relief. And could not one see that so sprig-fitly a girl would soon be deadened by a man like Willoughby ? Deadened she was : she had not responded to a compliment on her approaching marriage. An allusion to it killed her smiUng. The case of Mr. Flitch, with the half-wager about his reinstation in the service of the Hall, was conclusive evidence of her opinion of Wil- loughby. It became again necessary that he should abuse Wil- loughby for his folly. Why was the man worrying her ? In some way he was worrying her. What if Willoughby as well as Miss Middleton wished to be quit of the engagement ? . . . . For just a second, the handsome woman-flattered officer proved his man's heart more whole than he supposed it, p •> K> i hi: EGOIST. Xhai gri i". instead of Leaping ;it the thought, suffere'l a check. B( ar in mind, thai his heart was not merely man's, it was a conqneror'B. Ee was of the race of amorous heroes who glory in |>ursuiii!_ r . overtaking, subduing: wresting tlie prize from a rival, having her ripe Eroin exquisitely feminine inward conflicts, plucking her out of resistance in g I old primitive Fashion. You win the creature in her delicious tlutterings. lie liked her thus, in cooler blood, because of society's admiration of the capturer, and somewhat because bf the Btrife, which always enhances the value of a prize, and refreshes our vanity in recollection. Moreover, he had been matched against Willough by : the circumstance hid occurred two or three times. He could name a lady he had won, a lady he had lost. Willoughby's irtune and grandeur of style had given him advan- the start. Hut the start often means the race — with women, and a bit of luck. The gentle check upon the gallopping heart of Colonel De 1 .e endured no longer than a second — a simple side- glance in a headlong pace. Clara's enchant in gness for a perament like his, which is to say, for him specially, in part through the testimony her conquest of himself pre- 1 as to her power of sway over the universal heart known as man's, assured him she was worth winning even Emm a hand t hat dropped her. I [e had now a double reason for exclaiming at the folly of Willoughby. Willoughby's treatment of her showed either Vanity and judgement led De Crave to i the former. Regarding her sentiments for Wil- ghby, he had come to his own conclusion. The certainty of i' ed him I ame that he possessed an absolute knowledge of her character: she was an angel, born supple; she was a heavt oly bouI, with half a dozen of the tricks of •h. Skittish filly, was among his phrases; but she had a bearing and a gaze that forbade the dip in the common gutter for wherewithal to paint the creature she was. whether he was wrong for thefirst time in his life ! If not he had a chance. Ti id be nothing dishonourable in rescuing a girl from ai • rement she detested. An attempt to think it a Willoughby failed midway. De Crave dismissed THE RIDE. 211 that chicanery. It would be a service to Willoughby in the end, without question. There was that to soothe his manly honour. Meanwhile he had to face the thought of Wil- loughby as an antagonist, and the world looking heavy on his honour as a friend. Such considerations drew him tenderly close to Miss Middleton. It must, however, be confessed that the mental iirdour of Colonel De Craye had been a little sobered by his glance at the possibility of both of the couple being of one mind on the subject of their betrothal. Desireable as it was that they should be united in disagreeing, it reduced the romance to platitude, and the third person in the drama to the appearance of a stick. INb man likes to play that part. Memoirs of the favourites of Goddesses, if we had them, would confirm it of men's tastes in this respect, though the divinest be the prize. We behold what part they played. De Craye chanced to be crossing the hall from the labora- tory to the stables when Clara shut the library-door behind her. He said something whimsical, and did not stop, nor did he look twice at the face he had been longing for. What he had seen made him fear there would be no ride out with her that day. Their next meeting reassured him ; she was dressed in her riding-habit and wore a countenance resolutely cheerful. He gave himself the word of command to take his tone from her. He was of a nature as quick as Clara's. Experience pushed him farther than she could go in fancy ; but expe- rience laid a sobering finger on his practical steps, and bade • them hang upon her initiative. She talked little. Young Crossjay cantering ahead was her favourite subject. She was very much changed since the early morning ; his liveli- ness, essayed by him at a hazard, was unsuccessful ; grave English pleased her best. The descent from that was naturally to melancholy. She mentioned a regret she had that the Veil was interdicted to women in Protestant coun- tries. De Craye w T as fortunately silent; he could think of no other veil than the Moslem, and when her meaning struck his witless head, he admitted to himself that devout attendance on a young lady's mind stupefies man's intel- ligence. Half an hour later, he was as foolish in supposing it a confidence. He was again saved by silence. In Aspenwell village she drew a letter from her bosom p2 2\'2 THE EGOIST. an. 1 called to Crossjay to posl it. The boy trangout: "Miss Lucy Darleton '■ Wh&i a nice name !' Clara did not show that the name betrayed anything. She said to De Craye: "It proves he should not be here thinking of nice names." Her companion replied : " You may be right." He added, to avoid feeling too subservient: "Boys will." ■ X.it if they have stern masters to teach them their daily lessons, and some of the lessons of existence." •• \ ernon Whitford is not stern enough ?" " Mi-. Whitford has to contend with other influences here." "With Willoughby?" •■ Not with Willoughby." He understood her. She touched the delicate indication firmly. The man's heart respected her for it ; not many girla could be so thoughtful or dare to be so direct; he saw thai she had become deeply serious, and he felt her love of the boy to be maternal, past maiden sentiment. J!y this light of her seriousness, the posting of her letter in a distant village, not entrusting it to the Hall post-box, mighl have import; not that she would apprehend the viola- tion of her private correspondence, but we like to see our tf weighty meaning pass into the mouth of the public bo ntly this letter was important. It was to sup- po8< in the conduct of a variable damsel. I ipled with her remark about the Veil, and with other thil ' words, breathing from her (which were the bn ath of her condition), it was not unreasonably to be sup- Sin- might even be a very consistent person. If one only had t be key of her! She spoke once of an immediate visit to London, supposing thai old indue,- her father to go. De Craye remem- I the occurrence in the hall at night, and her aspect of di - • They raced along Aspenwell Common to the ford; shallow, the chagrin of young Crossjay. between whom and them- Belves they lefl B fitting space for hia rapture in leading his y to Bplash ii]) and down, lord of the stream. • of motion bo strikes the blood on the brain that on: ■ ' - are lightnings, the heart is master of them. De I wa- heated bv his trallop to venture on the THE RIDE. 213 angling question : " Am I to hear the names of the brides- maids ?" The pace had nerved Clara to speak to it sharply. "There is no need." " Have I no claim ?" She was mute. " Miss Lucy Darleton, for instance ; whose name I am almost as much in love with as Cross jay." " She will not be bridesmaid to me." " She declines ? Add my petition, I beg." " To all ? or to her ?" " Do all the bridesmaids decline ?" " The scene is too ghastly." " A marriage ?" " Girls have grown sick of it." " Of weddings ? We'll overcome the sickness." "With some." " Not with Miss Darleton ? You tempt my eloquence.'* " You wish it ?" " To win her consent ? Certainly." " The scene!" " Do I wish that ?" "Marriage!" exclaimed Clara, dashing into the ford, fearful of her ungovernable wildness and of what it might have kindled. — You, father ! you have driven me to un- maidenliness ! — She forgot Willoughby in her father, who wo aid not quit a comfortable house for her all but prostrate beseeching ; would not bend his mind to her explanations, answered her with the horrid iteration of such deaf mis- understanding as may be associated with a tolling bell. De Craye allowed her to catch Crossjay by he^-elf. They entered a narrow lane, mysterious with possible birds' eggs in the May-green hedges. As there was not room for three abreast, the colonel made up the rearguard, and was consoled by having Miss Middleton's figirre to contemplate ; but the readiness of her joining in Crossjay's pastime of the nest- hunt was not so pleasing to a man that she had wound to a pitch of excitement. Her scornful accent on ' Marriage ' rang through him. Apparently she was beginning to do with him just as she liked, herself entirely unconcerned. She kept Crossjay beside her till she dismounted, and the colonel was left to the procession of elephantine ideas in his •j 14 THI E001 g he took Pot natural weigfct. We do no! with impunity abandon the initiative. Men who have .,,1 ,, are like cavalry put on the defensive ; a very small • itb .-in ictus will Bcatter them. t , Anxiety to recover Losl ground reduced the dimensions ol his id, • a practical Btandard. Two ideas were opposed Like duellists benl on the slaughter ther. Either Bhe amazed him by confirming the • be bad gathered of her sentiments for Willoughby moments of In. introduction to her; or she amazed him ode) For coquettes:— the married and the widowed !ii apply i" her for li combatants exchanged shots,but remained standing: the encounter was undecided. Whatever the result, no per&on I [ara Middletou had he ever met. Her cry loathing: ' Marriage!' coming From a girl, rang faintly ut virginal aspiration of the sex to escape m their coil, and bespoke a pure cold savage pride that planted his thirst i'ur her to higher fields. cb niter xxni. PHI ONIOM 01 TBMPEB AND POLICY. Bra Wrti bbv meanw bile was on a line of conduct suit- n of his duty to himself . He had deluded self with the simple notion that good fruit would come of t ti mper and policy. \,, delusion is older, none apparently bo promising, both iliance. ret, the theorists upon Inn they are obviously of adverse dis- Ai.'l this is trui much as neither of them will -uhiint to the i ablished union ; as soon as they hief, they set to work tugging for a ions, the one for I be other, which precipitate them to embrace whenever they meet in a i ■ ■. it h the owner of it to gel him to . bwitb a* wedding-priest. And here is the reason : TEMPER AND POLICY. 215 temper, to warrant its appearance, desires to be thought as deliberative as policy ; and policy, the sooner to prove its shrewdness, is impatient for the quick blood of temper. It will be well for men to resolve at the first approaches of the amorous but fickle pair upon interdicting even an accidental temporary junction : for the astonishing sweetness of the couple when no more than the ghosts of them have come together in a projecting mind is an intoxication beyond fermented grapejuice or a witch's brewage ; and under the guise of active wits they will lead us to the parental medi- tation of antics compared with which a Pagan Saturnalia were less impious in the sight of sanity. This is full- mouthed- language ; but on our studious way through any human career we are subject to fits of moral elevation ; the theme inspires it, and the sage residing in every civilized bosom approves it. Decide at the outset, that temper is fatal to policy : hold them with both hands in division. One might add, be doubt- ful of your policy and repress your temper : it would be to suppose you wise. You can however, by incorporating two or three captains of the great army of truisms bequeathed to us by ancient wisdom, fix in your service those veteran old standfasts to check you. They will not be serviceless in their admonitions to your understanding, and they will so contrive to reconcile with it the natural caperings of the wayward young sprig Conduct, that the latter, who com- monly learns to walk upright and straight from nothing softer than raps of a blui. ;eon on his crown, shall foot soberly, appearing at least wary of dangerous corners. Now Willoughby had not to be taught that temper is fatal to policy ; he was beginning to see in addition that the temper he encouraged was particularly obnoxious to the policy he adopted ; and although his purpose in mounting horse after yesterday frowning on his bride was definite, and might be deemed sagacious, he bemoaned already the fatality pushing him ever farther from her in chase of a satisfaction impossible to grasp. But the bare fact that her behaviour demanded a line of policy crossed the grain of his temper : it was very offensive. Considering that she wounded him severely, her reversal of their proper parts, by taking the part belonging to him, and requiring his watchfulness, and the careful dealings ha 216 THE EGOIST. was accustomed to expect from others and had a right to ezad of her, was injuriously unjust. The feelings of a man d it aril j sensitive to property accused her of a trespassing impudence, and knowing himself, by testimony of his house- hold, his tenants and the neighbourhood, and the world as well, amiable when lie received his dues, he contemplated her with an air of stiff-backed ill-treatment, not devoid of a certain >anct ilicat ion of martyrdom. His bitteresl enemy would hardly declare that it was he who was in the wrong. Clara herself had never been audacious enough to say that. Distaste of his person was inconceivable to the favourite of society. The capricious creature probably wanted a whipping to bring her to the understanding of the principle called mastery, which is in man. Bui was he administering it? If he retained ahold on her, he could undoubtedly apply the scourge at leisure ; any kind of scourge ; he could shun her, look on her frigidly, unbend to her to find a warmer place for sarcasm, pityingly smile, ridicule, pay court elsewhere. He could do these things if he retained a hold on her; and he could do them well bee of the faith he had in his renowned amiability; for in doing tie m, he could feel that he was other than he ied. and his own cordial nature was there to comfort him while he bestowed punishment. Cordial indeed, the chills he endured were fluiicr from the world. His heart in tint action: half the hearts now beating have a mild form of it to keep them merry: and the chastisement he desired to inflict was really no more than righteous vengeance for an offended L r Iness of heart. Clara figuratively, abso- lutely perhaps, on her knees, he would raise her and forgive He yearned for the situation. To let her understand how little she had known him ! It would be worth the pain had dealt, to pour fori h t he stream of re-established con- fid. ■ i paint himself to her as he was ; as he was in the ppirit, I ' be was to the world: though the world had in to do him honour. I er, she would have to be humbled. oing whispered thai his hold on her was lost. In such a cat .- blow he struck would set her flying her, till the breach between them would be past bridging. Det< rmination noi to l< I her go, was the besi finish to this TEMPER AND POLICY. 217 perpetually revolving round which went Hire the same old wheel-planks of a water-mill in his head at a review of the injury he sustained. He had come to it before, and he camo to it again. There was his vengeance. It melted him, she was so sweet ! She shone for him like the sunny breeze on water. Thinking of her caused a catch of his breath. The dreadful young woman had a keener edge for the senses of men than sovereign beauty. It would be madness to let her go. She affected him like an outlook on the great Patterne estate after an absence, when his welcoming flag wept fur pride above Patterne Hall. It would be treason to let her go. It would be cruelty to her. He was bound to reflect that she was of tender age, and the foolishness of the wretch was excuseable to extreme youth. We toss away a flower that we are tired of smelling and do not wish to carry. But the rose — young woman — is not cast off with impunity. A fiend in shape of man is always behind us to appropriate her. He that touches that rejected thing is larcenous. Willoughby had been sensible of it in the person of Lastitia: and by all the more that Clara's charms exceeded the faded creature's, he felt it now. Ten thousand Furies thickened about him at a thought of her lying by the roadside without his having crushed all bloom and odour out of her which might tempt even the curiosity of the fiend, man. On the other hand, supposing her to lie there untouched, universally declined by the sniffing sagacious dog- fiend, a miserable spinster for years, he could conceive notions of his remorse. A soft remorse may be adopted as an agreeable sensation within view of the wasted penitent whom we have struck a trifle too hard. Seeing her penitent, he certainly would be willing to surround her with little offices of com- promising kindness. It would depend on her age. Suppos- ing her still youngish, there might be captivating passages between them ; as thus, in a style not unfamiliar : " And was it my fault, my poor girl ? Am I to blame, that you have passed a lonely unloved youth ?" "No, Willoughby; the irreparable error was mine, the blame is mine, mine only. I live to repent it. I do not seek, 218 i ii k i.i." i- 1 I have nnt deserved, your pardon. BPad I it, I should ; my own Belf-esteem to presume to eiasp it to a bosom ever anworl hy of you." ••I may have been impatient, Clara: we are human !" '• Never be it mine to accuse one on whom I laid so heavy a w< i« 1. irbearance !" ■■ Still, my old love ! — for T am merely quoting history in ling yon so — I cannot have been perfectly blameless." •• To me yon w '1 are." ••Clan "Willoughbj "Musi I recognize the bitter truth that we two, once irly one ! are eternally separated ?" '• I have envisaged it. My friend — I may call you friend: you have ever been my friend, my best friend! Oh, that bad been mine to know the friend I had! — Willoughby, in the dark' -lit. and during days that were as night to my soul, 1 bave the inexorable finger pointing my tary way through the wilderness from a Paradise forfeited by in\ mosl wilful, my wanton, sin. We have met. It is : e than I have merited. We part. In merry let it be for Oh, terrible word! Coined by the passions of our u- for our sole riches when we are bank- rupt thly treasures, and is the passport given by Abne- gation unto Woe thai prays to quit this probationary sphere. Willoughby, we part. It is better so." "Clara ! i —one last — one holy kiss !" •• I: these poor lips, that once were sweet to you. . . ." The kiss, to continue the Language of the imaginative composition of his time, favourite readings in which had insp 5ir Willoughby with a colloquy so pathetic, was imprint he had the kiss, and no mean one. It was intended to swallow every •■ • dwindling attractiveness out of her, and there was a bit of scandal springing of it in the background that torily settled her business, and left her 'enshrined in memory, a divine recollection, to him,' as his popular romanc< I Bay, and have said for years. Unhappily, tl lute of her lips encircled him with the breathing Clara. She rushed up from vacancy a wind summoned to ; a stately vessel. H pie had thrown him into severe commotion. The TEMPER AND POLICY. 219 slave of a passion thinks in a ring - , as hares run: he will cease where he began. Her sweetness had set him off, and he whirled back to her sweetness : and that being incalcu- lable and he insatiable, you have the picture of his torments when you consider that her behaviour made her as a cloud to him. Riding slack, horse and man, in the likeness of those two ajog homeward from the miry hunt, the horse pricked his ears, and Willoughby looked down from his road along the hills on the race headed by young Crossjay with a short start over Aspenwell Common to the ford. There was no mistaking who they were, though they were well-nioh a mile distant below. He noticed that they did not overtake the boy. They drew rein at the ford, talking not simply face to face, but face in face. Willoughby 's novel feeling of he knew not what drew them up to him, enabling him to fancy them bathing in one another's eyes. Then she sprang through the ford, De Craye following, but not close after — and why not close ? She had nicked him with one of her peremptorily saucy speeches when she was bold with the gallop. They were not unknown to Willoughby. They signified intimacy. Last night he had proposed to De Craye to take Miss Middleton for a ride the next afternoon. It never came to his mind then that he and his friend had formerly been rivals. He wished Clara to be amused. Policy dictated that every thread should be used to attach her to her resi- dence at the Hall until he could command his temper to talk to her calmly and overwhelm her, as any man in ear- nest, with command of temper and a point of vantage, may be sure to whelm a young woman. Policy, adulterated by temper, yet policy it was that had sent him on his errand in the early morning to beat about for a house and garden suitable to Dr. Middleton within a circuit of five, six, or seven miles of Patterne Hall. If the Rev. doctor liked the house and took it (and Willoughby had seen the place to suit him), the neighbourhood would be a chain upon Clara : and if the house did not please a gentleman rather hard to please (except in a venerable wine), an excuse would have been started for his visiting other houses, and he had the response to his importunate daughter, that he believed an excellent house was on view. Dr. Middleton had been pre. 220 i in: egoist. pared by numerous hints to meet Cain's black misreading nf ii lover's quarrel, so thai everything looked full of promise ■ >• as Willoughby's exercise of policy went. i the strange pang travel -iuL, r him now convicted him of a large adulteration of profitless temper with it. The [ty of I>>' Craye to a friend, where ;i woman walked in the drama, was notorious. It was there, and a most flexible 1 1 1 i 1 1 lt n was: and it soon resembled reason manipulated by Not to have reckoned on his peculiar loyalty was proof of the blindness cast on us by temper. And De Craye had an [rish tongue; and he had it under that he Could talk good sense and airy nonsense at di a. The strongest overboiling of English 1'nritan contempt of a gabbler would not stop women from liking it. lently Clara did like it, and Willoughby thundered on her sex. I ch brainless things as these do we, under tin- irony of circumstances, confide our honour ! For he was no gabbler. He remembered having rattled he had rattled with an object to gain, ring to 1" for an easy, careless, vivacious, charm- any young gentleman may be who gaily wears the gol len dish of Fifty thousand pounds per annum nailed to the back of his saintly young pate. The growth of the critical spirit in him, however, had informed him that g had b i principal component of his rattling; and as he justly supposed it a betraying art for his race and for him, he passed through the prim and the yawning phases of i indiffi the pure Puritanism of a leaden mpt of gabb Th( girls ! 1 [ow despicable t he Is! at least, that girl below there! Married women undersl I bim: widows did. He placed handsome and flattering young widow of his Lad) M n". Lewison, beside Clara for a co'm- - m, involuntarily ; and at once, in a flash, in despite of him i he would rather it had been otherwise), and in despite .ady Mary's high birth and connections as well, the silver lustre of the maid sicklied thi widow. Tl ■ of the luckless comparison was to produce at* ima. in the features of Clara that gave him the final, i -Mow. .1. invaded him. He had 1. i been free of it. regarding jealousy as a TEMPER AND POLICY. 221 foreign devil, the accursed familiar of the vulgar. Luckless fellows might be victims of the disease ; he was not ; and neither Captain Oxford, nor Vernon, nor He Craye, nor any of his compeers, had given him one shrewd pinch : the woman had, not the man ; and she in quite a different fashion from his present wallowing anguish : she had never pulled him to earth's level, where jealousy gnaws the grasses. He had boasted himself above the humiliating visitation. If that had been the case, we should not have needed to trouble ourselves much about him. A run or two with the pack of imps would have satisfied us. But he desired Clara Middleton manfully enough at an intimation of rivalry to be jealous ; in a minute the foreign devil had him, he was flame: flaming- verdigris, one might almost dare to say, for an exact illustration ; such was actually the colour ; but accept it as unsaid. Ilemember the poets upon Jealousy. It is to be haunted in the heaven of two by a Third; preceded or succeeded, therefore surrounded, embraced, hugged by this infernal Third : it is Love's bed of burning marl ; to see and taste the withering Third in the bosjvm of sweetness; to be dragged through the past and find the fair Eden of it sul- phurous ; to be dragged to the gates of the future and glory to behold them blood : to adore the bitter creature trebly and with treble power to clutch her by the windpipe : it is to be cheated, derided, shamed, and abject and supplicating, and consciously demoniacal in treacherousness, and vic- toriously self-justified in revenge. And still there is no change in what men feel, though in what they do the modern may be judicious. You know the many paintings of man transformed to rageing beast by the curse: and this, the fieriest trial of our egoism, worked in the Egoist to produce division of himself from himself, a concentration of his thoughts upon another object, still himself, but in another breast, which had to be looked at and into for the discovery of him. By the gaping jaw-chasm of his greed we may gather comprehension of his insatiate force of jealousy. Let her go ? Not though he were to become a mark of public scorn in strangling her with the yoke ! His concentration was marvellous. Un- 222 THE EGOIST. t . t ho exorcise of imaginative powers, he; nevertheless conjured her before him visually till his eyeballs ache 1. II. saw none but Clara, bated none, loved none, save the intolerable woman. What logic was in him deduced her to be individual and most distinctive from the circumstance that only she had ever wroughl these pangs. She had made him ready for them, as we know. An idea of De Crave being no stranger to her when he arrived at the Hall, dashed him at De Craye for a second: it might be or might not be that they had a secret;— Clara was the spell. So prodigiously did he love and bate, thai he had no per- manent sense except for ber. The soul of him writhed under her eyes at one moment, and the next it closed on her without mercy. She was his possession escaping; his own gliding aw ay to the Third. There would be pangs for him too, that Third ! Standing at the altar to see her t a si -boil ml, soul an 1 body, to another, rood roast ing tire. It would be good roasting fire for her too, should she he averse. To conceive her aversion was to burn her and • ur her. She would then be his! — what say you? Burnt ami devoured! Rivals would vanish then. Her tM espouse the man she was plighted to, would o he uttered, cease to be felt. At last he believed in her reluctance. All that had 1 to bring him to the belief was the scene on the mere -park, or an imagined spark! But the pri ; the Third, was necessary ; other vise he would himself personally distastefnl. Women b the conditions of primitive man, tol us higher than the topmost star. But it is as I. i them tell uj what we are to them : for us, they are our back and trout of life: the poet's Lesbia, the Be tri s is the choice. And were it proved »f the bright things are in the pay of Darkness, with the stamp of his coin on their palms, and that some arc y angels we hear sung of, not the less mighi we say • they lind us out. they have us by our leanings. They •vliat v.e hold t or worst within. By their ir civilization judged : and if it is hugely animal still, ih u is b( uimitive men ah rand and will have their TEMPER AND POLICY. 2'2'i pasture. Since tlie lead is ours, the leaders mnst bow their heads to the sentence. Jealousy of a woman, is the primi- tive egoism seeking to refine in a blood gone to savagery under apprehension of an invasion of rights ; it is in action the tiger threatened by a rifle when his paw is rigid on quick flesh ; he tears the flesh for rage at the intruder. The Egoist, who is our original male in giant form, had no bleed, ing victim beneath his paw, but there was the sex to mangle. Much as he prefers the well-behaved among women, who can worship and fawn, and in whom terror can be inspired, in his wrath he would make of Beatrice a Lesbia Quadrantaria. She must be sculptured Griselda with him not in her soul to suffer the change ; she must have the power of halting midway between celestially good and brutishly. But let women tell us of their side of the battle. We are not so much the test of the Egoist in them as they to us. Move- ments of similarity shown in crowned and undiademed ladies of intrepid independence, suggest their occasional capacity to be like men when it is given to them to hunt. At present they fly, and there is the difference. Our manner of the chase informs them of us. Dimly as young women are informed, they have a youthful ardour of detestation that renders them less tolerant of the Egoist than their perceptive elder sisters. What they do perceive, however, they have a redoubtable grasp of, and Clara's behaviour would be indefensible if her detective feminine vision might not sanction her acting on its direction. Seeing him as she did, she turned from him and shunned his house as the antre of an ogre. She had posted her- letter to Lucy Darleton. Otherwise, if it had been open to her to dismiss Colonel De Craye, she might, with a warm kiss to Vernon's pupil, have seriously thought of the next shrill steam-whistle across yonder hills for a travelling* companion on the wa} r to her friend Lucy; so abhorrent was to her the putting of her horse's head toward the Hall. Oh, the break- ing of bread there! It had to be gone through for another day and more: that is to say, forty hours, it might be six and forty hours ! and no prospect of sleep to speed any of them on wings ! Such were Clara's inward interjections while poor Wil- loughby burnt himself out with verdigris flame having the savour of bad metal, till the hollow of his breast was not '11 \ '] LIE EGOIST. nnlike to a corroded old cuirass found, we "will assume, by ■ beams in a digging beside green-mantled ■•1 witli a strange adhesive con- II iw else picture the sad man? — the cavity felt v to him, ;iii 1 bcavy ; Rick of an ancient and moj'tal . i. it, and burning ; >1 -dinted too ; \\ i : the - am- hole Whence fled the sonl : - sore; im for aught save sluggish agony; a imen and t be issue of si i ife. Measurelessly to loathe was not sufficient to save him from pain: be tried it: nor to despise; he went to a depth there The Fact that she whs a healthy young woman, re- turned to the surface of his thoughts like the murdered body pitch '1 into the river, which will not drown aud calls upon i ! lements of dissolution to float it. 11 is grand hereditary to transmit bis i wealth and name to a s. did .-, while it prom if d him in his loathing aud contempt nal ire mean and eph compared with his, attached .- to her splendid healthiness. The council of rs, who ndant he was, pointed to this young woman for bis mate. II- bad wooed her with the idea that they ■I ( » >1 .as healthy! And he likewise; but, as bad been a duel between two clearly designated by quality of blood to bid a House endure, she was the first who lit him what i< was to have sensations of bis mortality, II • c > i! 1 ii"t forgive her. It seemed to him consequently politic to continue frigid and let her have a further taste of ; trning wish to strain her in :ing hi> compassion. i have ha 1 your ride ?" he addressed her politely in the ibly on i \u- lawn. " I have bad m Cla a replied. »le, I trusf '■ \ ble." blushl The n \t ins tan I h in conversation with Loetitia, qui Btioning her upon n deje :te I droop of ber eyelashes. "I am, I think. institutionally melancholy." lie murmured to her: '"1 believe in the existence of TEMPER AND POLICY. 225 specifics, and not far to seek, for all our ailments except those we bear at the hands of others." She did not dissent. De Craye, whose humour for being convinced that Wil- loughby cared about as little for ?#iss Middleton as she for him was nourished by his immediate observation of them, dilated on the beauty of the ride and his fair companion's equestrian skill. ' You should start a travelling circus," Willoughby re- joined. " But the idea's a worthy one ! — There's another alternative to the expedition I proposed, Miss Middleton," taid De Craye. " And I be clown ? I haven't a scruple of objection. I must read up books of jokes." " Don't," said Willoughby. "I'd spoil my part! But a natural clown won't keep up an artificial performance for an entire month, you see ; which is the length of time we propose. He'll exhaust his nature in a day and be bowled over by the dullest regular donkey- engine with paint on his cheeks and a nodding-topknot." " What is this expedition ' we ' propose ?" De Craye was advised in his heart to spare Miss Middleton any allusion to honeymoons. " Merely a game to cure dulness." " Ah," Willoughby acquiesced. " A month, you said ?" " One'd like it to last for years !" " Ah ! You are driving one of Mr. Merriman's witticisms at me, Horace ; I am dense." Willoughby bowed to Dr. Middleton and drew him from Vernon, filially taking his arm to talk with him closely. De Craye saw Clara's look as her father and Willoughby ■went aside thus linked. It lifted him over anxieties and casuistries concerning loyalty. Powder was in the look to make a warhorse breatho high and shiver for the signal. 226 1 1 1 K EGOIST. CHAPTER XXIV. CONTAINS AN INSTANCE OF THE GENEROSITY OF WILLOUGHBY. I I SYEB9 of a gathering complication and a character in action commonly resemhle gleaners who are intent only on picking op the i ars of grain and huddling their store. Dis- interestedly or interestedly they was over-eager Eor the little trifles, and make too much of them. Observers should begin upon the precept, that not all we see is worth hoarding, and that the things we see are to be weighed in the scale with ■what we know of the situation, before we commit ourselves 1,, a measurement. And they may be accurate observers without being good judges. They do not think so, and their bent is to glean hurriedly and form conclusions as .. when their business should be sift at each step, and question. Miss Dale seconded Vernon Whitford in the occupation of counting looks and tone-, and noting scraps of dialogue. She was quite disinterested ; he quite believed thai he was; his degree they were competent for their post; and neither of them imagined they could he personally involved in the dubi i of the scenes they witnessed. They were but anxious observers, diligently collecting. She teptible to his advice: he had fancied it, and was considering it one of his vanities. Each mentally pared Clara's abruptness in taking them into her i tidei with Imp abstention from any secret word since the I De Crave. Sir Willoughby requested I. Middleton as much of her company as :ld; showing that he was on the alert. Another 1 Durham ted beating her wings for flight. The Buddi of the evident intimacy between Clara 1 olonel De Craye shocked Lsetitia : their acquaint- ed I mputed by hours. Yet at their first in- terview she had the possibility of worse than • n sup] : and she had begged Vernon not immediately to quit the II. ill. in consequence of that faint 8 •• had b( « D l< d to it by meeting Clara and De 1 ye at her cottage-gate, and finding them as fluent and THE GENEROSITY OP WILLOUGITBY. 227 laughter-breathing in conversation as friends. Unable to realize the rapid advance to a familiarity, more ostensible than actual, of two lively natures, after such an introduction as they had undergone : and one of the two pining in a drought of liveliness : Laetitia listened to their wager of nothing at all — a no against a yes — in the case of poor Flitch ; and Clara's, ' Willoughby will not forgive :' and De Craye's : ' Oh ! he's human :' and the silence of Clara : and De Craye's hearty cry: ' Flitch shall be a gentleman's coach- man in his old seat again, or I haven't a tongue!' to which there was a negative of Clara's head: — and it then struck Lnetitia that this young betrothed lady, whose alienated heart acknowledged no lord an hour earlier, had met her match, and, as the observer would have said, her destiny. She judged of the alarming possibility by the recent revela- tion to herself of Miss Middleton's character, and by Clara's having spoken to a man as well (to Vernon), and previously. That a young lady should speak on the subject of the inner holies to a man, though he were Vernon Whitford, was in- credible to Lostitia ; but it had to be accepted as one of the dread facts of our inexplicable life, which drag our bodies at their wheels and leave our minds exclaiming. Then, if Clara could speak to Vernon, which Laetiua won Id not have done for a mighty bribe, she could speak to De Craye, Lastitia thought deductively : this being the logic of untrained heads opposed to the proceeding whereby their condemnatory de- duction hangs. — Clara must have spoken to De Craye! Laetitia remembered how winning and prevailing Miss Middleton could be in her confidences. A gentleman hearing her might forget his duty to his friend, she thought, for she had been strangely swayed by Clara: ideas of Sir Willoughby that she had never before imagined herself to entertain, had been sown in her, she thought ; not asking herself whether the searchingness of the young lady had struck them and bidden them rise from where they lay embedded. Very gentle women take in that manner impressions of persons, especially of the worshipped person, wounding them; like the new fortifications with embankments of soft earth, where explosive missiles bury themselves harmlessly until they are plucked out; and it may be a reason why those injured ladies outlive a Clara Middleton similarly battered. Vernon less than Lastitia took into account that Clara wag Q2 Tin: BOO J ST. in H r1 ' scarcely reasonable. Her confidences to he had excused, a-> a piece of conduct, in sympathy with her position He had no! been greatly astonished by the confided; and, oa the whol< -lie was ted :mf I ><■ < Iraye. There was a difference. Well, t he difference was, t hat De ( 'raye had not the smart- in.' sense of honour with women which our meditator had : an impartial judiciary, it will lie seen : and he diseriminated if and the other justly : hut sensation surging to hi- brail same instant, he reproached Miss Middleton • perceiving thai difference as clearly, before she De- position to De Craye, which Vernon assumed thai she had done. Of course he did She had been guilty : why, then, in the mind of an offended friend, she would h.- guilt} of it twice. There was evidence. Ladies, fatally predestined to appeal to that from which :■> be puarde 1, musl t severity when they i their railed highroad: justice is out of the question : a brains might, b I cannot administer it to them. J: chilling him to the hone, they may get what they cry a method deadening to their point of l In the evening Miss Middleton and the colonel sang a duet. She had of late declined to sing. Her voice was ; bly firm. Sir Willoughby said to her, "You have I your richness of tone, (Mara." She smiled and appeared happy in pleasing him. He named a French ballad S m to the music-rack and gave the song unasked. He should have been satisfied, for she said to him at the finish: "Is 1 - you like it?" He hroke from a murmur to Miss Dale: "Admirable." Someone mentioned a Tuscan popular canzone. She waited for Willoughby'a approval, and took his nod for a mandate. Train-. bellowed. He had i this characteristic of caressing obedience at the v. Ji,- had in liis time profited hy it. THE GENEROSITY OF WILLOUG1IBT. 22d •* Is it intuitively or by their experience that our neigh- bours across Channel surpass us in the knowledge of your sex ?" he said to Miss Dale and talked through Clara's apostrophe to the ' Santissima Virgine Maria,' still treating temper as a part of policy, without any effect on Clara ; and that was matter for sickly green reflections. The lover who cannot wound has indeed lost anchorage; he is woefully adrift : he stabs air, which is to stab himself. Her com- placent proof-armour bids him know himself supplanted. During the short conversational period before the ladies retired for the night. Miss Eleanor alluded to the wedding by chance. Miss Isabel replied to her, and addressed an inter- rogation to Clara. De Craye foiled it adroitly. Clara did not utter a syllable. Her bosom lifted to a wavering height and sank. Subsequently she looked at De Craye, vacantly, like a person awakened, but she looked. She was astonished by his readiness, and thankful for the succour. . Her look was cold, wide, unfixed, with nothing of gratitude or of per- sonal in it. The look however stood too long for Willoughby's endurance. Ejaculating: "Porcelain!" he uncrossed his legs: a signal for the ladies Eleanor and Isabel to retire. Vernon bowed to Clara as she was rising. He had not been once in her eyes, and he expected a partial recognition at the good- night. She said it, turning her head to Miss Isabel, who was condoling once more with Colonel De Craye over the ruins of his wedding-present, the porcelain vase, which she sup- posed to have been in Willoughby's mind when he displayed the signal. Vernon walked off to his room, dark as one smitten blind : bile tumet jecur : her stroke of neglect hit him there where a blow sends thick obscuration upon eye- balls and brain alike. Clara saw that she was paining him and regretted it when they were separated. That was her real friend! But he prescribed too hard a task. Besides she had done everything he demanded of her, except the consenting to stay where she was and wear out Willoughby, whose dexterity wearied her small stock of patience. She had vainly tried remonstrance and supplication with her father hoodwinked by his host, she refused to consider how : through wine ? — the thought was repulsive. Nevertheless she was drawn to the edge of it bv the con- templation of her scheme of release. If Lucy Darleton was THE EGOIST. -.it 1 1 . »t r 1 «-* : if Lucy invited her to come: if she flew to Lncy : Oh! then her father would have cause for anger. He would ber thai bul for hateful wine ! . . . . What was there in this wine of greal age which expelled onableness, fatherliness ? Ee was her dear father: she was his beloved child: yet something divided them; some- thing closed, her father's ears to her: and could it be that aprehensible seduction of the wine? Her dutifulness cried violently no. ^he bowed, stupefied, to his arguments for remaining awhile, and rose clear-headed and rebellious with the reminiscence of the many strong reasons she had urged against them. The Btrai of men, young and old, the little things (she ed a grand wine as a little thing) twisting and changing thein, amazed her. And these are they by whom women are aliased for variability! ( Inly the most imperious , never mean trifles, move women, thought she. Would women do an injury to one they loved for oceans of that — ah ! pah ! And women must respect men. They necessarily respect ther. "My dear, dear father!' Clara said in the solitude of her chamber, musing on all his goodness, and she endea- voir Qcile the d entiments of the position 1 her to sustain, with those of a venerating daughter. The blow which was to fall on him beat on her heavily in advai " 1 have not one excuse!" she said, glancing at numbers and a mighty one. Bui the idea of her father suffer- in-,' at her hands casl her down lower than self-jus; ilieat ion. aght to imagine herself sparing him. It was too liet itii The sanctuary of her chamber, the pnre white room so her maidenly feelings, whispered peace, only to foil • whis; i h another that went through her ling to ■ r. and leaving her as a string of music unkindly smitten, [f shi I in tins house her chamber would no longer be a Banctuary. Dolorous bondage ! Inso- ath is not worse. Death's worm we cannot keep • ..hen he has as we are numb to dishonour, happily Youth w< eyelids to sleep, though she was quivering, and quivering she awoke to the sound of her name beneath her window. " I can love still, for I love THE GENEROSITY OF WILLOUGHBY. 231 him," she said, as she luxuriated in young -Cross] ay's boy's voice, again envying him his bath in the lake waters, which seemed to her to have the power to wash away grief and chains. Then it was that she resolved to let Crossjay see the last of her in this place. He should be made gleeful by doing her a piece of service ; he should, escort her on her walk to the railway station next morning, thence be sent flying for a long clay's truancy, with a little note of apology on his behalf that she would write for him to deliver to Vernon at right. Crossjay came running to her after his breakfast with Mrs. Montague, the housekeeper, to tell her he had called her up. " You won't to-morrow : I shall be up far ahead of you," said she; and musing on her father, while Crossjay vowed to be up the first, she thought it her duty to plunge into another expostulation. Willoughy had need of Vernon on private affairs. Dr. Middleton betook himself as usual to the library, after answering : " 1 will ruin you yet," to Wiliougliby's liberal offer to despatch an order to London for any books he might want. His fine unruffled air, as of a mountain in still morning beams, made Clara not indisposed to a preliminary scene with WillougTiby that might save her from distressing him, bat she could not stop Willoughhy; as little could she look an invitation. He stood in the Hall, holding Vernon by the arm. She passed him ; he did not speak, and she entered the library: "What now, my dear ? what is it?" said Dr. Middleton, seeing that the door was shut on them. " Nothing, papa," she replied calmly. " You've not locked the door, my child ? You turned something there: try the handle." " I assure you, papa, the door is not locked." " Mr. Whitford will be here instantly. We are engaged on tough matter. Women have not, and opinion is universal that they never will have, a conception of the value of time." " We are vain and shallow, my dear papa." " No, no, not you, Clara. But I suspect you to require to ■•earn by having work in progress how important is ... . ,1 a quiet commencement of the day's task. There is not a 2.12 1 hi: BGOIST. Bcholar who will nol tell you so. We must have a retreat. These invasions! So yon intend to have another ride : , \ - r They do you good. To-morrow we dine with Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, an estimable person indeed, though I do t i ■ • r perfectly understand our accepting. — You not to accuse me of sitting over wine last night, my Clara ! I never do it, unless I am appealed to for my judge- ment upon a wine." " I have (Mine to entreat you to take me away, papa." In the midst of the storm aroused by this renewal of per- plexity, Dr. Middleton replaced a book his elbow had knocked over in Ins haste to dash the hair off his forehca I, crying: "Whither? To what spot? That reading of I Le-books, and idle people's notes of Travel, and pic- turesque correspondence in the newspapers, unsettles man and maid. My objection to the living in hotels is known. I do not hesitate to say that I do cordially abhor it. I have had penitentially to submit to it in your dear mother's time, Kai rpifTcaKobaifiufv up to the lull ten thousand times. But will you not comprehend that to the older man his miseries are multiplied by his years! But is it utterly useless to solicit your sympathy with an old man, Clara?" ■ neral Darleton will take us in, papa." " His table is detestable. I say nothing of that; but his wine is poison. Let that pass — I should rather say, let it l - but our political dews are not in accord. True, we a ' under the obligation to propound them in pre- •■. but we are d te of an opinion in common. We have no oth sees what yon desire find what is due to you." " — And for us, Clara, to recognize what is due to you is to ad "ii it." «_ Besides, dear, a sea-side cottage lias always been one of our dreams." " — We have not to learn that we are a couple of old maids, incongruous associates for a young wife in the go- iment of a great house." " — With our antiquated notions, questions of domestio management might arise, and with the best will in the world to be harmonious ! . . . ." " — So, dear Clara, consider ii settled." " — From time to time gladly shall we be your guests." " — Your guests, dear, not censorious critics." " And yon think me such an Egoist! — dear ladies ! The tion of so cruel a piece of selfishness wounds me. I have had you leave the Hall. I like your society; 1 respect you. My complaint, if I had one, would be, that you do liently assert yourselves. I could have wished you to be here for an example to me. I would not have allowed you to go. Whal can he think me! — Did Willoughby Bpeak of it this morning?" Ii was hard to distinguish which was the completer dupe of these two echoes of one another in worship of a family idol. lougbby," Miss Eleanor presented herself to be aped with the title hanging ready for the first that should open her lips, " our Willoughby is observant he is rous — and he is not less forethoughtful. His arrangement i ir good on all sides." '" An ind h," said .Miss Isabel, appearing in her turn the monster dupe. will in >t have to have, dear ladies. Were I mistress here I Bhould oppose it." • Willoughby blames himsi . for not reassuring ymi 1 1 dee 1 we blame ourselves for not undertaking to go." " Did he speak of it first this morning ? " said Clara; but d draw 7m reply to that from them. They resumed the duet, and she resigned herself to have her ears boxed with nonsense. THE GENEROSITY OF WILLOUGHBY. 235 " So, it is understood ? " said Miss Eleanor. "I see your kindness, ladies." "And I am to be Aunt Eleanor again ? " " And I Aunt Isabel ? " Clara coald have wrung her bands at tbe impediment which prohibited her delicacy from telling them why she could not name them so, as she had done in the earlier days of Willoughby's courtship. She kissed them warmly, ashamed of kissing, though the warmth was real. They retired with a flow of excuses to Dr. Middleton for disturbing him. He stood at the door to bow them out, and holding the door for Clara to wind up the procession, dis- covered her at a far corner of the room. He was debating upon the adviseability of leaving her there, when Vernon Whitford crossed the hall from the laboratory door, a mirror of himself in his companion air of discomposure. That was not important, so long as Vernon was a check on Clara ; but the moment Clara, thus baffled, moved to quit the library, Dr. Middleton felt the horror of having an uncomfortable face opposite. " No botheration, I hope ? It's the worst thing possible to work on. Where have you been? I suspect your weak point is not to arm yourself in triple brass against bother and worry ; and no good work can you do unless you do. You have come out of that laboratory." " I have, sir. — Can I get you any book ? " Vernon said to Claia. She thanked him, promising to depart immediately. "Now you are at the section of Italian literature, my love," said Dr. Middleton. " Well, Mr. Whitford, the laboratory — ah ! — where the amount of labour done within the space of a vear would not stretch an electric current between this Hall and the railway station : say, four miles, which I pre- sume the distance to be. Well sir, a dilettantism costly in time and machinery is as ornamental as foxes' tails and deers' horns to an independent gentleman whose fellows are contented with the latter decorations for their civic wreath. Willoughby, let me remark, has recently shown himself most considerate for my girl. As far as I could gather — I have been listening to a dialogue of ladies — he is as generous as he is discreet. There are certain combats in Tin: EOOIE i. which to be the one to succumb ie to claim the honours;— * ami thai is what women will not learn. I doubt their he glory of it." •• I beard of it; I have been with Willoughby," s : i i - 1 hastily, to shield Clara from her father's allnsive attacks, fie wished to convey to her that his interview with Willonghbj had no! been profitable in her intei and that Bhe bad better at oner, having him • to support her, | r out her whole hearl to her father Bui how was it to be < d? She would not iii.it hie ■ and he was too ] r an intriguer to be ready on the instant to deal ont the verbal obscurities which are I • I sh it, if Willoughby has annoyed yon, for he stands high in my favour," Baid Dr. Middleton. Clara dropped a ln.uk. Her father started higher than ipulse warranted in his chair. Vernon tried to win a glance, and Bhe was conscious of his effort, hut her angry and guilty feelings prompting her resolution to follow her own counsel, kepi her eyelids on the defensive. ••I don't say he annoys me, sir. I am here to give him and if he does no! accept it I have no right to be annoyed. Willoughby Beems annoyed that Colonel De Crave . talk of going to-morrow or next day." ■• lie likes his friends abont him. Upon my word, a man ■ it you might march a day without finding. But von have it on the forehead, Mr. Whitford." •• Oh ! no, Bi "There,' Dr. Middleton drew his tinker along his brows. V. on f( mi. and (Mined an excuse for their aaware that thi ection of his mind toward ' a pushed him to a kind of clumsy double meaning, v, hi • an inward and craving wrath, as Lesaid: ' ing my head ; J must appljr I have b li e, and I am uncertain of the ran of Wil a think ? — 'In \ • . b he i si nates: ' that h< y man of us at donkey-dialect.*' val for the genius of criticism to Beem t" li inder his frown, Dr. Middleton rejoined THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER. 237 with sober jocularity : "No, sir, it will not pass, and your uncertainty in regard to the run of the line would only be extended were the line centipedal. Our recommendation is, that you erase it before the arrival of the ferule. This misrht do : — -O' 1 In Assignation's name lie assignats: ' signifying', that he pre-eminently flourishes hypothetical promises to pay by appointment. That might pass. But you will forbear to cite me for your authority." "The line would be acceptable if I could get it to apply," said Vernon. " Or this . . . . Dr. Middleton was offering a second suggestion, but Clara fled, astonished at men as she never yet had been. Why, in a burning world they would be exercising their minds in absurdities ! And those two were scholars, learned men ! And both knew they were in the presence of a soul in a tragic fever ! A minute after she had closed the door they were deep in their work. Dr. Middleton forgot his alternative line. "Nothing serious?" he said in reproof of the want of honourable clearness on Vernon's brows. " I trust not, sir : it's a case for common sense." " And you call that not serious ? " "I take Hermann's praise of the versus dochmiachus to be not only serious but unexaggerated," said Vernon. Dr. Middleton assented and entered on the voiceful ground of Greek metres, shoving your dry dusty world from his elbows. CHAPTER XXV. THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER. The morning of Lucy Darleton's letter of reply to her friend Clara was fair before sunrise with luminous colours TTIK KGOIST omen to the husbandman. Clara had noweatheiv for the rich Eastern crimson, nor a quiel space within her for the beauty. She looked on it as her gate of promise, and it Bel her throbbing with a revived relief in radiant things which she once dreamed of to surround her life, bul her lerated pulses narrowed her thoughts upon the machinery of her project. She herself was metal, pointing all to her .litn when in motion. Nothing came amiss to it, every- thing was fnel ; fibs, evasions, the serene battalions of white parallel on the march with dainty rogue falsehoods. She had delivered herself of many yesterday in her engagements for to-day. Pressure was put on her to encra^e herself, and she did so liberally* throwing the burden of deceitfulness on ■ o the extra irdinary pressure. "1 want the early part of the morning; the rest of the 'lay I shall be at liberty." She said it to Willoughby, .Miss Dale, Colonel De Craye, and only the third time was she aware of the delicious double ining. Hence she associated it with the Colonel. Your loudest outcry against the wretch who breaks your rules, is in asking how a tolerably conscientious person could done this and the other bt sides the main offence, which \,.w you could overlook bul for the minor objections per- the incomprehensible and abominable lies, for example, or the brazen coolness of the lying. Yefc know that we live in an undisciplined world, where in onr i tivity wi rvants of our design, and that thi - of our passions, and those of our position. Our design shapes us for the work in hand, the passions man tin' ship, the position is their apology : and now should eon- be a passenger on board, a merely seeming swiftness • •I will keep him dumb as the unwilling guest of a pirate captain scudding from the cruiser half in cloven brine through rocks and shoals to save his black flag. Beware the • position. That i- easy to gay : sometimes the tangle descends on us like I blight on a rose-bush. There is then an instant choice tor us between courage to cut loose, and desperation if we do not. Bul not many men are trained to courage; 'ii arc trained to cowardice. For them to front an evil with plain speech is to be guilty of effrontery and : it the waxen polish of purity, and therewith their com. manding place in the market. They are trained to please THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER. 200 man's taste, for which purpose they soon learn to live out of themselves, and look on themselves as he looks, almost as little disturbed as he by the undiscovered. Without courage, conscience is a sorry guest ; and if all goes well with the pirate captain, conscience will be made to walk the plank for being of no service to either party. Clara's fibs and evasions disturbed her not in the least that morning. She had chosen desperation, and she thought her- self very brave because she was just brave enough to fly from her abhorrence. She was light-hearted, or more truly, drunken-hearted. Her quick nature realized the out of prison as vividly and suddenly as it had sunk suddenly and leadenly under the sense of imprisonment. Vernon crossed her mind: that was a friend ! Yes, and there was a guide ; but he would disapprove, and even he thwarting her way to sacred liberty must be thrust aside. What would he think ? They might never meet, for her to know. Or one day in the Alps they might meet, a middle- aged couple, he famous, she regretful only to have fallen below his lofty standard. " For, Mr. Whitford," says she, very earnestly^ " I did wish at that time, believe me or not, to merit your approbation." The brows of the phantom Vernon whom she conjured up were stern, as she had seen them yesterday in the library. She gave herself a chiding for thinking of him when her mind should be intent on that which he was opposed to. It was a livelier relaxation to think of young Crossjay's shamefaced confession presently that he had been a laggard in bed while she swept the dews. She laughed at him, and immediately Crossjay popped out on her from behind a tree, causing her to clap hand to heart and stand fast. A con- spirator is not of the stuff to bear surprises. He feared he had hurt her and was manly in his efforts to soothe : he had been up "hours," he said, and had watched her coming along the avenue, and did not mean to startle her: it was the kind of fun he played with fellows, and if he had hurt her, she might do anything to him she liked, and she woald see if he could not stand to be punished. He was urgent with her to inflict corporal punishment on him. " I shall leave it to the boatswain to do that when you're in the navy," said Clara. 2 10 1 HI. i QOI8T " The boatswain daren't strike ac officer! so now you see what yon know of the navy." said Cross jay. ■•Mm yon could not bave been out More me, you naughty boy, fori found all the locks anil 1ml is when I went to the door." •■ Km \ou didn't go to the back- door, and Sir Willoughby'a private door: yon came out by the hall-door ; and 1 know what von want, Miss Middle-ton, you want not to pay what ■ What have I lost, Crossjay ? " '• Your w ager." " What was that?" " Vou know." "S tk." '• A k "Nothing of the port. But, dear hoy, I don't love you 1 for no! kissing you. All that is nonsense: you have to think only of learning, and to be truthful. Never tell a -.- : suffer anything rather than be dishonest." She was particularly impressive upon the silliness and wickedness of falsehood, and added : " Do you hear ? " •• Yes: l.ut you kissed me when I had been out in the rain thai " Because I promised." " An I Miss Middleton, yon betted a kiss yesterday." •I am sure, Crossjay- no, 1 will not say I am sure: but sure yon wire out first this morning? Well, will yon say you are suit that when you left the I e yon did not see me in the avenue ? You can't: ah!" "Miss Middleton, I do really believe I was dressed first." "Always be truthful, my dear hoy. arid then you may feel that Clara Middleton will always love you." " Hut Miss Middleton, when you're married you won't be Clara Middleton." •• I certainly shall. ( ' . ." "No, yon won't, because t'm so fond of your name ! " She considered and said: " You have warned me, Cross- jay. and I shall not marry. 1 shall wait," she was going to . "for you," but turned the hesitation to a period. "Is the village where I posted my letter the day before yester- day '"" far for you r Crossjay howled in contempt. "Next to Clara my fa- vourite's Lucv," he said. THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER. 241 "I thought Clara came next to Nelson," said she; "and a long way off too, if you're not going to be a landlubber." " I'm not going to be a landlubber, Miss Middleton, you may be absolutely positive on your solemn word." " You're getting to talk like one a little now and then, Crossjay." " Then I won't talk at all." He stuck to his resolution for one whole minute. Clara hoped that on this morning of a doubtful though imperative venture she had done some good. They walked fast to cover the distance to the village post- office and back before the breakfast hour : and they had plenty of time, arriving too early for the opening of the door, so that Crossjay began to dance with an appetite, and was despatched to besiege a bakery. Clara felt lonely with- out him, apprehensively timid in the shuttered unmoving village street. She was glad of his return. "When at last her letter was handed to her, on the testimony of the post- man that she was the lawful applicant, Crossjay and she put on a sharp trot to be back at the Hall in good time. She took a swallowing glance of the first page of Lucy's writing : "Telegraph, and I will meet you. I will supply you with everything you can want for the two nights, if you cannot stop longer." That was the gist of the letter. A second, less voracious, glance at it along the road brought sweetness : — Lucy wrote : " Do I love you as I did ? my best friend, you must fall into unhappiness to have the answer to that." Clara broke a silence. "Yes, dear Crossjay, and if you like you shall have another walk with me after breakfast. But remember, you must not say where you have gone with me. I shall give you twenty shillings to go and buy those bird's eggs and the butterflies you want for your collection ; and mind, promise me, to-day is your last day of truancy. Tell Mr. Whit ford how ungrateful you know you have been, that he may have some hope of you. You know the way across the fields to the railway station ? " " You save a mile ; you drop on the road by Combb.ne'a R 242 THE LUOIST. mill, and then there's another live minutes' cut, and the iv^i 'h rood. "Then, CroSsjay, immediately after breakfast run round behind the pheasantry, and there I'll find you. And if any one comes to you before I conic, say you are admiring the plumage of the Bimalaya— the beautiful Indian bird; and if we're found together, we run a race, and of course you can catch me, but you mustn't until we're out of sight. Tell Mr. Vernon at night — tell Mr. Whitford at night you had the money from me as part of my allowance to you for money. I used to like to have pocket-money, Cross- lay. And you may tell him I gave you the holiday, and I write to him for his excuse, if he is not too harsh to grant it. He can lie very harsh." ■• Vuii look right into his eyes next time, Miss Middled. n. I oaed to think him awful, till he made me look at him. He says men ought to look straight atone another, just as we du when he gives me my boxing-lesson, and then we won't have quarrelling half so much. I can't recollect everything he •• You are not bound to, Crossjay," " N". but you like to hear." 44 Really, dear boy, I can't accuse myself of having told ■ - .\ ... but, Miss Middleton, you do. And he's fond of your Binging and playing on the piano, and watches you." 44 We Bhall be late if we don't mind," said Clara, starting to a pace close on a run. They were in time for a circuit in the park to the wild double cherry-blossom, no longer all white. Clara gazed up from under it, where she had imagined a fairer visible heavi • • - than any other sight of earth had ever given her. That was when Vernon lay beneath. But she had certainly looked above, not at him. The tree seemed sor- :'ul in its withering flowers of the colour of trodden w. Crossjay resumed the conversation. '• He says la li< - don't like him much." 44 Who says that ? ' "Mr. Whitford." '• Wire t bose hi> words ? **1 forget the words : but he said they wouldn't be taught THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER. 243 by him, like me ever since you came; and since you came I've liked him ten times more." " The more you like him the more I shall like you, Crossjay." The boy raised a shout and scampered away to Sir Wil- loughby, at the appearance of whom Clara felt herself nipped and curling inward. Crossjay ran up to him with every sign of pleasure. Yet he had not mentioned him during the walk ; and Clara took it for a sign that the boy under- stood the entire satisfaction Willoughby had in mere shows of affection, and acted up to it. Hardly blaming Crossjay, she was a critic of the scene, for the reason that youthful creatures who have ceased to love a person, hunger for evidence against him to confirm their hard animus, which will seem to them sometimes, when he is not immediately irritating them, brutish, because they cannot analyze it and reduce it to the multitude of just antagonisms whereof it came. It has passed by large accumulation into a sombre and speechless load upon the senses, and fresh evidence, the smallest item, is a champion to speak for it. Being about to do wrong, she grasped at this eagerly, and brooded on the little of vital and truthful that there was in the man, and how he corrupted the boy. Nevertheless she instinct- ively imitated Crossjay in an almost sparkling salute to him. " Good morning, "Willoughby ; it was not a moiming to lose : have you been out long ? " He retained her hand. " My dear Clara ! and you, have you not over-fatigued yourself ? Where have you been ? " " Round — everywhere ! And I am certainly not tired." " Only you and Crossjay ? You should have loosened the dogs." " Their barking would have annoyed the house." " Less than I am annoyed to think of you without pro- tection. He kissed her fingers : it was a loving speech. " The household . . . ." said Clara, but would not insist to convict him of what he could not have perceived. "If you outstrip me another morning, Clara, promise ma to take the dogs ; will you ? " "Yes." '• To-day I am altogether yours.'* r 2 2 1 J. Till: EGOIST. ••A' ?" •• Prom tl • to tlic last liour of it! — So you fall in •with II r pleasantly ? " '■ Be i- vrry amusing " \- LT- 1' >«1 as though <>nc had hired him " Here comes Colonel De Crave." " He musl think we have hired him ! " She noticed the bitterness of "Willoughby's tone. Ho e out a good morning to De Craye, and remarked that he musl go to the stables. •• Darleton ? Darleton, ^Tiss Middle-ton? " said the colonel, ag from his how to her: " A daughter of General Darle- ton r If so, I have had the honour to dance with her. :.otyou? — practised with her, I mean; or gone pff in a triumph to dance it out as young ladies do. So you know what a delightful partner she is." i-!" cried Clara, enthusiastic for her succouring friend, whose letter was the treasure in her bosom. •• • Iddly, the name did not strike me yesterday, Miss Middleton. In the middle of the night it rang a little silver bell in my oar, and I remembered the lady I was half in with, if only for her dancing. She is dark, of your height, a- lighl on her feet; a sister in another colour. \ that 1 know her to be your friend ! . . . ." •■ Why, vim may meet her, Colonel De Craye." "It'll lie to uffer her a castaway. And one only meets a eh arming girl to hear thai she's engaged! Tis not a line of a ballad, Miss Middleton, but out of tin' heart." " I. Darlel Yon were leading me to talk 1 1 De Craye." ••Will y< -and not think me a perpetual tumbler 1 heard of melancholy clowns. You would find the t' : not so laughable behind my paint. Win •! I was thirteen years younger I was loved, and mv (ha ok to the grave. Since then I have not been quite at 1 probably because of finding no one so charitable as she. I - easy to win smiles and hands, but ' win a \ whose faith you would trust as ■own heart before the enemy. I was poor then. Sin; 1: 'Tin' day after my twenty-first birthday;' and that day I went for her. arid I wondered they did not refuse mo THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER. 245 at the door. I was shown upstairs, and I saw her, and saw death. She wished to marry me, to leave me hei fortune ! " " Then never marry," said Clara in an underbreath. She glanced behind. Sir Willoughby was close, walking on turf. ' I must be cunning to escape him after breakfast,' she thought. He had discarded his foolishness of the previous days, and the thought in him could have replied : ' I am a dolt if I let you out of my sight.' Vernon appeared, formal as usual of late. Clara begged his excuse for withdrawing Crossjay from his morning swim. He nodded. De Craye called to Willoughby for a book of the trains. " There's a card in the smoking-room ; eleven, one, and four are the hours, if you must go," said Willoughby. " You leave the Hall, Colonel De Craye ?" " In two or three days, Miss Middleton." She did not request him to stay : his announcement pro- duced no effect on her. Consequently, thought he — well, what ? nothing : well, then, she might not le minded to stay herself. Otherwise she would have regretted the loss of an amusing companion : that is the modest way of putting it. There is a modest and a vain for the same sentiment ; and both may be simultaneously in the same breast ; and each one as honest as the other ; so shy is man's vanity in the presence of here and there a lady. She liked him : she did not care a pin for him — how could she ? yet she liked him : O to be able to do her some kindling bit of service ! These were his consecutive fancies, resolving naturally to the exclamation, and built on the conviction that she did not love Willoughby, and waited for a spirited lift from circum- stances. His call for a book of the trains had been a sheer piece of impromptu, in the mind as well as on the mouth. It sprang, unknown to him, of conjectures he had indulged yesterday and the day before. This morning she would have an answer to her letter to her friend, Miss Lucy Darleton, the pretty dark girl, whom De Craye was asto- nished not to have noticed more when he danced with her. She, pretty as she was, had come to his recollection through the name and rank of her father, a famous general of cavalry, 2 16 T11K EGOIST. and taotician in that arm. The colonel despised himself for : having been devoted to Clara Middleton's friend. 'I'lu morning's letters were on the bronze plate in the hall. Clara passed on her way to her room without inspect- ingthem. De Craye opened an envelope and went upstairs to scribble a line. Sir Willonghby observed their absence ; ,t the Bolemn reading to the domestic servants in advance of breakfast. Three chairs were unoccupied. Vernon had his own notions of a mechanical service — and a precious profit be derived from them ! but the other two seats returned the Willonghby casi at thru- bucks with an impudence reminded him of bis friend Horace's calling for a book of the trains, when a minute afterward he admitted he was goil ii the Hall another two days, or three. The man possessed by jealousy is never in need of matter for it: he magnifies ; grass is jungle, hillocks are mountains. Wil- longhby'a legs crossing and uncrossing audibly, and his tight-folded arms and clearing of the throat, were faint indications of his condition. i in fair health this morning, Willonghby ?" Dr. Middleton said to him after he had closed his volumes. "The thing is not much questioned by those who know i intimately," he replied, "Willonghby unwell!" and: "He is health incarnate'" •zclaimed the la lies Eleanor and Isabel. Lsetitia grieved for him. Snnrays on a pest-stricken city, pie- thought, were like the smile of his face. She believed that he d( eply loved Clara and had learnt more of her alienation. ]|. into the hall to look up the well for the pair of malefactors ; on fire with what he could not reveal to a soul. 1 1. ' was in the honsekee] er's room, talking to young 1 iv and Mrs. Montague just come up to breakfast. He had heard the boy chattering, and as the door was ajar, he peeped in. ami was invited to enter. Mrs. Montague was very fond of hearing him talk; he paid her the familiar reaped which a lady of falhn fortunes, at a certain period r the fall, enjoys as a 1 !y sad souvenir, and the i • J] • e lord of the house was more chilling. ■ bewailed the boy's trying his constitution with long b (fore he hal anything in him to walk on. THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER. 247 " And where did you go this morning, my lad ?" said De Crave. " Ah, you know the ground, colonel," said Crossjay. " I am hungry! I shall eat three eggs and some bacon, and buttered cnkes, and jam, then begin again, on my second cup of coffee." " It's not braggadocio," remarked Mrs. Montague. " He waits empty from five in the morning till nine, and then he comes famished to my table, and eats too much." " Oh ! Mrs. Montague, that is what the country people call roemancing. For, Colonel De Craye, I had a bun at seven o'clock. Miss Middleton forced me to go and buy it." *• A stale bun, my boy ?" " Yesterday's : there wasn't much of a stopper to you in it, like a neAv bun." " And where did you leave Miss Middleton when you went to buy the bun ? You should never leave a lady ; and the street of a country town is lonely at that early hour. Cross- jay, you surprise me." " She forced me to go, colonel. Indeed she did. What do I care for a bun ! And she was quite safe. We could hear the people stirring in the post-office, and I met our postman going for his letter-bag. I didn't want to go : bother the bun ! — but you can't disobey Miss Middleton. I never want to, and wouldn't." " There we're of the same mind," said the colonel, and Crossjay shouted, for the lady whom they exalted was at the door. " You will be too tired for a ride this morning," De Craye said to her, descending the stairs. She swung a bonnet by the ribands : " I don't think of ridinuld he prevent De Craye from going forth alone on the chance he vaunted so impudently ? " Von will offend me, Horace, if you insist," he said. ' Regard me as an instrument of destiny, Willoughby," replied De Craye. " Then we go in company." "Bui that's an addition of one that cancels the other by conjunction, and's worse than simple division: for I can't trusl my wits unless I rely on them alone, you see." " Upon my word, you talk at times most unintelligible Btuff, to be frank with you, Horace, Give it in English." "lis not suited perhaps to the genius of the language, for I thought I talked English." " Oh ! there's English gibberish as well as Irish, we know !" \ti 1 a deal foolisher when they do go at it; for it won't bear squeezing, we think, like Irish." • Where !" exclaimed the ladies, "where can she be! The storm is terrible." I. titia suggested the boathouse. ' For Crossjay hadn't a swim this morning !" said De Clave. No one reflected on the absuidity that Clara should think of faking Crossjay for a swim in the lake, and immediately after his breakfast: it was accepted as a suggestion at THE FLIGHT IN WILD WEATHER. 251 least that she and Crossjay had gone to the lake for a row. In the hopefulness of the idea, Willoughby suffered De Craye to go on his chance unaccompanied. He was near chuckling. He projected a plan for dismissing Crossjay and remaining in the boathouse with Clara, luxuriating in the prestige which would attach to him for seeking and finding her. Deadly sentiments intervened. Still he might expect to be alone with her where she could not slip from him. The throwing open of the hall-doors for the gentlemen presented a framed picture of a deluge. All the young- leaved trees were steely black, without a gradation of green, drooping and pouring, and the song of rain had become an inveterate hiss. The ladies beholding it exclaimed against Clara, even apostrophized her, so dark are trivial errors when circum- stances frown. She must be mad to tempt such weather : she was very giddy; she was never at rest. Clara ! Clara! how could you be so wild ! Ought we not to tell Dr. Middle- ton ? Lsetitia induced them to spare him. " Which way do you take ?" said Willoughby, rather fearful that his companion was not to be got rid of now. " Any way," said De Craye. " I chuck up my head like a halfpenny and go by the toss." This enraging nonsense drove off Willoughby. De Craye saw him cast a furtive eye at his heels to make sure he was not followed, and thought : " Jove ! he may be fond of her. But he's not on the track. She's a determined girl, if I'm correct. She's a girl of a hundred thousand. Girls like that make the right sort of wives for the right men. They're the girls to make men think of marrying. To-morrow ! only give me the chance. They stick to you fast when they do stick." 'Ihen a thought of her flower-like drapery and face caused him fervently to hope she had escaped the storm. Calling at the West park-lodge he heard that Miss Mid- dleton had been seen passing through the gate with Master Crossjay ; but she had not been seen coming back. Mr. Vernon Whitford had passed through half an hour later. " After his young man !" said the colonel. The lodge-keeper's wife and daughter knew of Mastef i in: KQOIfi i. nks ; Mr. Whitford, they said, had made inquiries aboul him, and must have caughl him and sent him home to change his dripping things; for Master Crossjay had come back, and had declined Btelter in the Lodge; ho aed to be crying; he went away soaking over the wet grass, hanging his head. The opinion at the lodge was, thai Master Crossjay was unhappy. •• Be very properly received a wigging frcm Mr. Whit- ford, I have no doubt," said Colonel De Craye. Mother and daughter supposed it to be the ease, and dered Crossjay very wilful for not going straight home ie Hall to change his wet clothes ; he was drenched. Dc drew out his watch. The time was ten minutes i. [f the surmise he had distantly spied was ect, .Miss Middleton would have been caught in the storm midway to her destination. By his guess at her character (knowledge of it, he would have said), he judged that no storm would daunt her on a predetermined expe- dition. He deduced in consequence that she was at the moment Hying to her friend the charming brunette Lucy I larleton. Still, as there was a possibility of the rain having been too much for her, and a? he had no other speculation con- oing the route she had taken, he decided upon keeping along the road to Etendon, with a keen eye at cottage and farmhouse windows. CI! \ I 'Till! XXVI. VERNON IN PURSUIT. TV -keeper had a son, who was a chum of Master 1 low with him upon many adven- this h" -ion was to become a gamekeeper, -.mil accompanied by one of the head-gamekeeper's yonng- -. he and Crossjay were in the habit of ranging over the country, pn pa profession delightful to the ta i II three. < '- pros] rion wit h ( he title of captain on him by VERNON IN PURSUIT. 253 common consent ; he led them, and when missing- for lessons he was generally in the society of Jacob Croom or Jonathan Fernaway. Vernon made sure of Crossjay when he per- ceived Jacob Croom sitting on a stool in the little lodge- parlour. Jacob's appearance of a diligent perusal of a book he had presented to the lad, he took for a decent piece of trickery. It was with amazement that he heard from the mother and daughter, as well as Jacob, of Miss Middleton's going through the gate before ten o'clock with Crossjay beside her, the latter too hurrird to spare a nod to Jacob. That she, of all on earth, should be encouraging Crossjay to truancy was incredible. Vernon had to fall back upon Greek and Latin aphoristic shots at the sex to believe it. Rain was universal ; a thick robe of it swept from hill to hill ; thunder rumbled remote, and between the ruffled roars the downpour pressed on the land with a great noise of eager gobbling, much like that of the swine's trough fresh filled, as though a vast assembly of the hungered had seated them, selves clamorously and fallen to on meats and drinks in a silence, save of the chaps. A rapid walker poetically and humourously minded gathers multitudes of images on his way. And rain, the heaviest you can meet, is a lively com- panion when the resolute pacer scorns discomfort of wet clothes and squealing boots. South-western rain-clouds, too, are never long sullen : they enfold and will have the earth in a good strong glut of the kissing overflow ; then, as a hawk with feathers on his beak of the bird in his claw lifts head, they rise and take veiled feature in long climbing watery lines : at any moment they may break the veil and show soft upper cloud, show sun on it, show sky, green near the verge they spring from, of the green of grass in early dew ; or, along a travelling sweep that rolls asunder overhead, heaven's laughter of purest blue among titanic white shoulders: it may icean fair smilingfor awhile, or be the lightest interlude; but the watery lines, and the drifting, the chasing, the up- soaring, all in a shadowy fingering of form, and the animation of the leaves of the trees pointing them on, the bending of the tree-tops, the snapping of branches, and the hurrahings of the stubborn hedge at wrestle with the flaws, yielding but a leaf at most, and that on a fling, make a glory of contest and wildness without aid of colour to inflame the man who is at home in them from old association on road, heath and 254 TTIE EGOIST. mountain. Let hiro be drenched, his heart will sing. And thou, trim cockney, that jeerest, consider thyself, to whom it may occur to be out in such a s ad with what steps of a nervous dancing master it would be thine to play the hunted rat of the elements, for the preservation of the one imagined dry spot about thee, somewhere on thy luckless person ! The taking of rain and sun alike befits men of our climate, and he who would have the secret of a strengthening intoxication must court the clouds of the South-west with a lover's blood. Vernon's happy recklessness was dashed by fears for Miss Middleton. Apart from those fears, he had the pleasure of a gull wheeling among foam-streaks of the ware. He supposed the Swiss and Tyrol Alps to have hidden their heads from him for many a day to come, and the springing and chiming South-west was the next best thing. A milder rain descended; the country expanded darkly defined underneath the moving curtain ; the clouds were as he liked to see them, scaling; but their skirts dragged. Torrents were in store, for they coursed streamingly still and had not the higher lift, or eagle ascent, which he knew for one of the signs of fairness, nor had the hills any belt of mist-like vapour. < )n a step of the stile leading to the short-cut to Rcndon Dg Crossjay was espied. A man-tramp sat on the top "There you are; what are you doing there? "Where's M iddlet on r" said Vernon. " Xow, take care before you your month." Cross jay shut the mouth he had opened. " The lady has gone away over to a station, sir," said the tramp. • Von fool!" roared Crossjay, ready to fly at him. " But ain't it, now, voung gentleman ? Can you sav it ain'i "• I ou a shilling, you ass !" <_ r ive me thai sum, young gentleman, to stop here and take care of you, and here T stopped.'' 'Mr. Whitford!' Crossjay appealed to his master, and iff in disgust : " Take care of me ! As if anybody who knows me would think I wanted taking care of ! Why, what a beast you must be. you fellow !" - you like, young gentleman. I chaunhdyou all T VERNON IN PURSUIT. 255 know, to keep up your downcast spirits. You did want comforting. Tou wanted it rarely. You cried like an infant." " I let you ' chaunt ' as you call it, to keep you from swearing." "And why did I swear, young gentleman? because I've got an itchy coat in the wet, and no shirt for a lining. And no breakfast to give me a stomach for this kind of weather. That's what I've come to in this world ! I'm a walking moral. No wonder I swears, when I don't strike up a chaunt." " But why are you sitting here, wet through, Crossjay ? Be off home at once, and change, and get ready for me." " Mr. Whitford, I promised, and I tossed this fellow a shilling not to go bothering Miss Middleton." " The lady wouldn't have none o' the young gentleman, sir, and I offered to go pioneer for her to the station, behind her, at a respectful distance." "As if! — you treacherous cur!" Crossjay ground his teeth at the betrayer. "Well, Mr. Whitford, and I didn't trust him, and I stuck to him, or he'd have been after her whining about his coat and stomach, and talking of his being a moral. He repeats that to everybody." " She has gone to the station ?" said Yernon. Not a word on that subject was to be won from Crossjay. " How long since ?" Yernon partly addressed Mr. Tramp. The latter became seized with shivers as he supplied the information that it might be a charter of an hour or twenty minutes. "But what's time to me, sir! If I had reg'lar meals, I should carry a clock in my inside. I got the rheu- matics instead." " Way there !" Yernon cried, and took the stile at a vault. " That's what gentlemen can do, who sleeps in then beds warm," moaned the tramp. " They've no joints." Yernon handed him a half-crown piece, for he had been of use for once. " Mr. Whitford, let me come. If you tell me to come I may. Do let me come," Crossjay begged with great entreaty. "I shan't see her for . . . ." '' Be off, quick !" Yernon cut him short and pushed on. The tramp and Crossjay were audible .to him ; Crossjay spurning the consolations of the professional sad man. I ii I. EGO V. rnon sprang across the fields, timing himself by hia watch to reach Ren don station ten minutes before eleven, though without clearly questioning the nature of the resolu- tion which precipitated him. Dropping to the road, he had foothold than on the slippery field -path, and he ran. His principal hope was thai Clara would have missed her way. Another pelting of rain agitated him on her behalf. Might she no! as well be suffered to go? — and sit three hours and more in a railway-carriage with wet feet! II.- clasped the visionary little feet to warm them on his breast. But Willoughby's obstinate fatuity deserved the blow ! — lint neither she. nor her father deserved the scandal. But she was desperate. Could reasoning touch her? [f not, uhaf would ? II. • knew of nothing. Yesterday he had o Willoughby, to plead with him to favour her departure and give her leisure to sound her mind, and he had left his cousin, convinced that Clara's Lest meas flight : a man so cunning in a pretended obtuseness el by senseless pride, and in petty tricks that sprang of a grovelling tyranny, could only be taught by facts. Her ree. rit i nt of him, however, was very strange; thai he migb.1 have known himself better if he lected on the bound with which it shot him to a hard picion. De Crave had prepared the world to hear that tras leaving the Hall. Were they in concert ? The idea struck at his heart colder than if her damp little feet had I m's full exoneration of her for making a confidant of himself, did not extend its leniency to the youns? lady's chai |,en thee was question of her doincr the same Wlfch ;i second gentleman. He could suspect much: he could e to find De Craye at the station. - Thai idea drew him up in his run, to meditate on the !'"■' h ,llM Play; and by drove little Dr. Corney on the way to Rendon, and hailed him, and gave his cheerless figure the oear< t approach to an Irish hug in the form of a dry • I. ran umbrella and waterproof covering. 'Though it is fche worsl I can do for you, if you decline, ' ipplemenl ii with adoseofhol brandy and water at the phin, said he: "and I'll see you take* it, if you please. I m bound to ease n Rendon patienl out of the world, Ve heme s one of th- ir superstitions, which they cling to tho VERNON IN PURSUIT. 2,37 harder tlie more useless it gets. Pill and priest launch him happy between them. — ' And what's on your conscience, Pat ? — It's whether your blessing, your Riverence, would disagree with another drop. — Then, put the horse before the cart, my son, and you shall bave the two in harmony, and God speed ye !' — Rendon station, did you say, Vernon ? You shall have my prescription at the Railway Arms, if you're hurried. You have the look. What is it? Can I help?" " Xo. And don't ask." " You're like the Irish Grenadier who had a bullet in a humiliating situation. Here's Rendon, and through it we go with a spanking clatter. Here's Dr. Corney's dog-cart post- haste again. For there's no dying without him now, and Repentance is on the death-bed for not calling him in before ! Half a charge of humbug hurts no son of a gun, friend Vernon, if he'd have his firing take effect. Be tender to't in man or woman, particularly woman. So, by goes the meteoric doctor, and I'll bring noses to window-panes, you'll see, which reminds me of the sweetest young lady I ever saw, and the luckiest man. "When is she off for her bridal trousseau ? And when are they spliced ? I'll not call her perfection, for that's a post, afraid to move. But she's a dancing sprig of the tree next it. Poetry's wanted to speak of her. I'm Irish and inflammable, I suppose, but I never looked on a girl to make a man comprehend the entire holy meaning of the word rapturous, like that one. And away she goes ! We'll not say another word. But you're a Grecian, friend Vernon. Now, couldn't you think her just a whiff of an idea of a daughter of a peccadillo-Goddess ?" " Deuce take you, Corney, drop me here ; I shall be late for the train," said Vernon, laying hand on the doctor's arm to check him on the way to the station in view. Dr. Corney had a Celtic intelligence for a meaning behind an illogical tongue. He drew up, observing : " Two minutes run won't hurt you." He slightly fancied he might have given offence, though he was well acquainted with Vernon and had a cordial grasp at the parting. The truth must be told, that Vernon could not at the moment bear any more talk from an Irishman. Dr. Corney had succeeded in persuading him not to wonder at Clara Middleton's liking for Colonel De Crave. L'JvS Tin: i QOIST. CHAPTEB XXVH AT TH n KAII.WAV STATION. Claha stood in the waiting-room contemplating the white rails of the rain-swept line. Her lips parted at the sight ol ■ on. " Vmii have your ticket P" said he. She nodded, and breathed more freely; the matter of fact ■i v, as reassuring. •• V..M are wet," lit- resumed ; and it could not be denied. •• .\ little. I do no! feel it." " I musl beg you to come to the inn hard by: half a dozen We shall see your I rain signalled. Come." She thought bim startlingly authoritative, but he had to back him; ami depressed ;is she was by the dan she was disposed to yield to reason if he con- tinued to respect her independence. So she submitted out- wardly, resisted inwardly, on the watch to stop him from taking any decisive lead. " Shall we be sure to 3ee the signal. Mr. Whitford ?" " I'll pi <". i le for that ." lie spoke to the station-clerk, and cmducted her across the road. •• 5 quite alone, M iss Middleton ?" 41 1 am: I have not brought my maid." •■ V must take off boots and stockings at once, and have them dried. I'll put you in the hands of the landlady." •• I lut my train !" " You have full fifteen minutes, besides fair chances of dels II. • Beemed reasonable, the reverse of hostile, in spite of his commanding air, and thai was not unpleasant in one friendly to ber adventure. She controlled ber alert mis- • I passed from him to the landlady, for her • were wet and cold, the skirts of her dress were soiled; rally inspecting herself, Bhe was an object to be shud- t, and Bhe was grateful to Vernon for his inattention to her appearai Vernon ordered Dr. Corney'fl dose, and was ushered up. AT THE RAILWAY STATION. 259 stairs to a room of portraits, where the publican's ancestors and family sat against the walls, flat on their canvas as weeds of the botanist's portfolio, although corpulency was pretty generally insisted on, and there were formidable battalions of bust among the females. All of them had the aspect of the national energy which has vanquished obstacles to subside on its ideal. They all gazed straight at the guest. ' Drink, and come to this !' they might have been labelled to say to him. He was in the private Walhalla of a large class of his country- men. The existing host had taken forethought to be of the party in his prime, and in the central place, looking fresh- flattened there, and sanguine from the performance. By- and-by a son would shove him aside ; meanwhile he shelved his parent, according to the manners of enerTy. One should not be a critic of our works of Art in uncom- fortable garments. Vernon turned from the portraits to a stuffed pike in a glass-case, and plunged into sympathy with the fish for a refuge. Clara soon rejoined him, saying: " But you, you must be very wet. You were without an umbrella. You must be wet through, Mr. Whitford." "We're all wet through to-day," said Yernon. "Cross- jay's wet through, and a tramp he met." "The horrid man! But Crossjay should have turned back when I told him. Cannot the landlord assist you? You are not tied to time. I begged Crossjay to turn back when it began to rain : when it became heavy I compelled him. So you met my poor Crossjay ?" " You have not to blame him for betraying you. The tramp did that. I was thrown on your track quite by acci- dent. jSTow pardon me for using authority : and don't be alarmed, Miss Middleton ; you are perfectly free for me ; but you must not run a risk to your health. I met Dr. Corney coming along, and he prescribed hot brandy and water for a wet skin; especially for sitting in it. There's the stuff on the table; I see you have been aware of a singular odour; you must consent to sip some, as medicine ; merely to give you warmth." " Impossible, Mr. Whit ford : T could not taste it. But pray, obey Dr. Corney, if he ordered it for you." " I can't unless you do." " I will, then : I will try." s2 Tin: EGOIST. She held the glass, attempted, and was baffled bj llio reek of it. • Try: yon can do anything " Baid Vernon. " Now thai you find me here, Mr. Whitford! Anything 1 for myself, it would seem, and nothing to save a friend. But I rill really tr •■ I ; □ a good monl hful." " I -will try. And yon will finish the glass ?" '• With vimr permission, if you do not leave too much." They were to drink out of the same glass; and she -was to drink some of this infamous mixture: and she was in a kind of hotel alone with him: and he was drenched in running after her: — all this came of breaking loose for an r ! •• ( >h ! what a misfortune that it should he such ad;i\, Mr. Whitford." •• I »id you not choose the day ?" " No! the weather." Lnd the worsi of it is, that Willonghby will come upon < --jay wet to the bone, and pump him and get nothing but shu Hings, blank lies, and then find him out and chase him from the house." tra drank immediately, and more than she intended. Sip held the glass as an enemy to be delivered from, gasp- nncertain of her breath. •• Never let me be asked to endure such a thing again !" : are unlikely to be running away from father and again." Sin- panted still with the fiery liquid she had gulped : and she wondered that it should belie its reputation in not for- tifying her, but rendering her painfully susceptible to tiis '•.Mr. Whitford, I need not seek to know what you think Of I: •What I think? I don't think at all; I wish to serve . i; 1 can." "Am I right in bi a little afraid of me? should I have deceived no one. I have opened my hearl to yon. and am not ashamed of having done so." " 1' i- aii excellent hahit, they say." ibh with !• ached, and for that reason, in his dissatisfaction AT THE RAILWAY STATION. 261 with himself, not unwilling to hurt. " We take our turn, Miss Miudleton. I'm no hero, and a bad conspirator, so I am not of much avail." " You have been reserved — but I am going, and I leave my character behind. You condemned me to the poison- bowl ; you have not touched it yourself." " In vino Veritas : if 1 do I shall be speaking my mind." " Then do, for the sake of mind and body." "It won't be complimentary." " You can be harsh. Only say everything." " Have we time ?" They looked at their watches. " Six minutes," Clara said. Vernon's had stopped, penetrated by his total drenching. She reproached herself. He laughed to quiet her. " My dies solemnes are sure to give me duckings ; I'm used to them. As for the watch, it will remind me that it stopped when you went." She raised the glass to him. She was happier and hoped for some little harshness and kindness mixed that she mi°-ht carry away to travel with and think over. He turned the glass as she had given it, turned it round in putting- it to his lips : a scarce perceptible manoeuvre, but that she had given it expressly on one side. It may be hoped that it was not done by design. Done even accidentally, without a taint of contrivance, it was an affliction to see, and coiled through her, causing her to shrink and redden. Fugitives are subject to strange incidents ; they are not vessels lying safe in harbour. She shut her lips tight, as if they had. been stung. The realizing sensitiveness of her quick nature accused them of a loss of bloom. And tbe man who made her smart like this was formal as a railway- official on a platform ! " Now we are both pledged in the poison-bowl," said he. " And it has the taste of rank poison, I confess. But tho doctor prescribed it, and at sea we must be sailors. Now Miss Middleton, time presses : will you return wdth me ?" "No! no!" " Where do you propose to go ?" " To London ; to a friend — Miss Darleton." " What message is there for your father ?" TIM EGOIST. Say, T have left a letter £or him in a letter to be deli- \ ed i" you." "Tome. Ami what *e for Willoughby ?" "My maid Barclay will hand liim a letter at noon." " You have sealed Crossjay's fate." " II m r " "He is probaby at this instant undergoing an interrop-a- tion. Yon may guess at his replies. The letter will expose him, and Willoughby does not pardon." "I regret it. I cannot avoid it. Poor boy ! My dear ay! I did not think of how Willoughby might punish him. I was very thoughtless. Mr. Whitiord, my pin money shall go for his education. Later, when I am a little older, I shall be aide to support him." u That's an encumbrance ; you should not tie yourself to i' about. You are inalterable, of course, but circum- - are not, and as it happens, women are more subject to t hem than we are." •• But I will not be!" "Your command of them is shown at the present moment." " Because 1 determine to be free ? " " No: because you do the contrary; you don't determine; you run away from the difficulty, and leave it to your father to hear. As for Crossjay, 3 r ou see you destroy of his chances. I should have carried him off before . if 1 had not thought it prudent to keep him on tei-ms with Willoughby. We'll let Crossjay stand aside. He'll behave like a man of honour, imitating others who have had to do the same for ladies." * Ha en falsely to shelter cowards, you mean, Mr. Whitford. Oh! 1 know. — I have but two minutes. The at. [ cannot go back. I must get ready. Will you me to the station ? I would lather you .should hurry " I will see the last of you. 1 will wait for you here. An express run- ahead of your train, and I have srranged with the clerk for a signal ; 1 have an eye on the window." " You are still my best friend, Mr. Whitford." "Tl m- gh P " '• Well though you do not perfectly understand what t • - 1 ave driven me to this.'' " tarried on tides and blown by winds ?" AT THE RAILWAY STATION. 2G3 u Ah ! you do not understand." " Mysteries ? " "Sufferings are not mysteries, they are very simple facts." "Well, then, I don't understand. Bat decide at once. I wish you to have your free will." She left the room. Dry stockings and boots are better for travelling in than wet ones, but m spite of her direct resolve, she felt when drawing them on like one that has been tripped. The goal was desireable, the ardour was damped. Vernon's wish that she should have her free will, compelled her to sound it : and it was of course to go, to be liberated, to cast off incubus : — and hurt her father ? injure Crossjay ? distress her f rienels ? No, and ten times no ! She returned to Vernon in haste, to shun the reflex of her mind. He was looking at a closed carriage drawn up at the station-door. " Shall we run over now, Mr. Whitford ? " " There's no signal. Here it's not so chilly." "I ventured to enclose my letter to papa in yours, trusting you would attend to my request to you to break the news to him gently and plead for me." " We will all do the utmost we can." " I am doomed to vex those who care for me. T tried to follow your counsel." "First you spoke to me, and then you spoke to Miss Dale; and at least you have a clear conscience." " No." " What burdens it ? " "I have clone nothing to burden it." " Then it's a clear conscience ? " "No." Vernon's shoulders jerked. Our patience with an innocent duplicity in women is measured by the place it assigns to us and another. If he had liked he could have thought : 'You have not d< n9 but meditated something to trouble con- science.' That was evident, and her speaking of it was proof too of the willingness to be clear. He would not help her. Man's blood, which is the link with women and respon- ive to them on the instant for or against, obscured him. He hrugged anew when she said: "My character would have TTTE EGOIST. been degraded utterly by my staying there. Could you "Certainly not the degradation of yonr character," be Raid, black on the subject of De Craye, and not lightened by ■ era which made him sharply sensible of the beggarly ■ndant that he was, or poor adventuring scribbler that he was to become. " Why did yoa pursue me and wish to stop me. Mr. Whit- ford ? " Baid Clara, on the spur of a wound from his tone. He replied: "I suppose I'm a busybody: I was never aware ol it t ill now." "You are my friend. Only you speak in irony so much. That was irony, about my clear conscience. I spoke to and to .Mi>s hale: and then I rested and drifted, ('an you not feel for me, that to mention it is like a Bcorch- W lloughby has entangled papa. He schemes incessantly to keep me entangled. I fly from his cunning as much as from anything. I dread it. I have told you that I am more to blame than he, hut I must accuse him. And wedding-presents! and congratulations! And to be hie " All that makes up a plea in mitigation," said Vernon. "It is not sufficient for you ? "she asked him timidly. •u line good sense that tells you you ■led if von run. Three more days there might ! with your father." "He will not li-ieutome! He confuses me; Willoughhy him." • T will see that he li- "Andgoback? Oh! no. To London! Besides there is with Mrs. Mountstuart this evening; and I like her •ell, but I must avoid her. She has a kind of i'loi . . And what answers can [give? I supplicate her with 1 S ibserves them, my efforts to divert them from being painful produce a comic expression to her, I am a charming * rogue,' and I am entertained on the topii to be principally interesting me. I must avoid her. The thought of her [eaves me no choice. She is • p. Rhe could tattoo me with epigrams." : the: an hold your own." 5he has told me you give me ere lit for a spice of *vit. I have not my j" in . We have spoken of AT THE RAILWAY STATION. 2G5 it ; we call it your delusion. She grants me some beauty ; that must be hers." "There's no delusion in one case or the other, Miss Middle- ton. You have beauty and wit : public opinion will say, wildness : indifference to your reputation, will be charged on you, and your friends will have to admit it. But you will be out of this difficulty." " Ah ! — to weave a second ? " " Impossible to judge until we see how you escape the first. — And I have no more to say. I love your father. His humour of sententiousness and doctorial stilts is a mask he delights in, but you ought to know him and not bo frightened by it. If you sat with him an hour at a Latin task, and if you took his hand and told him you could not leave him, and no tears ! — he would answer you at once. It would involve a day or two further : disagreeable to you, no doubt : preferable to the present mode of escape, as I think. But I have no power whatever to persuade. I have not the 4 lady's tongue.' My appeal is always to reason." " It is a compliment. I loathe the ' lady's tongue.' ' " It's a distinctly good gift, and I wish I had it. I might have succeeded instead of failing, and appeai-ing to pay a compliment." " Surely the express train is very late, Mr. Whitford ? " " The express has gone by." " Then we will cross over." " You would rather not be seen by Mrs. Mountstuart. That is her carriage drawn up at the station, and she is m it. Clara looked, and with the sinking of her heart said : " I must brave her ! " " In that case, I will take my leave of you here, Miss Middleton." She gave him her hand. " Whv is Mrs. Mountstuart at the station to-day ? " " I suppose she has driven to meet one of the guests for her dinner-party. Professor Crooklyn was promised to your father, and he may be coming by the down-train." " Go back to the Hall ! " exclaimed Clara. " How can I ? I have no more endurance left in me. If I had some support! — if it were the sense of secretly doing wrong, it might help me through. I am in a web. I cannot do right, Tni: EGOIST. what • T do. There is only fclie thought of paving Cross- jay. Yes, and sparing papa. — Good-bye, Mr. Whitford. I shall remember your kindness gratefolly. I cannot go '• Von will not ? " said he, tempting" her to hesitate. "Hut if yon are seen by Mrs. Mountstuart, yon must #o ! I'll do my besl to take her away. Should she see yon, you must patch np a story and apply to her for a lift. That. I think, is imperal ive." •• Not in my mind," said Clara. He bowed hurriedly and withdrew. After her confession, iliar to her, of possibly finding sustainment in secretly cluing wrong, her fl\ ing or remaining seemed to him a choice of evils: and whilst she stm>d in bewildered speculation on his reason for pursuing her — which was not evident — he remembered the special Bear inciting him, and so far did her jnstice as to have at himself on that subject. He had done something perhaps to save her from a cold: such was his only consolatory thought. He had also behaved like a man of honour, taking no personal advantage of her situation; to refled on it recalled his astonishing dryness. The t man of honour plays a part that he should not reflect till about the fall of the curtain, otherwise he will be imetimea to feel the shiver of foolishness at his good duct. CHAPTEB XXVIII. THE RETUBN. Posted in observation at a corner of the window, Clara Vernon cross the road to Mrs. Mbuntfatuarl Jenkinson's "■I to the ]ia'e-t pattern of himself by narrowed shoulders and raised coat-collar. He had such an air of Baying, ' Tom's a-cold,' thai her skin crept in sym- pathy. THE EETURN. 20 7 Presently he left the carriage and went into the station : a bell had rung. Was it her train? He approved her going, for he was employed in assisting her to go : a pro- ceeding at variance with many things he had said, but be was as full of contradiction to-day as women are accused of being. The train came up. She trembled : no signal had appeared, and Vernon must have deceived her. He returned ; he entered the carriage, and the wheels were soon in motion. Immediately thereupon, Flitch's fly drove past, containing Colonel De Crave. Vernon could not but have perceived him ! But what was it that had brought the colonel to this place ? The pressure of Vernon's mind was on her and foiled her efforts to assert her perfect innocence, though she knew she had done nothing to allure the colonel hither. Excepting Willoughby, Colonel De Craye was the last person she would have wished to encounter. She had now a dread of hearing the bell which would tell her that Vernon had not deceived her, and that she was out of his hands, in the hands of some one else. She bit at her glove ; she glanced at the concentrated eyes of the publican's family portraits, all looking as one ; she noticed the empty tumbler, and went round to it and touched it, and the silly spoon in it. A little yielding to desperation shoots us to strange dis- tances ! Vernon had asked her whether she was alone. Connect- ing that inquiry, singular in itself, and singular in his manner of putting it, with the glass of burning liquid, she repeated : ' He must have seen Colonel De Craye ! ' and she stared at the empty glass, as at something that witnessed to something : for Vernon was not your supple cavalier assiduously on the smirk to pin a gallantry to common- places. But all the doors are not open in a young lady's consciousness, quick of nature though she may be : some are locked and keyless, some will not open to the key, some are defended by ghosts inside. She could not have said what the something witnessed to. If we by chance know more, we have still no right to make it more prominent than it was with^ er. And the smell of the glass was odious ; it disgraced her. She had an impulse to pocket the spoon for a memento, to show it to grandchildren for a warning. Tin: EGOIST. Bven the prelude to the morality to he uttered on the occasion sprang bo her lips : ' I [ere, my dears, is a spoon you wmild be ashamed to use in your tea-cups, yet it was of more value to incut one period of my life khan silver and gold in pointing out, Ac : ' the conclusion was hazy, like the concepi ion ; she had her idea. Ami in this mood she ran downstairs and met Colonel De ( 'r:i;. c on t In- stai ion steps. The bright illumination of his face was that of the confident man confirmed in a risky guess in I he crisis of don btand dispute. • Miss Middleton !" his joyful surprise predominated : the pride of an accurate forecast, adding: " I am not too late to be of sen ice : " She thanked him for the offer. ■• Have yon dismissed the fly, Colonel De Craye?" "I have just been L r ettin» change to pay Air. Flitch. He : "il me on the road. He is interwound with our fates to Utility. I had only to jump in; 1 knew it, and rolled rig like a magician commanding a genie." ■ Have I been ....?" rionsly, nohody doubts your being under shelter. Y" i will allow me to protect you ? My time is yours." • I was thinking of a running visit to my friend Miss Darleton." '■ May I venture ? I had the fancy that you wished to see Miss Darleton to-day. Von cannot make the journey un- rt'-d." •• Please n tain the fly. Where is Will oughby ? " '• He is in jack-boots. But may I not, Aliss Middleton? I shall never be forgiven, if you refuse me." '• Tin-re has been searching for me ? " "Some hallooing. But why am I rejected? "Besides T don't require the By; I shall walk if lam banished. Flitch wonderful conjuror, but the virtue is out of him for the ir and twenty hours. And it will be an opportunity to me to make my how to Miss Darleton ! " is rigorous on the conventionalities, Colonel De | • I II appear before her as an ignoramus or a rebel, which- ever she HI ■ to take in hading strings. I remember her-. I was greatly struck by her." " Upon recollection ! " THE RETURN". 209 " Memory didn't happen to be handy at the first mention of the lady's name. As the general said of his ammu- nition and transport, there's the army ! — but it was leagues in the rear. Like the footman who went to sleep after smelling fire in the house, I was thinking of other things. It will serve me right to be forgotten— if I am. I've a curiosity to know : a remainder of my coxcombry. Not that exactly: a wish to see the impression I made on your friend. — None at all ? But any pebble casts a ripple." " That is hardly an impression," said Clara, pacifying her irresoluteness with this light talk. " The utmost to be hoped for by men like me ! I have your permission ? — one minute — I will get my ticket." " Do not," said Clara. " Your man-servant entreats you ! " She signified a decided negative with the head, but her eyes were dreamy. She breathed deep : this thing done would cut the cord. Her sensation of languor swept over her. De Craye took a stride. He was accosted by one of the railway-porters. Flitch's fly was in request for a gentleman. A portly old gentleman bothered about luggage appeared on the landing. " The gentleman can have it," said De Craye, handing Flitch his money. " Open the door," Clara said to Flitch. He tugged at the handle with enthusiasm. The door was open : she stepped in. " Then, mount the box and I'll jump up beside you," De Craye called out, after the passion of regretful astonishment had melted from his features. Clara directed him to the seat fronting her; he protested indifference to the wet ; she kept the door nnshut. His temper would have preferred to buffet the angry weather. The invitation was too sweet. She heard now the bell of her own train. Driving beside the railway embankment she met the train : it was eighteen minutes late, by her watch. And why, when it flung up its whale-spouts of steam, she was not journeying in it she could not tell. She had acted of her free will: that she could say. Vernon had not induced her to remain; as- suredly her present companion had not ; and her whole 270 THE EGOIST. heart was for flight: yet she was driving back to the Hall, ii,, i devoid of calmness. She speculate 1 on the circumstance to think herself incomprehensible, and there left it, intent on the scene to come with Willoughby. •• I in is! choose a better day for London," she remarked. De < !raye bowed, but did not remove his eyes from her. " Miss Middleton, yon do not trust me." She answered: " Say in what way. It seems to me that ldo." •• 1 may speak ? " M If it depends on my authority." " Fully ?" u Whatever yon have to say. Let me stipulate, be not very grave. I want cheering in wet weather." "Miss Middleton, Flitch is charioteer once more. Think of it There's a tide that carries him perpetually to the place whence he was cast forth, and a thread that ties us to him in continuity. I have not the honour to be a friend of nir: one ventures on one's devotion: it dates from I first moment of my seeing 1 you. Flitch is to blame, if anyone. Perhaps the spell would be broken, were he re- instai i d in his ancient office." •• Perhaps it would,"' said Clara, not with her best of smiles. Willoughby's pride of relentlessness appeared to to be receiving a blow by rebound, and that seemed h jus! ice. "' I am afraid you were right; the poor fellow has no ace," De Craye pursued. He paused, as for decorum in the presence of misfortune, and laughed sparkingly: "Un- I him, or pretend to! I verily believe that Flitch's melancholy person on the skirts of the Hall com- pletes the picture of the Eden within. — Why will you not put some trust in me, Miss Middleton?" "J5ut why should you not pretend to engage him, then, Colonel D( I " We'll plot it. if you like. Can you trust me for that?" " I' ir any act of disinter* st id kindness, I am sure." " V in it ? " "Without reserve. You could talk publicly of taking him to London." "Miss Middleton, just now you were goinq-. My arrival changed your mind. You distrust me: and ought I to wonder? TTIE RETURN. 271 The wonder would be all the other way. Ton have not had the sort of report of me which would persuade you to con- fide, even in a case of extremity. I guessed you were going. Do you ask me, how ? I cannot say. Through what they call sympathy, and that's inexplicable. There's natural sympathy, natural antipathy. People have to live together to discover how deep it is ! " Clara breathed her dumb admission of this truth. The fly jolted and threatened to lurch. " Flitch ! my dear man ! " the colonel gave a murmuring remonstrance; "for," said he to Clara, whom his apostrophe to Flitch had set smiling, " we're not safe with him, however we make believe, and he'll be jerking the heart out of me before he has done. — But if two of us have not the misfortune to be united when they come to the discovery, there's hope. That is, if one has courage, and the other has wisdom. Otherwise they may go to the yoke in spite of themselves. The great enemy is Pride, who has them both in a coach and drives them to the fatal door, and the only thing to do is to knock him off his box while there's a minute to spare. And as there's no pride like the pride of possession, the deadliest wound to him is to make that doubtful. Pride won't be taught wisdom in any other fashion. But one must have the courage to do it ! " De Craye trifled with the window-sash, to give his words time to sink in solution. Who but Willoughby stood for Pride ? And who, swayed by languor, had dreamed of a method that would be surest and swiftest to teach him the wisdom of surrendering her ? " You know, Miss Middleton, I study character," said the colonel. " I see that you do," she answered. "You intend to return ?" " Oh ! decidedly." " The day is unfavourable for travelling, I must say. "It is." " You may count on my discretion in the fullest degree. I throw mysslf on your generosity when I assure you that it was not my design to surprise a secret. I guessed tho station, and went there, to put myself at your disposal." " Did you," said Clara, reddening slightly, " chance to see •J72 THE EGOIST. Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson's carriage pass you when you drove up to the stal ion P " DeCraye had passed a carriage. "I did not see the lady. She was in it ? " . • . ■' Yes. And therefore it is better to put discretion on ono Bide : we may be certain she saw you." •■ Bui not you, Miss Middleton?" "I prefi rto think that 1 am seen. I have a description of courage, Colonel De Craye, when it is forced on me." •• | have uot suspected the reverse. Courage wants tram- in. !1 as other fine capacities. Mine is often rusty and rheumal ic." • I cannot hear of concealment or plotting." "Except, pray, to advance the cause of poor Flitch!" " He shall be excepte I." The colonel screwed his head round for a glance at his •hman's back. " Perfectly guaranteed to-day !" he said of Flitch's look of solidity. "The convulsion of the elements appears to sober our friend ; he is only dangerous iu calms. Five minutes will bring us to the park-gates." ( Jlara leaned forward to gaze at the hedgeways in the neigh- bourhood of the Hall, strangely renewing their familiarity with her. Both in thought and sensation she was like a flower beaten to earth, and she thanked her feminine mask for uoi showing how nerveless and languid she was. She could have accused Vernon of a treacherous cunning for im- posing it on her tree will to decide her fate. Involuntarily she sighed. "There is a train at three," said De Craye, with splendid prompt it ude. •■ 5Tes, and one at five. We dine with Mrs. Mountstuart to-night. And I have a passion Eor solitude! I think I was •intended for obligations. The moment I am bound I begin to brood on freedom." "Ladies who say that, Miss Middleton ! . . . ." " What of then, : " They're feeling too much alone. " She could nol combal the remark: by her self-assurance thai she had the principle of faithfulness, she acknowledged to herself t he I nil h of it : — there is no freedom for the weak ! Vernon had said that once. She tried to resist the weight THE EETUKN. 273 pf it, and her sheer inability precipitated her into a sense of pitiful dependence. Half an hour earlier it would have been a perilous con- dition to be traversing in the society of a closely- scanning reader of fair faces. Circumstances had changed. They were at the gates of the park. " Shall I leave you ? " said De Craye. " Why should you ? " she replied. He bent to her gracefully. The mild subservience flattered Clara's languor. He had not compelled her to be watchful on her guard, and she was unaware that he passed it when she acquiesced to his observation : " An anticipatory story is a trap to the teller.' " It is," she said. She bad been thinking as much. He threw up his head to consult the brain comically with a dozen little blinks. " No, you are right, Miss Middleton, inventing before- hand never prospers ; 'tis a way to trip our own cleverness. Truth and mother-wit are the best counsellors : and as you are the former, I'll try to act up to the character you assign me." Some tangle, more prospective than present, seemed to be about her as she reflected. But her intention being to speak to Willoughby without subterfuge, she was grateful to her companion for not tempting her to swerve. No one could doubt his talent for elegant fibbing, and she was in the humour both to admire and adopt the art, so she was glad to be rescued from herself. How mother-wit was to second truth, she did not inquire, and as she did not happen to be thinking of Crossjay, she was not troubled by having to consider how truth and his tale of the morning would be likely to harmonize. Driving down the park she had full occupation in questioning whether her return would be pleasing to "Vernon, who was the virtual cause of it, though he had done so little to promote it : so little that she really doubted hia pleasure in seeing her return. 274 THE EUOIST. CHAPTER XXIX. IN wniCH THE SKKSITTVENESS OF SIR WILLOUGHBY IS EXPLAINED: AND HE RECEIVES .MICH INSTRUCTION. The Hall-clock over the stablea was then striking twelve. It- was the hour for her flight to be made known, anil Cl.u.i sat in a turmoil of dim apprehension that prepared her in pvous frame for a painful blush on her being asked by Colonel De Cray e -whether she had set her watch correctly. He iiiii-t, she understood, have seen through her at the breakfast-table: and was she not cruelly indebted to him for her evasion of Willoughby P Such perspicacity of vision distressed and frightened her; at the same time she was obliged to acknowledge that he had not presumed on it. Her dignity was in no way the -worse for him. But it had bet a ai a man's mercy, and there was the affliction. She jumped from the fly as if she were leaving danger behind. She could at the moment have greeted Willoughby with a conventionally friendly smile. The doors -were thrown open and young Crossjay flew out to her. He hung arid danced on her hand, pressed the hand to his mouth, hardly believing thai he saw and touched her, and in a lingo and asterisks related how Sir Willoughby had found him under the boathouse caves and pumped him, and had been seni off to Hoppner's farm, where there was a sick child, and on along the road to a labourer's cottage: " Foi I bid you're so kind to poor people, Miss Middleton; that's v ,,|: " And I said you wouldn't have me with you for tear of contagion ! " This was what she had d. • Every crack and hamr in a boy's vocabulary?" remarked the colonel, listening to him after he had paid Flitch. The latter touched his bal till he had drawn attention to himself, when he exclaimed with rosy melancholy: "Ah! m lad; . ah I colonel, if ever I lives to drink some of the old p-.rt nine in the old Hall at Christmastide !" Their h alths would on thai occasion be drunk, it was implied. H threw up h at the windows, humped his body and drove away. SIR WILLOUGHBY RECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 275 " Then Mr. Whitford has not come hack ? " said Clara to Cross jay. " No, Miss Middleton. Sir Willoughby has, and he's up- stairs in his room dressing." " Have you seen Barclay ? " " She has just gone into the laboratory. I told her Sir Willoughby wasn't there." " Tell me, Crossjay, had she a letter ? " "She had something." " Run : say I am here ; I want the letter, it is mine." Crossjay sprang away and plunged into the arms of Sir Willoughby. " One has to catch the fellow like a football ; " exclaimed the injured gentleman, doubled across the boy and holding him fast, that he might have an object to trifle with, to give himself countenance :' he needed it. " Clara, you have not been exposed to the weather ? " " Hardly at all." " I rejoice. You found shelter ? " "Yes." "In one of the cottages ? " "Not in a cottage; but I was perfectly sheltered. Colonel De Craye passed a fly before he met me . . . . " " Flitch again ! " ejaculated the colonel. " Yes, you have luck, you have luck," Willoughby ad- dressed him, still clutching Crossjay and treating his tags to get loose as an invitation to caresses. But the foil barely concealed his livid perturbation. " Stay by me, sir; " he said at last sharply to Crossjay, and Clara touched the boy's shoulder in admonishment of him. She turned to the colonel as they stepped into the hall : " I have not thanked you, Colonel De Craye." She dropped her voice to its lowest : "A letter in my handwriting in the laboratory." Crossjay cried aloud with pain. " I have you ! " Willoughby rallied him with a iaugh not unlike the squeak of his victim " You squeeze awfully hard, sir ! '' " Why, you milksop ! " " Am I ! But I want to get a book.' " Where is the book ? " t 2 27G THE MOIST. " In the laboratory.' 1 lone) I >c < !raye, sauntering by the laboratory door, sung out: "'I'll fetch you your hook. What is it? Early Navi. gators ? Infant Hymns ? I think my cigar case is in ht'i <■ " " Barclay Bpeaks of a letter for me," Willoughby said to Clara, " n arked to be delivered to me at noon ! " '• In case of my not being hack earlier: it was written to averi anxiety," she replied. '" Von arc very good." " Oh ! good ! Call me anything but good. Here are the ladies. Dear ladies!" Clara swam to meet them as they Led from a morning- room into the hall; and interjections reigned for a couple of minutes. Willoughby relinquished his grasp of Crossjay, who I instantaneously at an angle to the laboratory, whither he followed, and he encountered De Craye coming out, but passed him in silence. Crossjay was ranging and peering all over the room. Willoughby went to his desk and the battery-table and the mantelpiece. He found no letter. Barclay had undoubtedly informed him that she had left a letter for him in the laboratory, by order of her mistress after breakfast. He hurried out and ran upstairs in time to see De Craye and Barclay breaking a conference. "' '" to her. The maid lengthened her upper lip beai her dress down smooth : signs of the apprehension crisis and of the getting ready for action. " My mistress's bell has just rung, Sir Willoughby." " You had a Letter for me." "1 said . . . ." " Ton said * ben I met you at the foot of the stairs that ; had left a letter for me in the laboratory." 4 It : _- on my mistii^'s toilet-table." "Gel it." Barcla -.nnd with another of her demure grimaces. It was apparently necessary with her that she should talk to herself in this public man' Willoughby waited for her; but there was no reappear- t be maid. Struck by the ridicule of bis posture of expectation and of his wind,' behaviour, he went to his bedroom suite, shut SIR WILLOUGHBY RECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 277 himself in and paced the chambers, amazed at the creature he had become. Agitated like the commonest of wretches, destitute of self-control, not able to preserve a decent mask, he, accustomed to inflict these emotions and tremours upon others, was at once the puppet and dupe of an intriguing girl. His very stature seemed lessened. The glass did not saj so, but the shrunken heart within him did, and wailfully too. Her compunction — ' Call me anything but good ' — coming after her return to the Hall beside De Craye, and after the visible passage of a secret between them in his presence, was a confession: it blew at him with the fury of a furnace-blast in his face. Egoist agony wrung the outcry from him that dupery is a more blest condition. He desired to be deceived. He could desire such a thing only in a temporary trans- port ; for above all he desired that no one should know of his being deceived : and were he a dupe the deceiver would know it, and her accomplice would know it, and the world would soon know of it : that world against whose tongue he stood defenceless. Within the shadow of his presence he compressed opinion, as a strong frost binds the springs of earth, but beyond it his shivering sensitiveness ran about in dread of a stripping in a wintry atmosphere. This was the ground of his hatred of the world : it was an appalling fear on behalf of his naked eidolon, the tender infant Self swaddled in his name before the world, for which he felt as the most highly civilized of men alone can feel, and which it was impossible for him to stretch out hands to protect. There the poor little loveable creature ran for any mouth to blow on ; and frost-nipped and bruised, it cried to him, and he was of no avail ! Must we not detest a world that so treats us ? We loathe it the more, by the measure of our contempt for them, when we have made the people within the shadow-circle of our person slavish. And he had been once a young Prince in popularity : the world had been his possession. Clara's treatment of him was a robbery of land and subjects. His grander dream had been a marriage with a lady of so glowing a fame for beauty and attachment to her lord that the world perforce must take her for witness to merits which would silence detraction and almost, not quite (it was undesireable), extin- guish envy. But for the nature of women his dream would 278 1 1 1 K EGOIST. have been realized. He could not bring himself to denounce tune. It had cost him a grievous pang to tell Horace De Crave he was lucky ; he had been educated in the belief 5hai Fortune specially prized and cherished little Wil- oughhy : hence of necessity his maledictions fell upon ffomen, or he would have forfeited the last blanket of a dream warm as poets revel in. But if Clara deceived him, he inspired her with timidity. There was matter in that to make him wish to be deceived. She had not looked him much in the face: she had not >ed his eyes: she had looked deliberately downward, ing liei- head up, to preserve an exterior pride. The attitude had its bewitehingness : the girl's physical pride of ire scorning to bend under a load of conscious guilt, had a certain black-angel beauty for which he felt a hugging hatred: and according to his policy when these fits of amorous meditation seized him, he burst from the present one in the mood of his more favourable conception of Clara, and sought her out. The quality of the mood of hugging hatred is, that if you are disallowed the hug, you do not hate the fiercer. Contrariwise the prescription of a decorous distance of two feet ten inches, which is by measurement the delimita- tion exacted of a rightly respectful deportment, has this aculous effect on the great creature man, or often it has : his peculiar hatred returns to the reluctant admiration tting it, and his passion for the hug falls prostrate as of the Faithful before the shrine: he is reduced to worship by fasi ing. ( For these mysteries, consult the sublime chapter in the Book, the Seventy-Firsi on Lovk, wherein Nothing is written, but the Reader receives a Lanthorn, a Powder-cask and a Pick-axe, and therewith pursues his yellow-dusking path across the rabble of preceding excavators in the solitary quarry: a yet more instructive passage than the over- scrawled Seventieth, or French Section, whence the chapter as, and wl hitherto the polite world has halted.) The hurry of the hero is on us, we have no time to spare for mining- works : he hurried to catch her alone, to wreak hi- tortures on her in a hitter semblance of bodily worship, and I, thou comfortably to spurn. He found her pro- U led by Barclay on the stairs. SIR' WILLOUGHBY EECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 279 " That letter for me P" he said. " I think I told you, Willoughby, there was a letter I lefl with Barclay to reassure you in case of my not returning early," said Clara. " It was unnecessary for her to deliver it." "Indeed? But any letter, any writing, of yours, and trom you to me ! You have it still ?" "ISTo, I have destroyed it." " That was wrong." " It could not have given you pleasure." "My dear Clara, one line from you!" " There were but three." Barclay stood sucking her lips. A maid in the secrets of Iier mistress is a purchaseable maid, for if she will take a bribe with her right hand she will with her left; all that has to be calculated is the nature and amount of the bribe : such was the speculation indulged by Sir Willoughby, and he shrank from the thought and declined to know more than that he was on a volcanic hillside where a thin crust quaked over lava. This was a new condition with him, represent- ing Clara's gain in their combat. Clara did not fear his questioning so much as he feared her candour. Mutually timid, they were of course formally polite, and no plain-speaking could have told one another more dis- tinctly that each was defensive. Clara stood pledged to the fib ; packed, scaled and posted ; and he had only to ask to have it, supposing that he asked with a voice not exactly peremptory. She said in her heart : ' It is your fault : you are relent- less, and you would ruin Crossjay to punish him for devoting himself to me, like the poor thoughtless boy he is ! and so I am bound in honour to do my utmost for him.' The reciprocal devotedness moreover served two purposes : it preserved her from brooding on the humiliation of her lame flight and flutter back, and it quieted her mind in regard to the precipitate intimacy of her relations with Colonel De Craye. Willoughby's boast of his implacable character was to blame. She was at war with him, and she was compelled to put the case in that light. Crossjay must be shielded from one who could not spare an offender, so Colonel De Craye quite naturally was called on for his help, and the colonel's dexterous aid appeared to her more admirable than alarming. THE EGOIST. Nevertheless she -would not liave answered a direct ques- tion falsely. She was Eor the fib, but not the lie ; at a word she could be disdainful of subterfuges. Her look said that. Willoughby perceived it. She had written him a letter of three lines : M There were but three:" and .she had destroyed letter. Something perchance was repented by her? Then she had done him an injury! Between his wrath at the suspicion of an injury, and the prudence enjoined by his ■t coveting of her, he consented to be fooled lor the sake of vengeance, and something besides. "Well! here you are, sale: I have you!" said he, with courtly exultation: "and that is better than your hand- writ inir. I have been all over the country after you." " Why did you? We are not in a barbarous land," said Clara. " Crossjay talks of your visiting a sick child, my love: — yon have changed your dress p" i on see. " The hoy declared you were going to that farm of Hoppner's and some cottage. I met at my gates a tramping ibond who swore to seeing you and the boy in a totally contrary direction." "Did vou L'ive him money ?" "I fancy so." " Then he was paid for having seen me." Willoughby tossed his head: it might be as she suggested; i ;gars are liars. " But who sheltered you, my dear Clara? You had not hern bea rd of at Hoppner's." "The people have been indemnified for their pains. To pay them more would be to spoil them. You disperse money too liberally. There was no fever in the place. Who could have anticipated such a downpour! I want to consult Miss I i.ile on the important theme of a dress I think of wearing at Mrs. Mountstnart's to-night." " Do. She is unerring." " She has excellent taste." M £ • ery simply herself." "But it b her. S he is one of the few women whom I feel I could not improve with a touch." " She has judgement." He reflected and repeated his encomium. SIR WILLOUGHBY RECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 281 The shadow of a dimple in Clara's cheek awakened him to the idea that she bad struck him somewhere: and cer- tainly he would never again be able to put up the fiction of her jealousy of Lcetitia. What, then, could be this girl's motive for praying to be released ? The interrogation humbled him: he fled from the answer. Willoughby went in search of De Craye. That sprightly intriguer had no intention to let himself be caught solus. He was undiscoverable until the assembly sounded, when Clara dropped a public word or two, and he spoke in perfect har- mony with her. After that, he gave his company to Wil- loughby for an hour at billiards, and was well beaten. The announcement of a visit of Mrs. Mountstuart Jen- kinson took the gentlemen to the drawing-room, rather suspecting that something stood in the way of her dinner- party. As it happened, she was lamenting only the loss of one of the jewels of the party : to wit, the great Professor Crooklyn, invited to meet Dr. Middleton at her table ; and she related how she had driven to the station by appointment, the professor being notoriously a bother-headed traveller : as was shown by the fact that he had missed his train in town, for he had not arrived ; nothing had been seen of him. She cited Vernon Whitford for her authority that the train had been inspected and the platform scoured to find the professor. " And so," said she, " I drove home your Green Man to dry him ; he was wet through and chattering ; the man was exactly like a skeleton wrapped in a sponge, and if he escapes a cold he must be as invulnerable as he boasts himself. These athletes are terrible boasters." " They climb their Alps to crow," said Clara, excited by her apprehension that Mrs. Mountstuart would speak of having seen the colonel near the station. There was a laugh, and Colonel De Craye laughed loudly as it flashed through him that a quick-witted impressionable girl like Miss Middleton must, before his arrival at the Hall, have speculated on such obdurate clay as Yernon Whitford was, with humourous despair at his uselessness to her. Glancing round, he saw Yernon standing fixed in a stare at the young lady. " You "heard that, Whitford ?" he said, and Clara's face betokening an extremer contrition than he thought was de- manded, the colonel rallied the Alpine climber for striving 2X2 THE EGOIST. to be the tallest of them — Signor Excelsior! — and described ■ conquerors of mountains pancaked on the rocks in ; ■',: s, bleached hero, burnt there, barked all , all to be able to say they bad been up 'so high '—had aered another mountain! lie was extravagantly funny ami self-satisfied: a conqueror of the sex having such different i j of enterprise. Vernon recovered in time to accept the absurdities heaped on him. "Climbing peaks won't compare with hunting a wriggler," Baid he. His allusion to the incessant pursuit of young Crossjay to pin him to lessons was appreciated. i pa felt the thread of the look he cast from herself to Colonel De Crave. She was helpless, if he chose to misjudge ( 'olonel De Crave did not ! Crossjay had the misfortune to enter the drawing-room while Mrs. Mountstuart was compassionating Vernon for his ducking in pursuit of the wriggler; which De Craye likened to " g ting through the river after his eel:" and immediat ly there was a cross-questioning of the boy between De Craye and Willoughby on the subject of his latest truancy, each gentleman trying to run him down in a palpable fib. They were succeeding brilliantly when Vernon put a stop to it by marching him oft' to hard labour. Mrs. Mountstuart was led away to inspect the beautiful porcelain service, the present of Lady Busshe. " Porcelain again !" she said to Willoughby, and would have signalled to the 'dainty rogue' to come with them, had not Clara been leaning over to La?titia, talk- ing to her in an attitude' too graceful to be disturbed. She called his attention to it, slightly wondering at his impa- tience. She departed to meet an afternoon train on the ance that it would land the professor. "But tell Dr. Middleton," said she, " 1 fear 1 shall have no one worthy of him ! And," she added to Willoughby, as she walked out to her carriage, "I shall expect you to do the great-gunnery talk at table." '• M ise I 'ale keeps it up with him best," said Willoughby. " She docs everything besl ! But my dinner-table is involved, and I cannot count ona yocng woman to talk across it. I would hire a lion of a menagerie, if one were handy, rather than have a famous scholar at my table unsupported 61R WILLODGHBY RECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 283 by another famous scholar. Dr. Middleton would ride down a duke when the wine is in him. He will terrify my poor flock. The truth in, we can't leaven him: I foresee undi- gested lumps of conversation, unless you devote yourself." "I will devote myself," said Willoughby. " I can calculate on Colonel De Craye and our porcelain beauty for any quantity of sparkles, if you promise that. They play well together. You are not to be one of the Gods to-night, but a kind of Jupiter's cupbearer ; — Juno's, if you like : and Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer, and all your admirers shall know subsequently what you have done. You see my alarm. I certainly did not rank Professor Crooklyn among the possibly faithless, or I never would have ventured on Dr. Middleton at my table. My dinner, parties have hitherto been all successes. Naturally I feel the greater anxiety about this one. For a single failure is all the more conspicuous. The exception is everlastingly cited ! It is not so much what people say, but my own sentiments. I hate to fail. However, if you are true we may do." " Whenever the great gun goes off I will fall on my face, madam !" " Something of that sort," said the dame smiling, and leaving him to reflect on the egoism of women. For the sake of her dinner-pai'ty he" was to be a cipher in attendance on Dr. Middleton, and Clara and De Craye were to be encouraged in sparkling together ! And it happened that he particularly wished to shine. The admiration of his county made him believe he had a flavour in general society that was not yet distinguished by his bride, and he was to relinquish his opportunity in order to please Mrs. Mount- stuart ! Had she been in the pay of his rival she could not have stipulated for more. He was anything but obtuse : he remembered young Cross- jay's instant quietude, after struggling in his grasp, when Clara laid her hand on the boy : and from that infinitesimal circumstance he deduced the boy's perception of a differing between himself and his bride, and a transfer of Crossjay's allegiance from him to her. fShe shone ; she had the gift of female beauty ; the boy was attracted to it. That boy must be made to feel his treason. But the point of the cogitation was, that similarly were Clara to see her affianced shining U84 THE EGOIST. -liine he could when lit up by admirers, there was Vne probability that the sensation of her littleness would animate her to take aim at him once more. And then was the time for her chastisement. A visit to Dr. Middleton in the library satisfied him that she had not been renewing her entreaties to leave Patterne. No, the miserable coquette had now her pastime and was content to star. Deceit was in the air: he heard the sound of the shuttle of deceit without seeing it ; but on the whole, mindful of what he had dreaded during the hour3 of her absence, he was rather flattered, witheringly flattered. "What was it that he had dreaded ? Nothing less than news of her running away. Indeed a silly fancy, a lover's fancy ! yet it had led him so far as to suspect, after parting with De Craye in the rain, that his friend and his bride were in collusion, and that he should not see them again. He had actually shouted on the rainy road the theatric call "Fooled!" one of the stacje-cries which are cries of nature! particularly the cry of nature with men who have driven other men to the cry. Constantia Durham had taught him to believe women capable of explosions of treason at half a minute's notice. Ami strangely, to prove that women are all of a be had worn exactly the same placidity of counte- nance just before she fled, as Clara yesterday and to-day; no nervousness, no flushes, no twitches of the brows, but smoothness, ease of manner — an elegant sisterliness, one might almost say : as if the creature had found a midway ami border-line to walk on between cruelty and kindness, and between repulsion and attraction; so that up to the _o of her breath she did forcefully attract, repelling at foot's length with her armour of chill serenity. Not with any disdain, with no passion: such a line as she her- pursued she indicated to him on a neighbouring parallel, passion in her was like a place of waves evaporated to a crust of salt. Clara's resemblance to Constantia in this in-1.;nce was ominous. For him whose tragic privilege it had be< a to fold each of them in his arms, and weigh on their eyelids, and see the dissolving mist-deeps in their eyes, it was horrible. Once more the comparison overcame him. itia he could condemn for revealing too much to his manly sight : she had met him almost half way : well, that was complimentary and sanguine : bul her frankness was a SIR WILLOUGHBY RECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 285 baldness often rendering it doubtful which of the two, lady or gentleman, was the object of the chase — an extreme perplexity to his manly soul. Now Clara's inner spirit was shyer, shy as a doe down those rose-tinged abysses ; she allured both the lover and the hunter ; forests of heaven- liness were in her flitting eyes. Here the difference of these fair women made his present fate an intolerable anguish. For if Constantia was like certain of the ladies whom he had rendered unhappy, triumphed over, as it is queerly called, Clara was not. Her individuality as a woman was a thing he had to bow to. It was impossible to roll her up in the sex and bestow a kick on the travelling bundle. Hence he loved her, though she hurt him. Hence his wretched- ness, and but for the hearty sincerity of his faith in the Self he loved likewise and more, he would have been hangdog abject. As for De Craye, Willoughby recollected his own exploits too proudly to put his trust in a man. That fatal conjunc- tion of temper and policy had utterly thrown him off his guard, or he would not have trusted the fellow even in the first hour of his acquaintance with Clara. But he had wished her to be amused while he wove his plans to retain her at the Hall : — partly imagining that she would weary of his neglect : vile delusion ! In truth he should have given festivities, he should have been the sun of a circle, and have revealed himself to her in his more dazzling form. He went near to calling himself foolish after the tremendous reverbe- ration of " Fooled !" had ceased to shake him. How behave ? It slapped the poor gentleman's pride in the face to ask. A private talk with her would rouse her to renew her supplications. He saw them flickering behind the girl's transparent calmness. That calmness really drew its dead ivory hue from the suppression of them : something as much he guessed ; and he was not sure either of his temper or his policy if he should hear her repeat her profane request. An impulse to address himself to Vernon and discourse with him jocularly on the childish whim of a young lady, moved perhaps by some whiff of jealousy, to shun the yoke, was checked. He had always taken so superior a pose with Vernon that he could not abandon it for a moment : on such a subject too ! Besides Vernon was one of your men who 286 TriE egoist. entertain the ideas abont women of fellows tli at have neve? conquered one: or only one, we will say in his case, knowing his secret history; and that one no flag to boast of. Densely ignorant of the sex, his nincompoopish idealizations, at other times preposterous, would now be annoying. He would pro- bably presume on Clara's inconceivable lapse of dignity to read Ids master a lecture: he was <|uite equal to a philippic i umiiiiii's rights. This man had not been afraid to say that he talked common sense to women. He was an example of the consequence ! Another result was, that Vernon did not talk sense to men. Willoughby's wrath at Clara's exposure of him to his cousin dismissed the proposal of a colloquy so likely to sting his temper, and so certain to diminish his loftiness. Un- willing to speak to anybody, he was isolated, yet consciously it by the mysterious action going on all over the house, from Clara and De Craye to Loatitia and young Crossjay, down to Barclay the maid. Anything but obtuse, as it has been observed, Ids blind sensitiveness felt as we may suppose a Bpider to Feel when plucked from his own web and set in the centre of another's. Lsetitia looked her share in the : tery. A burden was on her eyelashes. How she could have come to any suspicion of the circumstances, he was unable to imagine. Her intense personal sympathy, it might be: he thought so with some gentle pity for her — of the : rnal pat-back order of pity. She adored him, by decree of Venus; and the Goddess hail not decreed that he should t'.iid consolation in adoring her. Nor could the temptings of prudent counsel in his head induce him to run the risk of Buch b total turnover as the incurring of Laetitia's pity of himself by confiding in her. He checked that impulse also, and more sovereignly. For him to be pitied by Lsetitia ied an upsetting of the scheme of Providence. Provi- dence, ol herw ise t he discriminating dispensal ion of the good of life, had made him the beacon, her the bird : she really the last person to whom he could unbosom. The idea of his being in a position that suggested his doing so, thrilled him with I rage; and it appalled him. There appeared to be another Power. The same which had humi- liated him once was menacing him anew. For it could not be Providi nee. whose favourite he had ever been. We must have a couple of Powers to account for discomfort when SIR WTLLOUGHBY RECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 287 Egoism is the kernel of onr religion. Benevolence had singled him for uncommon benefits : malignancy was at work to rob him of them. And you think well of the world, do you ! Of necessity he associated Clara with the darker Power pointing the knife at the quick of his pride. Still, he would have raised her weeping : he would have stanched her wounds bleeding: he had an infinite thirst for her misery, that he might ease his heart of its charitable love. Or let her commit herself, and be cast off ! Only she must commit herself glaringly, and be cast off by the world as well. Contem- plating her in the form of a discarded weed, he had a catch of the breath : she was fair. He implored his Power that Horace De Craye might not be the man ! Why any man ? An illness, fever, fire, runaway horses, personal disfigure- ment, a laming, were sufficient. And then a formal and noble offer on his part to keep to the engagement with the unhappy wreck : yes, and to lead the limping thing to the altar, if she insisted. His imagination conceived it, and the world's applause besides. Nausea, together with a sense of duty to his line, extin- guished that loathsome prospect of a mate, though without obscuring his chivalrous devotion to his g'entleman's word of honour, which remained in his mind to comjiliment him permanently. On the w T hole, he could reasonably hope to subdue her to admiration. He drank a glass of champagne at his dressing; an unaccustomed act, but, as he remarked casually to his man Pollington, for whom the rest of the bottle was left, he had taken no horse-exercise that day. Having to speak to Vernon on business, he went to the schoolroom, where he discovered Clara, beautiful in full even- ing attire, with her arm on young Crossjay's shoulder, and heard that the hard taskmaker had abjured Mrs. Mount- stuart's party, and had already excused himself, intending to keep Crossjay to the grindstone. Willoughby was for the boy, as usual, and more sparklingly than usual. Clara looked at him in some surprise. He rallied Vernon with great zest, quite silencing him when he said : " I bear witness that the fellow was here at his regular hour for lessons, and were you ?" He laid his hand on Crossjay, touching Clara's hand. You will remember what I told you, Crossja}-," said she, Tin: i GOI£ ' . rising from the seat gracefully to escape the touch. "It 13 my command." Cr Erowned and puffed. " Bui (inly if I'm questioned," he said. "Certainly," she replied. "Then I question the rascal," said Willoughby, causing a start. " What, sir, is your opinion of Miss Middleton in her i'"! f state this evening F" " Now, the truth, Crossjay !" Clara held up a finger; and tin' boy could see she was playing at archness, but for Wil- loughby it was earnest. "The truth is not likely to offend yon "i' me either," he murmured to her. " I wish him never, never, on any excuse, to speak anything •." " I always did think her a Beauty," Crossjay growled. He hated 1 he having to say it. "There!" exclaimed Sir YYilloughby, and bent extending an arm to her. "You have not suffered from the truth, my Clara!" J [er answer was : "I was thinking how he might suffer if he were taught to tell the reverse." "Oh! for a fair lady!" "Thai is the worst of teaching, Willoughby." 'We'll leave it to the fellow's instinct ; he has our blood in him. I could convince you, though, if I might cite circum- stances. Yea ! But yes ! And yes again! The entire truth cannot invariably be told. I venture to say it should not." •' You would pardon it for the 'fair lady' ?" " Applaud, my love." He squeezed the hand within his arm, contemplating her. She v>a> arrayed in a voluminous robe of pale blue silk vapourous with trimmings of light gauze of the same hue, o\- Chambery, matching her lair hair and clear skin the complete overthrow of less inflammable men than Willoughby. "CI pa !" Bighed he. 1, it would really be generous," she said, " though the v • 1 1 i t 1 ljt is had." "1 I can 1 i-ous." " Do we ever know ?" He turned his head to A'emon, issuing brief succinct in- structions for letters to be written, and drew her into the SIR WILLOUGHBY RECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 289 ball, saying : " Know ? There are people who do not know themselves, and as they are the majority they manufacture the axioms. And it is assumed that we have to swallow them. I may observe that I think I know. I decline to be engulphed in those majorities. 'Among them, but not of them.' I know this, that my aim in life is to be generous." " Is it not an impulse or disposition rather than an aim ?" " So much 1 know," pursued Willoughby, refusing to be tripped. But she rang discordantly in his ear. His ' fancy that he could be generous,' and his ' aim at being generous,' had met with no response. "I have given proofs," he said briefly, to drop a subject upon which he was not permitted to dilate ; and he murmured : " People acquainted with me ! . . . ." She was asked if she expected him to boast of generous deeds. "From childhood!" she heard him mutter; and she said to herself: 'Release me, and you shall be every- thing !" The unhappy gentleman ached as he talked : for with men and with hosts of women to whom he was indifferent, never did he converse in this shambling, third-rate, sheepish manner, devoid of all highness of tone and the proper precision of an authority. He was unable to fathom the cause of it, but Clara imposed it on him, and only in anger could he throw it off. The temptation to an outburst that would flatter him with the sound of his authoritative voice had to be resisted on a night when he must be composed if he intended to shine, so he merely mentioned Lady Busshe's present, to gratify spleen by preparing the ground for dissension, and prudently acquiesced in her anticipated slipperiness. She would rather not look at it now, she said. " Not now : very well," said he. His immediate deference made her regretful. " There is hardly time, Willoughby." " My dear, we shall have to express our thanks to her." " I cannot." His arm contracted sharply. He was obliged to be silent. Dr. Middleton, La?titia and the ladies Eleanor and Isabel joining them in the hall found tw T o figures linked together in a shadowy indication of halves that have fallen apart and hang on the last thread of junction. Willoughby retained her hand on his arm ; he held to it as the symbol of their alliance, and oppressed the gii-l's nerves by contact with a u 2'<0 Till: RGOrST. frame labouring for breath. De I Iraye looked on them from overhead. The carriages were at the door, and Willoughby .said: "Where's Horace? I suppose he's taking a final shot at his I;. ml; of Anecdotes and in at collection of Irishisms." "No," replied the colonel, descending, "That's a spring works of itself and has discovered the secret of continuous motion, mote's the pity ! — unless you'll be pleased to make f use to Science." He gave a laugh of good humour. •• Your laughter, Horace, is a capital comment on youi wit. Willonghby said it with the air of one who has nicked a whip. '• Tis a genial advertisement of a vacancy," said De Craye. "Precisely: three parts auctioneer to one for the pro- perty." " ( Mi ! if you have a musical qnack, score it a point in his favour. Willoughby, though you don't swallow his drug." " If he means to be musical, let him keep time." '• Am I late : " said De Craye to the la lies, proving him- self an adept in the art of being gracefully vanquished and so \\ inning tender hearts. Willoughby had refreshed himself. At the back of his mind there was a suspicion that his adversary would not e yielded so fiatly without an assurance of practically triumphing, secretly getting the better of him ; and it filled him with venom for a further bout at the next opportunity : but as lie had been sarcastic and mordant, he had shown Clara what he could do in a way of speaking different from the lamentable cooing stuff, gasps and feeble protestations to which, he knew not, how, she reduced him. Sharing the opinion of his race, that blunt personalities, or the pugilistic form, administered directly on the salient features, are exhibitions of mastery in Buch encounters, he felt strong and I, eager for the successes of the evening. De Craye was '" ,1 "' firs! can-; | to the ladies Eleanor and iel. Willoughby, with Clara, Laetitia and Dr. Middleton followed, all silent, tor the Rev. doctor was ostensibly pon- dering; and Willoughby was damped a little when he unlocked hi- moul h I " And yet I have noi observed that Colonel De Craye is anything f a Celtiberian lyirnatius meriting (instigation for SIR WILLODGHBY RECEIVES INSTRUCTION. 291 an untiutly display of well-whitened teeth, sir : ' quicquid est, ubicunque est, quodcunque agit, renidet :' — ha ? a mor- bus neither charming" nor urbane to the general eye, how- ever consolatory to the actor. But this gentleman does not offend so, or 1 am so strangely prepossessed in his favour as to be an incompetent witness." Dr. Middleton's persistent ha ? eh ? upon an honest frown of inquiry plucked an answer out of Willoughby that was meant to be humourously scornful and soon became apologetic under the doctor's interrogatively grasping gaze. " These Irishmen," Willoughby said, " will play the pro- fessional jester, as if it were an office they were born to. We must play critic now and then, otherwise we should have them deluging us with their Joe Millerisms." " With their O'Millerisms you would say, perhaps ?" Willoughby did his duty to the joke, but the Rev. doctor, though he wore the paternal smile of a man that has begotten hilarity, was not perfectly propitiated, and pur- sued : "Nor to my apprehension is 'the man's laugh the comment on his wit ' unchallengeably new : instances of cousinship germane to the phrase will recur to you. But it has to be noted that it was a phrase of assault ; it was ostentatiously battery : and I would venture to remind you, friend, that among the elect, considering tha^ it is as fatally facile to spring the laugh upon a man as to deprive him of his life, considering that we have only to condescend to the weapon, and that the more popular necessarily the more murderous that weapon is, — among the elect, to which it is your distinction to aspire to belong, the rule holds to abstain from any employment of the obvious, the percoct, and like- wise, for your own sake, from the epitonic, the overstrained ; for if the former, by readily assimilating with the under- standings of your audience are empowered to commit assas- sination on your victim, the latter come under the charge of unseemliness, inasmuch as they are a description of public suicide. Assuming, then, manslaughter to be your pastime, and hari-kari not to be your bent, the phrase, to escape criminality, must rise in you as you would have it to fall on him, ex improviso. Am I right ?" "I am in the habit of thinking it impossible, sir, that you can be in error," said Willoughby. c 2 *. %J _f Till: ! 001 r. Dr. Middlcton left it the more emphatic by saying nothing ber. Both his daughter and Miss Dale, who had disapproved waspish snap at Colour! !»-• Crave, were in wonderment he an of Bpeech which could so soothingly inform a [email thai his behaviour had uo1 been gentlemanly. Willoughby was damped by what he comprehended of it a few minutes. In proportion ;is he realized an evening with his ancienl admirers he was restored, and he began bo marvel greatly at his folly in nol giving banquets and Balls, instead of making a solitude about himself and his bride. For solitude, thought he, is •_ 1 for the man, the man being a creature consumed by passion; woman's love, on the con- trary, will only be nourished by the reflex light she catches of yon in the eyes of others, she having no passion of her own. lmt simply an instinct driving her to attach herself to what pis most largely admired, most shining. So think- he determined to change his course of conduct, and he was happier. In the firs! gush of our wisdom drawn directly from experience there is a mental intoxication that cancels th I world and establishes a new one, not allowing us to u hether it is too late. CHAPTER XXX. TREATING OP Till I -PARTI AT MRS. MOUNTSTUART j i: n k r V ay had tolerably steady work ther ! hours, varied by the arrival of a plate ol "ii a tray for the master, and some interroga- tions put to him from time to time by the boy in refer. Idleton. i ■ made the discovery that if he abst rom alluding to M iss M iddleton's beauty he might water his dusty path with her name nearly as much as he liked. M ention of hei ty incurred a reprimand. On the Brst ( was wistful. "Isn't she glorious !" 1 ed he had started a sovereign receipt for MRS. MOUNTSTUARTS DINNER-PARTY. 293 blessed deviations. He tried it again, but paedagogue-thunder broke over his bead. " Yes, only I can't understand what she means, Mr. Whil- ford," he excused himself. " First I was not to tell ; I know I wasn't, because she said so ; she quite as good as said so. Her last words were, ' Mind, Crossjay, you know nothing about me,' when I stuck to that beast of a tramp, who's a ' walking moral,' and gets money out of people by snuffling it." " Attend to your lesson, or you'll be one," said Vernon. " Yes, but, Mr. Whitford, now I am to tell. I'm to answer straight out to every question." " Miss Middleton is anxious that you should be truthful." " Yes, but in the morning she told me not to tell." " She was in a hurry. She has it on her conscience tbat you may have misunderstood her, and she wishes you never to be guilty of an untruth, least of all on her account." Crossjay committed an unspoken resolution to the air in a violent sigh : " Ah !" and said : " If I were sure !" " Do as she bids you, my boy." " But I don't know what it is she wants." " Hold to her last words to you." " So I do. If she told me to run till I dropped, on I'd go. " She told you to study your lessons : do tbat." Crossjay buckled to his book, invigorated by an imagina- tion of his liege lady on the page. After a studious interval, until the impression of his lady had subsided, he resumed: "She's so funny! She's just- like a girl, and then she's a lady too. She's my idea of a princess. And Colonel De Craye! Wasn't he taught dancing! When he says something funny he ducks and seems to be setting to his partner. I should like to be as clever as her father. That is a clever man ! I daresay Colonel De Craye will dance with her to-night. I wish I was there." " It's a dinner-party, not a dance," Vernon forced himself to say, to dispel that ugly vision. " Isn't it, sir ? I thought they danced after dinner-partiea Mr. Whitford, have you ever seen her run ?" Vernon pointed him to his task. They were silent for a lengthened period. 294 THE RGOTST. ■• But does Miss Middleton mean mc to speak out if Sir Willonghby asks me?" Baid Crossjay. •• Certainly. You needn't make much of it. All's plain and simpl( •• Bui I'm positive, Mr. Whitford, lie wasn t to hear of her going to the post-office with me before breakfast. And how did Colonel De Craye find her and bring her back, with that old Flitch P He's a man and can go where he pleases, and IM bavefound her too, give me the chance. You know, I'm fond of Miss Dale, but she— I'm very fond of her— but you can't think she's a girl as well. And about .Miss Dale, when a a a thing, there it is, clear. But Miss Middleton lias a lot of meanings. Nevermind; I go by what's inside and I'm pretty sure to please her." •■ Take your chin off your hand and your elbow off the book, and fix yourself," said Vernon, wrestling with the seduction 3jay's idolatry, for Miss Middleton's appearance had [■naturally sweet on her departure, and the next pleasure to seeing her was hearing of her from the lips of this passionate young poet. •' Remember that you please her by speaking truth," Vernon added, and laid himself open to questions npon the truth, by which he learnt, with a perplexed sense of envy and sympathy, that the hoy's idea of truth strongly approxi- i .1 to his conception of what should be agreeable to Miss ,M i Idleton. Be was Lonely, bereft of the bard, when he had tucked I ,. up in his bed and left him. Books he could not i ; thoughts were disturbii g. A seat in the library and a stupid stare helped to pass the hours, and but for the spot of sadness moving meditation in spite of his effort to stun himself, he would have borne a happy resemblance to an idiot in the sun. He had verily no command of his reason. She was too beautiful! Whatever she did was best. That was the refrain of the fountain-song in him; the burden being her whims, variations, inconsistencies, wiles; her good and naughty, that might be iped to noble or to terrible; her sincereness, her dupli- city, her courage, cowardice, possibilities for heroism and for treachery. By dint of dwelling on the theme, he magni- fied the young lady t<> extraordinary stature. And lie had sense enough to own that hei character was yet liquid in the MRS. MOUNTSTUART' S DINNER-PARTY. 2y5 mould, and that she was a creature of only naturally youthful wildness provoked to freakishness by the ordeal of a situa- tion shrewd as any that can happen to her sex in civilized life. But he was compelled to think of her extravagantly, and he leaned a little to the descrediting of her, because her actual image unmanned him and was unbearable: and to say at the end of it 'She is too beautiful ! whatever she does is best,' smoothed away the wrong he did her. Had it been in his power he would have thought of her in the abstract — the stage contiguous to that which he adopted : but the attempt was luckless ; the Stagyrite would have failed in it. What philosopher could have set down that face of sun and breeze and nymph in shadow as a point in a problem ? The library-door was opened at midnight by Miss Dale. She closed it quietly. " You are not working, Mr. Whitford ? I fancied you would wish to hear of the evening. Professor Crooklyn arrived after all ! Mrs. Mountstuart is bewildered : she says she expected you, and that you did not excuse your- self to her, and she cannot comprehend, et cetera. That is to say, she chooses bewilderment to indulge in the exclama- tory. She must be very much annoyed. The professor did come by the train she drove to meet !" " I thought it probable," said Vernon. " He had to remain a couple of hours at the Railway Inn . no conveyance was to be found for him. He thinks he has caught a cold, and cannot stifle his fretfulness about it. He may be as learned as Dr. Middleton ; he has not the same happy constitution. Nothing more unfortunate could have occurred ; he spoilt the party. Mrs. Mountstuart tried petting him, which drew attention to him and put us all in his key for several awkward minutes, more than once. She lost her head; she was unlike herself. I maybe presumptuous in criticizing her, but should not the president of a dinner-table treat it like a battle-field, and let the guest that sinks descend, and not allow the voice of a discordant, however illustrious, to rule it ? Of course, it is when I see failures that I fancy I could manage so well : comparison is prudently reserved in the other cases. I am a daring critic, no doubt because I know I shall never be tried by experiment. I have no tjnbition to be tried." She did not notice a smile of Vernon's, and continued: 'I UK EGOIST. 'Mr intstuarl gave him the lead tipon any subject he chose. I thought the professor never would have ceased talking of a young lady who had been at the inn before him drinking hoi brandy and water with a gentleman!" ' How did he hear of that ?" cried Vernon, roused by the malignity of the Pates. " Prom the la ml lady, trying to comfort him. And a story of her lending shoes and stockings while those of the young lady were drying. He has the dreadful snappish humourous of recounting which impresses it; the table took up the of this remarkable young lady, and whether she was :i ladj of the neighbourhood, and w ho she could be that went abroad on fool in heavy rain. It was painful tome; I knew igh to be sure of who she was." - Did Bhe betray it r" - No." "Did Willoughby look at Iter." " Without suspicion then." "Then P" one! De Craye was diverting us, and he was very ising. Mrs. .Mountst uart told him afterwards that he ' to be paid Balvage for saving the wreck of her party. Sir Willoughby was a little too cynical: he talked well; what he said was good, but it was not good-humoured: he "" T the i - indifference of Colonel De Crave to ottering nonsense thai amusemeni may come of it. And in the drawing-room he losi such gaiety as he had. I was close Monntstuart when Professor Crooklvn approached in my hearing of that gentleman and that young lady. The; ou could see by his nods, Colonel De i raye and Miss Middleton." ' once mentioned it to Willoughby!" "I De Craye gave her no chance, if she sought it. I her profusely. Behind his rattle he must have brains. It pan in all directions to entertain her and her circle. ' Willoughby knows nothing? " '" ' cannol judge. He stood with .Mrs. Monntstuart a minute were taking leave. She looked strange. I 1 her say, 'The rogue.' He laughed. She lifted her snouldi He scarcely opened his mouth on the way home." MRS. MOUNTSTUART'S DINNER-PARTY. 297 "Tho thing must run its course," Vernon said, with the philosophical air which is desperation rendered decorous. " Willoughby deserves it. A man of full growth ought to know that nothing on earth tempts Providence so much as the binding of a young woman against her will. Those two are mutually attracted : they're both .... They meet and the mischief's done : both are bright. He can persuade with a word. Another might discourse like an angel and it would be useless. I said everything I could think of, to no purpose. And so it is : there are those attractions ! — just as, with her, Willoughby is the reverse, he repels. I'm in about the same predicament — or should be if she were plighted to me. That is, for the length of Gve minutes; about the space of time I should require for the formality of handing her back her freedom. How a sane man can imagine a girl like that . . . . ! But if she has changed, she has changed ! You can't conciliate a withered affection. This detaining her, and tricking, and not listening, only increases her aversion ; she learns the art in turn. Here she is, detained by fresh plots to keep Dr. Middleton at the Hall. That's true, is it not ? " He saw that it was. " No, she's not to blame ! She has told him her mind ; he won't listen. The question then is, whether she keeps to her word, or breaks it. It's a dispute between a conventional idea of obligation and an injury to her nature. Which is the more dishonourable thing to do ? Why, you and I see in a moment that her feelings guide her best. It's one of the few cases in which nature may be consulted like an oracle." " Is she so sure of her nature ? " said Miss Dale. ' You may doubt it ; I do not. 1 am surprised at hei coming back. De Craye is a man of the world, and advised it, I suppose. He well, I never had the persuasive tongue, and my failing doesn't count for much." " But the suddenness of the intimacy ! " " The disaster is rather famous ' at first sight.' He came in a fortunate hour .... for him. A pigmy's a giant if he can manage to arrive in season. Did you not notice that there was danger at their second or third glance ? You counselled me to hang on here, where the amount of good I do in proportion to what I have to endure is micro- scopic." " It was against your wishes, I know," said La?titia, aid TIIK EGOIST. a the words were oui Bhe feared that fcney were tenta tire. Her delicacy shrank from even seeming to sound him in relation to a situation so delicate as .Miss Middleton's. Th( Bentiment guarded him from betraying himself, and ho Baid : " Partly against. We both foresaw the pos- ii8e, like mos< prophets, we knew a little more of circumstances enabling as to see the fatal. A pigmy would •ved, but De Craye is a handsome, intelligent, pleasant fellow." "Sir Willoughby's friend!" , • "Well, in these affairs ! A great deal must be charged on the < roddess." •• 'I'ii. it is really Pagan fatalism ! " "Our modern word fori! is Nature. Science condescends 3peak <»t' natural selection. Look at these! They are graceful and winning and witty, bright to mind and made for one another, as country people say. I can't le him. Besides we don't know thai he's guilty. We're quite in the dark, except thai we're certain how it must end. If the chance should occur to you of giving Willoughby ■ id of counsel — it may -yon might, without irritating him as my knowledge of his plighi does, hint at your eyes £ open. His insane dread of a detective world makes him artificially blind. As Boon as he fancies himself seen, ; to work spinning a web, and he discerns nothing else. I generally a clever kind of web; but if it's a tangle to others it's the same to him, and a veil as well. He is pre- ag the catastrophic, he forces the issue. Tell him of her e to depart. Treat her as mad, to soothe him. Otherv morning he will wake a second time . . . .! It ia perfectly certain. And the second time it will be rely his own fault. Inspire him with some philosophy.'' •■ I ha \ •■ Done." "If I tho . T would Bay you have better. There are kinds of philosophy, mine and yours. Mine conns of devotion." " He is unliki 1 ;. to cl -'■ me for his confidante." Vernon meditated. ' One can never quite guess what he ■will do, from knowing the heal of the centre in him which precipitates b ; he has a great art of con - A- to me, a my views are too philosophical to let me be of nse to any of them. I blame MRS. MOUNTSTUART S DINNER-PARTY. 200 only the one who holds to the bond. The sooner I am gone ! — In fact, I cannot stay on. So Dr. Middleton and the pro- fessor did not strike fire together ? " "Dr. Middleton was ready and pursued him, but Pro- fessor Crooklyn insisted on shivering. His line of blank verse : ' A Railway platform and a Railway inn ! ' became pathetic in repetition. He must have suffered'." " Somebody has to ! " " Why the innocent ? " " He arrives a propos. But remember that Fridolin some- times contrives to escape and have the guilty scorched. The professor would not have suffered if he had missed his train, as he appears to be in the habit of doing. Thus his un- accustomed good fortune was the cause of his bad." " You saw him on the platform ? " " I am unacquainted with the professor. I had to get Mrs. Mountstuart out of the way." " She says she described him to you. ' Complexion of a sweetbread, consistency of a quenelle, grey, and like a saint without his dish behind the head." " Her descriptions are strikingly accurate, but she forgot to sketch his back, and all that 1 saw was a narrow sloping back and a broad hat resting the brim on it. My report to her spoke of an old gentleman of dark complexion, as the only traveller on the platform She has faith in the efficiency of her descriptive powers, and so she was willing to drive off immediately. — The intention was a start to London. Colonel De Craye came up and effected in five minutes what I could not compass in thirty." "But you saw Colonel De Craye pass you ?■" " My work was done ; I should have been an intruder. Besides I was acting wet jacket with Mrs. Mountstuart to get her to drive off fast, or she might have jumped out in search of her professor herself." " She says you were lean as a fork, with the wind whistling through the prongs." '• You see how easy it is to deceive one who is an artist in phrases. Avoid them, Miss Dale ; they dazzle the penetra- tion of the composer. That is w T hy people of ability like Mrs. Mountstuart see so little ; they are so beut on describing brilliantly. However, she is kind and charitable at heart. i have been considering to-night that, to cut this knot as it Tin: ego: r. - Middleton might do worse than speak bI raicrht ont Mountstuart. No one else would have such influence h Willonghby. The simple fad of M 3. Mountstuart's knowing oi it would be almost e>nongh. But courage would be required for thi id night, .Miss Dale." I night, Mr. Whitford. You pardon me for disturb- uon pressed her hand reassuringly. lie had but to and review her history to think his cousin Wil- by punished by jusl retribution, indeed for any mal- treatment of tin- dear boy Love by man or by woman, coming undei your cognizance, you, if you be of common soundness, shall behold the retributive blow struckin your time. Dale retired thinking how like she and Vernon were ne another in the toneless condition they had achie through sorrow. He succeeded in masking himself from her. on ing to her awe of the circumstances. SI,., reproached herself for not having the same devotion to the cold idea of Int.. had ; and though it provoked inquiry, she would top to ask why he had left Miss M iddleton a prey to the sparkling colonel. It seemed a proof of the philosophy he iched. v ~ - - passing bv young Crossjay's bedroom-door a ice appeared. Sir Willoughby slowly emerged and presented in his full length, beseeching her to banish alarm. He said it in a hushed voice, wit ha face qualified to create 1 he sentiment. ■ Aie yon tired P Bleepy ? " said he. Sic protested that she was not; she intended to read for an hour. Hebeggedtoha hour dedicated to him. "I shall he relieved by con j with a friend." abterfuge crossed he- mind; she thought his midnight \ l : r bed-Side a pretty feature in him ; she was full of pity too ; si ed to the Btrange request, feeling become ' an old woman ' to attach import, public discovery of midnight interviews involving I feelii t hat she was being treated as nd in the form of a very old woman. Ber mind ting any recurrence t,, the project she had 1 i" the ton-iie of innuendo, of which. SIR WILLOUGHBY ACHIEVES PATHOS. . 301 because of her repeated tremblings Tinder it, she thought him a master. He conducted her along the corridor to the private sitting, room of the ladies Eleanor and Isabel. " Deceit ! " he said, while lighting the candles on the mantel- piece. She was earnestly compassionate, and a word that could not relate to her personal destinies refreshed her by dis- placing her apprehensive antagonism and giving pity free play. CHAPTER XXXI. SIR WILLGUGHBY ATTEMPTS AND ACHIEVES PATHOS. Both were seated. Apparently he would have preferred to watch her dark downcast eyelashes in silence under sanc- tion of his air of abstract meditation and the melancholy superinducing it. Blood-colour was in her cheeks ; the party had inspirited her features. Might it be that lively company, an absence of economical solicitudes and a flourish ing home were all she required to make her bloom again ? The supposition was not hazardous in presence of her heightened complexion. She raised her eyes. He could not meet her look without speaking. " Can you forgive deceit ? " " It would be to boast of more charity than I know my- self to possess, were I to say that I can, 'Sir Willoughby. I hope I am able to forgive. I cannot tell. I should like to say yes." " Could you live with the deceiver ? " "No." " No. I could have given that answer for yon. No sem- blance of union should be maintained between the deceiver and ourselves. Lcetitia ! " ■I .IT EGOIST. "Sir Willoughby ? " "Have I do right to your name ? " " J f it please \ on to . . . ." " I speak as my thoughts run, and they did not know a I (ale so well as a dear Lsetitia : my truest friend ! You have talked with Clara Middleton?" •• We had a conversation." 1 lei brevity affrighted him. He flew off in a cloud. • Reverting to thai question of deceivers : is it not your opinion thai to pardon, to condone, is to corrupt society oj ing off as pure what is false ? Do we not," he wore the smile of haggard playfulness of a convalescent child the first day back to its toys, " La^titia, do we not impose a counter- feit in! the currency ? " Supposing it to be really deception." "Apart from my loathing of deception, of falseness in any shape, upon any grounds, 1 hold it an imperious duty to ex- . punish, off with it. I take it to be one of the forms of 38 which a good citizen is bound to extirpate. 1 am not nivselt good citizen enough, I confess, for much more than passive abhorrence. I do not forgive: I am at heart serious and 1 cannot forgive: — there is no possible recon- ciliation, there can be only an ostensible truce, between the two hostile powers dividing this world." She glanced at him quickly. " ( rood and evil ! " he said. Her lace expressed a surprise relapsing on the heart. He was anything but obtuse, and he spelt the puckers of her forehead to mean, that she feared he might be speaking nnchristianly. ■• Fob will find it so in all religions, my dear Laetitia : the Hindoo, the Persian, ours. It is universal; an experience Df our humanity. Deceil and sincerity cannot live together. Truth musl kill the lie, or the lie will kill truth. I do not forgive. All I say to the person is, go!" '• l!ut that is righi ! that is generous ! " exclaimed Lostitia, glad to approve him for the sake of blinding her critical - il. and relieved by the idea of Clara's difficulty solved. " Ca able of generosity perhaps," he mused aloud. She wounded him by not supplying the expected enthusi- astic asseveration of her belief in his general tendency to unanimity. SIK WILLOUGHBY ACHIEVES PATHOS. 30o He said after a paiise : " But the world is not likely to be impressed by anything not immediately gratifying it People change, I find : as we increase in years we cease to be the heroes we were ! I myself am insensible to change : I do not admit the charge. Except in this, we will say : personal ambition. I have it no more. And what is it when we have it ? Decidedly a confession of inferiority ! That is, the desire to be distinguished is an acknowledge- ment of insufficiency. But I have still the craving for my dearest friends to think well of me. A weakness ? Call it bo. Not a dishonourable weakness ! " Laetitia racked her brain for the connection of his present speech with the preceding dialogue. She was baffled, from not knowing ' the heat of the centre in him ' as Vernon opaquely phrased it in charity to the object of her worship. " Well," said he, unappeased, " and besides the passion to excel, I have changed somewhat in the heartiness of my thirst for the amusements incident to my station. I do not care to keep a stud — I was once tempted: nor hounds. And I can remember the day when I determined to have the best kennels and the best breed of horses in the kingdom. Puerile! What is distinction of that sort, or of any acqui- sition and accomplishment ? We ask ! One's self is not the greater. To seek it, owns to our smallness, in real fact ; and when it is attained, what then ? My horses are good, they are admired, I challenge the county to surpass them : well ? These are but my horses ; the praise is of the animals, not of me. I decline to share in it. Yet I know men content to swallow the praise of their beasts and be semi-equine. The littleness of one's fellows in the mob of life is a very strange experience ! One may regret to have lost the simplicity of one's forefathers, which could accept those and other distinctions with a cordial pleasure, not to say pride. As for instance, I am, as it is called, a dead shot. ' Give your acclamations, gentlemen, to my ancestors, from whom I inherited a steady hand and quick sight.' They do not touch me. Where I do not find myself — that I am essentially I — no applause can move me. To speak to you as I would speak to none, admiration — you know that in my early youth I swam in flattery — I had to swim to amid drowning ! — admiration of my personal gifts has grown tasteless. Changed, therefore, inasmuch as there has been 'i in. egoist; oi ■ irituality. We are all in submission to mortal -. and so Ear 1 have indee I changed. I may add that it is unusual for country gentlemen to apply theTrselves to relies. These are, however, in the spirit of the time. I apprehended thai instinctively wh< n at College. I forsook the classics for science. And thereby escaped the vice of domineering self-sufficiency peculiar to classical men, of which yon had an amusing example in the carriage, on the way to Mrs. Mountstuart's this evening. Science is modest : Blow, if you like: it deals with facts, and having mastered them, it masters men; of necessity, not with a stupid loud-mouthed arrogance: words big and oddly-garbed ae the Pope's body-guard! Of course, one bows to the Infallible; we must, when his giant - mercenaries level mets ! Sir Willoughby offered Miss Dale half a minute that she might in gentle feminine fashion acquiesce in the implied reproof of Dr. Middleton's behaviour to him during the drive Mrs. Mountstuart's. She did not. Ber heart was accusing Clara of having done it a wrong and a hurt. For while he talked he seemed to her to justify Clara's feelings and her conduct: and her own reawakened of injury came to the surface a moment to look at him. affirming that they pardoned him, and pitied, but hardly wondered. The heat of the centre in him had administered the com- fort he wanted, though the conclusive accordant notes he : d on woman's lips, that subservient harmony of another instrument desired of musicians when they have done their Bolo-playing, came not to wind up 1 he performance : not a single bar. She did not speak. Probably his Laetitia was overcome, as he had long known her to be when they con- re-subdued, unable to deploy her menial resources or her musical. Fel ordinarily she had command of the latter. Was -he too condoling ? Did a reason exist for it ? Had the mpulsiveand desperate girl spoken out to Laetitia to the fu 11. -i ? shameless daughter of a domim ering sire that she was! ustlier inquiry lit struck the centre of him nding ring Laetitia T'i'yinc- him overmuch for v I 'an th( f a lit ile dill, i etwecn lo.vers r treason on the part of his bride ? Did she know of a rival P know more than ! - SIR WILLOUGHBY ACHIEVES PATHOS. 305 Anything but obtuse, when the centre of him was violently struck he was a genius in penetration. He guessed that she did know : and by this was he presently helped to achieve pathos. " So my election was for Science," he continued: "and if it makes me, as I fear, a rara avis among country gentlemen, it unites me, puts me in the main, I may say. in the only current of progress — a word sufficiently despicable in their political jargon. — You enjoyed your evening at Mrs. Mount- stuart's ? " li Very greatly." " She brings her pix>fessor to dine here the day after to- morrow. Does it astonish jou ? You started." " I did not hear the invitation." " It was arranged at the table : you and I were separated — cruellv, I told her : she declared that we see enough of one another, and that it was good for me that we should be separated ; neither of which is true. I may not have known what is the best for me : I do know what is good. If in my younger days I egregiously erred, that, taken of itself alone, is, assuming me to have sense and feeling, the surer proof of present wisdom. I can testify in person that wisdom is pain. If pain is to add to wisdom, let me suffer ! Do you approve of that, La?titia ? " " It is well said." " It is felt. Those who themselves have suffered should know the benefit of the resolution." " One may have suffered so much as to wish only for peace." " True : but yon ! have you ? " " It would be for peace, if I prayed for an earthly gift." Sir Willoughby dropped a smile on her. " I mentioned the Pope's parti-coloured body-guard just now. In my youth their singular attire impressed me. People tell me they have been re-uniformed : I am sorry. They remain one of my liveliest recollections of the Eternal City. They affected my sense of humour, always alert in me, as you are aware. We English have humour. It is the first thing struck in us when we land on the Continent : our risible faculties are generally active all through the tour. Humour, or the clash of sense with novel examples of the absurd, if our characteristic. I do not condescend to boisterous dis. x THE EGOIST. plays of it. T observe, and note the people's comicalities for my correspondence. Bui you have read my letters — most of them, it n"i all '■ " " Man;, of them." ••| was with you then! — I was about to say — that Swiss- guard reminded me you have not been in Italy. I have atantly regretted it. You are the very woman, yon have the bouI for Italy. 1 know do other of whom I could say it, with whof 1 should not Eeel that she was out of place, dis- cordant with me. Italy and Laetitia! often have I joined her. We shall see. 1 begin to have hopes. Here i have literally stagnated. Why. a dinner-party refreshes you! What would no1 travel do, and that heavenly climate ! Y.hi are a reader of history and poetry. Well, poetry ! I never vet saw the poetry that expressed the tenth part of what 1 Eeel in the presence of beauty and magnificence, and 1 really meditate — profoundly. Call me a positive mmd. I Eeel: only 1 Eeel too intensely for poetry. By the nature of it. poetry cannot be sincere. I will have sincerity. Whatever touches our emotions should be spontaneous, not a era,:. I know you are in favour of poetry. You would win me, if any one could. But history ! there I am with you. Walking over ruins: at eight: the arches of the solemn black amphitheatre pouring moonlight on us — the moonlight 'You would not laugh there, Sir Willoughby?" said I. ■ tia, rousing herself from a stupor of apprehensive nazement, to utter something and realize actual circum- Btanci Ml -. yon, I think, or I am mistaken in you " he deviated Erom his p ted Bpeech — " you are not a victim of th( ciation, and the ludicrous." '■I can underhand the influence of it: 1 have at least a conceptii a of the humourous: but ridicule would not strike m in the Coliseum of Rome. I could not bear it, no, Sir Willoughby !" She appeared to 1"- taking him in very strong earnest; almost inflaming, by thus petitioning him not to laugh in the 1 i«*eum, and now he said: "Besides, you are one who could accommodate yourself to the society of the ladies, my aunts. Good women, Laetitia! 1 cannot imagine them de Sift WILLOUGTTBY ACHIEVES PATHOS. 307 trop in Italy, or in a household. 1 have of course reason to be partial in my judgement." " They are excellent and most amiable ladies ; I love them," said Laatitia fervently ; the more strongly excited to fervour by her enlightenment as to his drift. She read it, that he designed to take her to Italy with the ladies; — after giving Miss Middleton her liberty; that was necessarily implied. And that was truly generous. In his boyhood he had been famous for his bountifulness in scatter- ing silver and gold. Might he not have caused himself to be misperused in later life ? Clara had spoken to her of the visit and mission o f . the ladies to the library: and Laititia daringly conceived her- self to be on the certain track of his meaning, .she being able to enjoy their society as she supposed him to consider that Miss Middleton did not, and would not either abroad or at home. Sir Willoughbv asked her : "You could travel with them?" " Indeed I could !" "Honestlv?" " As affirmatively as one may protest. Helightedly." " Agreed. It is an undertaking." He put his hand out. ""Whether I be of the party or not ! To Italy, La'-titia ! It would give me pleasure to be with you, and it will, if I must be excluded, to think of you in Italy !" His hand was out. She had to feign inattention or yield her own. She had not the effrontery to pretend not to see, and she yielded it. He pressed it, and whenever it shrank a quarter-inch to withdraw, he shook it up and down, as an instrument that had been lent him for due emphasis to his remarks. And very emphatic an amorous orator can make it upon a captive lady. " I am unable to speak decisively on that or any subject. I am, I think you once quoted, ' tossed like a weed on the ocean.' Of myself I can speak : I cannot speak for a second person. I am infinitely harassed. If I could cry, ' To Italy to-morrow ! ' Ah ! . . . . Do not set me down for complaining. I know the lot of man. But Laatitia, deceit ! deceit ! lii is a bad taste in the mouth. It sickens us of humanity. I compare it to an earthquake : we lose all our reliance on the solidity of the world. It is a betrayal not simply of the person ; it is a betrayal of humankind. My friend ! Con- x 2 THE EQOTST. slant friend! N"o, 1 will not d ?pair. Yes, T have faults; I will remember them. Only, orgivene s is another ques- tion. V'-. tin- injury I can lor rive: tin' falseness never. In the interests of humanity, □ >'■ So younj, and such deceit ! " Lsetitia's bosom rose : ber I anl was d stained : a lady who bas yielded it cannotwrest i to have it back: those outworks which protect ber, treacherously shelter the enemy aiming at the citadel when be has taken them. In return for the silken armour bestowed on ber by our civilization, it is sted that she be soft and civil nigh up to perishing-point. She breathed tremulously bigh, saying on her top-breath: • If it it may nol be so; it can scarcely . . . ." A deep i intervene I. It saddened ber t bat she knew so much. "For when 1 love, I love," said Sir Willoughby ; "my friends and niv' servants know t hat . There can be no medium : with me. I give all. I claim all. As I am absorbed, v " must J absorb. We both cancel and create, we extin- h and we illumine one anot her. The error may be in the choice of an object : it is not in t lie passion. Perfect con- fidence, perfect abandonment. 1 repeat,] el aim it because 1 e it. The selfishness of love may be denounced: it is a My answer would be, it is an element only of thenoblestof Love, Lsetitia ! I speak of love. But one who breaks faith to drag us through the mire, who be- s, betrays and hands as over to the world; whose prey we become identically because of virtues we were educated to think it a blessing to possess: tell me the name for thai ! "" : '' bas ever been a principle with me to respect tne >IX - Bui if we see women false, treacherous Wh\ indulge in these abstract views, von would ask! The w " ,|,i !"•■ ' - them on as, full as it is of the vilest, Thi to pluck up every rooted principle: thej Bneer at our worship: they rob us of our religion. This bitter experience of the world drives as back to the antidote of what we knew before we plunged into it: of on.; . . . of something we esteemed and still esteem. Is that |"-1 the poison ? I hope so! I To li 9e faith in womankind is terrible." He studied her. She looked distressed: she was not thinking that, with the exception of a strain of haughtiness, he talked excellently to men. at least in the SIR WILLOUGHBY ACHIEVES PATHOS. 309 tone of the things lie meant to say ; but that his manner of talking to women went to an excess in the artificial tongue — - the tutored tongue of sentimental deference of the towering male: he fluted exceedingly; and she wondered whether it was this which had wrecked him with Miss Middleton. His intuitive sagacity counselled him to strive for pathos to move her. It was a task ; for while he perceived her to be not ignorant of his plight, he doubted her knowing the extent of it, and as his desire was merely to move her without an exposure of himself, he had to compass being pathetic as it were under the impediments of a mailed and gauntletted knight, who cannot easily heave the bosom, or show it heaving. Moreover pathos is a tide : often it carries the awakener of it off his feet, and whirls him over and over, armour and all in ignominious attitudes of helpless prostration, whereof he may well be ashamed in the retrospect. We cannot qui^e preserve our dignity when we stoop to the work of calling forth tears. Moses had probably to take a nimble jump away from the rock after that venerable Law-giver had knocked the water out of it. However, it was imperative in his mind that he should be sure he had the power to move her. He began : clumsily at first, as yonder gauntletted knight attempting the briny handkerchief : ' What are we ! We last but a very short time. Why not live to gratify our appetites ? I might really ask my- self why. All the means of satiating them are at my dis- posal. But no : I must aim at the highest: — at that which in my blindness I took for the highest. Yon know the sportsman's instinct, Lastit-'a ; he is not tempted by the .stationary object. Such are we in youth, toying with happiness, leaving it, to aim at the dazzling and attractive." " We gain knowledge," said Laatitia. " At what cost ! " The exclamation summoned self-pity to his aid, and pathos was handy. " By paying half our lives for it and all our hopes ! Yes, we gain knowledge, we are the wiser ; very probably my value surpasses now what it was when I was happier. But the loss! That youthful bloom of the soul is like health to the body ; once gone, it leaves cripples behind. Nay, my friend and precious friend, these four fingers I must retain ;}|0 THE EGOIST. They seem to me the residue of a wreck: you shall be released shortly: absolutely, kaetitia, 1 have nothing else remaining We have spoken of deception: what of being undeceived ?— when one whom we adored is laid bare, and the wretched consolation of a worthy object is denied to us. ortune can be like that. Were it death, we could worship still. Death would be preferable. But may you be spared to know a situation in which the comparison with your int. rior is forced on you to your disadvantage and your loss because of vour generously giving up your whole heart to the custody of some shallow, li^ht-minded, self ! we will not deal in epithets. If 1 were to find as many had names for the serpent as there are spots on his ,,', it would be serpent still, neither better nor worse. . The loneliness ! And the darkness! Our luminary to extinguished. Self-respect refuses to continue worshipping, but the affection will not be turned aside. We are literally in the dust, we grovel, we would fling away self-respect if wonld adopt for a model the creature preferred to us; we would humiliate, degrade ourselves; we cry for justice as if it wen- for pardon .... ■• For pardon! when we are straining to grant it!" Lnetitia murmured, and it was as much as she could do. She re- membered how in her old misery her efforts after charity had twisted her round to feel herself the sinner, and beg in prayer: a noble sentiment, that filled her with pity of the bosom in which it had sprung. There was no similarity between his idea and hers, but her idea had rtainly been roused by his word 'pardon,' and he had the benefit of it in the moisture of her eyes. Her lips trembled, PS tell. He had heard something; he had not caught the words, hut they were manifestly favourable; her Bign of emotion ired him of it and of the success he had sought. There - one woman who bowed to him to all eternity ! He had inspired one woman with the mysterious man-desired passion of self-abandonment, self-immolation! The evidence was him. At any I he could, if he pleased, fly to 1 command her eul husiasm. He had. in fact, perhaps by sympathetic action, succeeded iti striking the same springs of pathos in her which animated i lively endeavour to produce it in himself. SIR WILLOUGHBY ACHIEVES PATHOS. 311 He kissed her hand ; then released it, quitting his chair to bend above her soothingly. " Do not weep, Lsetitia, you see that I do not : I can smile. Help me to bear it ; you must not unman me." She tried to stop her crying; but self-pity threatened to rain all her long years of grief on her head, and she said : " I must go ... . I am unfit .... good night, Sir Wil- loughby." Fearing seriously that he had sunk his pride too low in her consideration, and had been carried farther than he in- tended on the tide of pathos, he remarked : " We will speak about Crossjay to-morrow. His deceitfulness has been gross. As I said, I am grievously offended by deception. But you are tired. Good nig'ht, my dear friend." " Good night, Sir Willoughby." She was allowed to go forth. Colonel De Crave coming up from the smoking-room, met her and noticed the state of her eyelids, as he wished her good-night. He saw Willoughby in the room she had quitted, but considerately passed without speaking, and without reflecting why he was considerate. Our hero's review of the scene made him on the whole satisfied with his part in it. Of his power upon one woman he was now perfectly sure : — Clara had agonized him with a dou t of his personal mastery of any. One, was a poor feast, but the pangs of his flesh during the last few days and the latest hours, caused him to snatch at it, hungrily if contemptuously. A poor feast, she was yet a fortress, a point of succour, both shield and lance ; a cover and an impetus. He could now encounter Clara boldly. Should she resist and defy him, he would not be naked and alone ; he foresaw that he mig-ht win honour in the world's eye from his position : — a matter to be thought of only in most urgent need. The effect on him of his recent exercise in pathos was to compose him to slumber. He was for the period well-satisfied. His attendant imps were well-satisfied likewise, and danced a round about his bed after the vigilant gentleman had ceased to debate on the question of his unveiling of himself past forgiveness of her to Loetitia, and had sur- rendered unto benignant sleep the present direction of his affairs. THE I QOIST. CHAPTEB XXXII. LJTTTTA DALE DIS< 0V1 I.S A SPIRITUAL CHANGE AND DE. MIDDLETOM A PHYSICAL. Clara tripped ot er the lawn in the early morning to Lretitia • her. She broke away from a colloquy with Colonel under Sir Willi. u<_dd.y's windows. The colonel had been one <>f the bathers, and he stood like a circus driver, flicking a wel towel at Crossjay capering. ■• My dear, 1 am very unhappy! " said Clara. My dear, I bring you oews," Leatitia replied. "Tell me. Bui the poor boy is to be expelled! He Crossjay's bed-room last eight and dragged the it nt' bed to question him, and lie had the •i. That is one comfort: only Crossjay is to be driven the II ill because lie was untruthful previously — for me; really, I feel it was at my command. i v will In- mil i,i the way to-day and has promised to comi at night to try to be forgiven. You must help Clara ! If you desire it, you have hut •r your freedom." U in .... ?" • IT-- -.sill release you." - V. U B - ,:■ 1 W< i long ■ ;' inn last night." ■■ I owing to me. He volunteered it." if to lift her eyes in apostrophe. " Pro- I't Crooklyn! I see. I did not ■ erosity, Clara; you are unjust." and -by : 1 will be mere than just by-and-by. I will "ii tii'' trumpet: I will lecture on the greatness of men when we know them thoroughly. At half know them* and -.■..• are unjust. You Tin -re is to be no speaking to Yon have agitated me. I feel m dl person indeed. 1 feel I can understand those EXPERIENCES OF L2ETITIA AND DK. MIDDLETON. 313 (vho admire him. He gives me ba^k my word simply t* clearly ? without — Oil ! that long - wrangle in scenes and letters ? And it will be arranged for papa and me to go not later than to morrow ? Never shall I be able to explain to any one how I fell into this ! 1 am frightened at myself when I think of it. I take the whole blame: I have been scan dalous. And dear LaDtitia ! you came out so early in order to tell me ? " " 1 wished you to hear it." " Take my heart." " Present me with a part — but for good ! " " Fie ! But you have a right to say it." " I mean no unkindness ; but is not the heart you allude to an alarmingly searching one ? " " Selfish it is, for I have been forgetting Crossjay. If we are going to be generous, is not Crossjay to be forgiven? If it were only that the boy's father is away fighting for his country, endangering his life day by day, and for a stipend not enough to support his family, we are bound to think of the boy ! Poor dear silly lad! with his 'I say, Miss Middle- ton, why wouldn't (some one) see my father when he came here to call on him, and had to walk back ten miles in the rain ? ' — I could almost fancy that did me mischief .... But we have a splendid morning after yesterday's rain And we will be generous. Own, Lastitia, that it is possible to gild the most glorious day of creation." " Doubtless the spirit may do it and make its hues per- manent," said Lsetitia. "You to me, I to you, he to us. Well, then, if he does, it shall be one of ray heavenly days. Which is for the pro- bation of experience. We are not yet at sunset." " Have you seen Mr. Whitford this morning ? " " He passed me." " Do not imagine him ever ill-tempered." " I had a governess, a learned lady, who taught me in person the picturesqueness of grumpiness. Her temper was ever perfect, because she was never in the wrong, but I being so, she was grumpy. She carried my iniquity under hei brows, and looked out on me through it. I was a trying child." Lastitia said, laughing : " I can believe it ! " " Yet I liked her and she liked me : we were a kind of . > 1 I THE EGOIST. TOtmd and background : she threw me into relief, and 1 was .in apology U>v her existence." •• Fou picture her to me." - of me now, thai I am the only creature she has I Wlm knows thai 1 may not come to say thcsameof her?" •• Vim would plague her and puzzle her still." " Have 1 plagued and puzzled Mr. Whitford?" " He reminds you of her F "Vim said you had her picture." " All ! do nut laugh at him. He is a true friend." '• The man who can be a friend is the man who will pre- sume to be a censor." ■• A mild one." ',- tu the sentence he pronounces, I am unable to speak, but his forehead is Khadamanthine condemnation." - Dr. Middleton!" ia lm iked round, "Who? I? Did you hear an echo of papa? He would never have put Rhadamanthus over European souls, because it appears that Rhadamanthus judged only the Asiatic; so you are wrong, Miss Dale. My father is infatuated with Mr. Whitford. What can it be? We women cannot sound the depths of scholars, probably their pearls have no value in our market ; except when they deign to chasten an impertinent; and Mr. Whit- ford Btands aloof from any notice of small fry. He is deep, Btudion lent; and dues it not strike you that if he led among us he would be like a Triton ashore ? " Lcetitia's habil of wholly subservient sweetness, which her ideal of the feminine, not yet conciliated with her acuter character, owing to the absence of full pleasure from liri- life - the unhealed wound she had sustained and the cramp of a bondage of such old date as to seem iron — induced her to as if consenting: "You think he is not quite at home in b< But she wished to defend him nuously, and as a consequence she had to quit the self- imposed ideal of her daily acting, whereby — the case being unwonted, very novel to ber— the lady's intelligence became confased through the process that quickened it; so sovereign a method of hoodwinking our bright selves is the acting of a . -i ■!• naturally it may come to us ! and to this will i honest autobiographical member of the animated world '■ vvitll' EXPERIENCES OP L.ETITIA AND DR. MIDDLETON. 315 She added : " Ydu have not found him sympathetic ? He is. You fancy him brooding, gloomy ? He is the reverse ; he is cheerful, he is indifferent to personal misfortune. Dr. Coruey says there is no laugh like Vernon Whitford's, and no humour like his. Lattei-ly he certainly .... but it has not been your cruel word grumpiness. The truth is, he is anxious about Crossjay : and about other things ; and he wants to leave. He is at a disadvantage beside very lively and careless gentlemen at present, but your ' Triton ashore,' is unfair, it is ugly. He is, I can say, the truest man I know." " I did not question his goodness, Laetitia." " You threw an accent on it." " Did I ? I must be like Crossjay, who declares he likes fun best." " Crossjay ought to know him, if anybody should. Mr. Whitford has defended you against me, Clara, ever since I took to calling you Clara. Perhaps when you supposed him so like your ancient governess, he was meditating how he could aid you. Last night he gave me reasons for thinking you would do wisely to confide in Mrs. Mountstuart. It is no longer necessary. I merely mention it. He is a devoted friend." " He is an untiring pedestrian." " Oh !" Colonel De Craye, after hovering near the ladies in the hope of seeing them divide, now adopted the method of making three that two may come of it. As he joined them with his glittering chatter, Lastitia locked at Clara to consult her, and saw the face rosy as a bride's. The suspicion she had nursed sprang out of her arms a muscular fact on the spot. " Where is my dear boy ?" Clara said. " Out for a holiday," the colonel answered in her tone. " Advise Mr. Whitford not to waste his time in searching for Crossjay, Laatitia. Crossjay is better out of the way to- day. At least, I thought so just now. Has he pocket-money, Colonel De Craye ?" " My lord can command his inn." " How thoughtful you are !" La?titia's bosom swelled upon a mute exclamation, eqniva- 316 TTTF EGOIST. lent to: 'Woman! woman! snared ever by the spai-klin? and frivolous! undiscerning of the faithful, the modest and Bcent !' In the secret mnsings of moralists this dramatic rhetoric Mll'\i\ i The comparison was all of her own making and she was indignant at the contrast, though to what end she was indig- she could not have said, for she had no idea of Vernon as a rival of De Crave in the favour of a plighted lady. she was jealous on behalf of her sex: her sex's reputa- tion seemed at stake, and the purity of it was menaced by Clara's idle preference of the shallower man. When the young lady spoke so carelessly of being like Crossjay, she did in .t perhaps know that a likeness, based on a similarity of their enthusiasms, loves, and appetites, has been estab- lished between women and boys. Lastitia had formerly chafed at it, rejecting it utterly, save when now and then in a season of bitterness she handed here and there a volatile young lady (none but the young) to be stamped with the degrading brand. Vernon might be as philosophical as he pleased. To her the gaiety of these two, Colonel De Craye and ('lata Middleton, was distressingly musical: they har- monized painfully. The representative of her sex was hurt by it. She had to stay beside them: Clara held her arm. The solonel's voice dropped at times to something very like a \vhin the other hand, nan: icipated when he bed. Mr. Whitford, however, was not to think that rancour toward the wine. It was no doubt with the 1 able intention of cheering. In >le. judging by results it was in- r of it shall be I - of it upon Professor 1 in the forenoon according to to an end with his petturbed inga. >f the eiidn or twelve winds a« one. a railway platform, and the young who dries herself of a qo by drinking brandy EXPERIENCES OP L.ETITIA AND DR. MIDDLETON. 319 and water with a gentleman at a railway inn, I shall solicit your sanction to my condemnation of the wine as anti- Bacchic and a counterfeit presentment. Do not misjudge me. Our hostess is not responsible. But widows should ma: ry." " 1 ou must contrive to stop the professor, sir, if he should attack his hostess in that manner," said Vernon. " Widows should marry !" Dr. Middleton repeated. He murmured of objecting to be at the discretion of a butler : unless, he was careful to add, the aforesaid func- tionary could boast of an University education : and even then, said he, it requires a line of ancestry to train a man's taste. The Rev. doctor smothered a yawn. The repression of it caused a second one, a real monster, to come, big as our old friend of the sea advancing on the chained-up Beauty. Disconcerted by this damning evidence of indigestion, his countenance showed that he considered himself to have been too lenient to the wine of an unhusbanded hostess. He frowned terribly. In the interval Lostitia told "Vernon of Crossjay's flight for the day, hastily bidding the master to excuse him : she had no time to hint the grounds of excuse. Vernon mentally made a guess. Dr. Middleton took his arm and discharged a volley at the crotchetty scholarship of Professor Crooklvn, whom to con- fute by book, he directed his march to the library. Having persuaded himself that he was dyspeptic, he had grown irascible. He denounced all dining out, eulogized Patterne Hall as if it were his home, and remembered he had dreamed in the night : — a most humiliating sign of physical disturb- ance. " But let me find a house in proximity to Patterne, as I am induced to suppose I shall," he said, " and here only am I to be met when I stir abroad." Lastitia went to her room. She was complacently anxious, enough to prefer solitude and be willing to read. She was more seriously anxious about Crossjay than about any of the others. For Clara would be certain to speak very definitely, and how then could a gentleman oppose her ? He would supplicate, and could she be brought to yield ? It was not to be expected of a young lady who had turned from Sir Wiiloughby. His inferiors would have had a THE EGOIST. Whatever bis faults, he had that clement of 36 which excludes tb* intercession of pity. Sup- plication would be with him a form of condescension. It to 1"- Midi. His was a monumental pride thai could :i"t Btoop. She ha I preserved this image of the tleman for a relic in the shipwreck of her idolatry. So mused between the lines of her book, and finishing her and marking the paire, she glanced down on t ho lawn. Dr. Middleton \\a> there, and alone; his hands ind his hack, his lead bent. His meditative pace and unwonted perusal of the turf proclaimed that a non- ■ 'mental jury within had delivered an unmitigated ver- did upon the widow's wine. Loetitia hurried to find nil. 11. was in the hall. As she drew near him, the labora- or opened and shut. "h is being decided," said Las! Ltia. Vernon was (paler than the hue of perfect calmness. " I wanl to know whether I oughl to lake 1o my heels lik ■ I . and slum the profi 880r," lie said. 6 in undertones, furtively watching the door. '• 1 wish what she wishes, I am sure, but it will go badly d I/itiu'a. "Oh, well, then I'll take him." said Vernon, "I would ■■ p. 1 think I can manage it." Again the laboratory door opened. This time it shut ad Miss Middleton. She was highly flushed. Seeing i, Bhe -hook the storm from her brows, with a dead htm besl piece of serenity she could put on for public r. She I breath before she moved. Vernoi e onl of t he hoi 1 pi up to La t it ia. e hard sol> of ang( r barred her voice. L ! her to to her room with her. '" I bair: 1 musl be by myself," said Clara, catching at her garden-hat. She walked Bwif try to the portico-steps and turned to the i .to avoid the laboratory windows. TEE COMIC MUSE ON TWO GOOD SOULS. 321 CHAPTER XXXIII. IN WHICH THE COMIC MUSE HAS AN EYE ON TWO GOOD SOULS. Clara met Vernon on the bowling-green among the laurels. She asked him where her father was. " Don't speak to him now," said Vernon. " Mr. Whitford, will yon ?" "It is not adviseable just now. Wait." " Wait ? Why not now ?" " He is not in the right humour." She choked. There are times when there is no medicine for us in sages, we want slaves ; we scorn to temporize, we must overbear. On she sped, as if she had made the mis- take of exchanging words with a post. The scene between herself and Willoughby was a thick mist in her head, except the burden and result of it, that he held to her fast, would neither assist her to depart nor dis- engage her. Oh, men ! men ! They astounded the girl ; she could not define them to her understanding. Their motives, their tastes, their vanity, their tyranny, and the domino on their vanity, the baldness of their tyranny, clenched her in femi- nine antagonism to brute power. She was not the less disposed to rebellion by a very present sense of the justice of what could be said to reprove her. She had but one answer: ' Anything but marry him !' It threw her on her nature, our last and headlong advocate, who is quick as the flood to hurry us from the heights to our level, and lower, if there be accidental gaps in the channel. For say we have been guilty of misconduct : can we redeem it by violating that which we are and live by ? The question sinks us back to the luxuriousness of a sunny relinquishment of effort in the direction against tide. Our nature becomes ingenious in devices, penetrative of the enemy, confidently citing its cause for being frankly elvish or worse. Clara saw a particular way of forcing herself to be surrendered. She shut her eyes from it : the sight carried her too vio- lently to her escape : but her heart caught it up and huz- zaed. To press the points of her fingers at her bosom, v 322 thk egoist. ing np to the sky as Bhe did, and cry, 'I am not my own- I am his!' waa instigation sufficient to make her ] earl leap up with all her body's blush to urge it to reck- lessness. A despairing creature then may say she has addressed the heavens and has had no answer to restrain her. Happily for Miss Middleton she had walked some minutes in her chafing lit before the falcon-eye of Colonel De Craye spied her away on one of the beech-knolls. Vernon stood irresolute. It was decidedly not a moment for disturbing Dr. Middleton's composure. He meditated upon a conversation, as friendly as possible, with Wil- loughby. Hound on the front-lawn be beheld Willouerhby and Dr. Middleton together, the latter having halted to lend attentive ear do his excellent host. Unnoticed by them disregarded, Vernon turned hack to LaHitia, and saun- tered talking with her of things current for as long as he Id endure to listen to praise of his pnrc self-abnegation ; proof of how well he had disguised himself, but it smacked unpleasantly to him. His humourous intimacy with men's minds likened the source of this distaste to the gallant all-or-nothing of the gambler, who hates the little when he cannot have the much, and would rather stalk from the tables clean-picked than suffer ruin to be tickled by driblets the glorious fortune he has played for and lost. If we are not to be beloved, spare us the small coin of compliments on character: especially when they compliment only our ting It is partly endurcable to win eulogy for our itely fortitude in losing, but Laititia was unaware that he flung away a stake; so she could not praise him for his merits. • Willoughby makes the pardoning of Crossjay condi- d," "he said, '-and the person pleading 1 for him has to •riant the terms. How could you imagine Willoughby would give her up! How could he! Who! .... He should, is easily said, i was no witness of the scene between them just now. bul I could have foretold the end of it; I Id almost recount the passages. The consequence is, thai iepends upon the amount of courage she Dr .Middle! on won't leave Patterne yet. And ik to him to-day. And she is by nature iti< nt, and is rendered desperate." THE COMIC MUSE ON TWO GOOD SOULS. 323 " Why is it of no use to speak to Dr. Middleton to-day ?*' said Lretitia. " He drank wine yesterday that did not agree with him ; he can't work. To-day he is looking forward to Pattern* Port. He is not likely to listen to any proposals to leave to-day." " Goodness !" " I know the depth of that cry !" " You are excluded, Mr. Whitford." " Not a bit of it ; I am in with the rest. Say that men are to be exclaimed at. Men have a right to expect you to know your own mind when you close on a bargain. You don't know the world or yourselves very Avell, it's true ; still the original error is on your side, and upon that you should fix your attention. She brought her father here, and no sooner was he very comfortably established than she wished to dislocate him." " I cannot explain it ; I cannot comprehend it," said La?titia. " You are Constancy." " No." She coloured. " I am ' in with the rest.' I do not say I should have done the same. But I have the knowledge that I must not sit in judgement on her. I can waver." She coloured again. She was anxious that he should know her to be not that stupid statue of Constancy in a corner doting on the antic Deception. Reminiscences of the interview overnight made it oppressive to her to hear herself praised for always pointing like the needle. Her newly enfranchised individuality pressed to assert its existence. Vernon, however, not seeing this novelty, continued, to her excessive discomfort, to baste her old abandoned image with his praises. They checked hers ; and moreover he had suddenly conceived an envy of her life-long, uncomplaining, almost unaspiring, constancy of sentiment. If you know lovers when they have not reason to "be blissful, you will remember that in this mood of admiring envy they are given to fits of uncontrollable maundering. Praise of con- stancy, moreover, smote shadowily a certain inconstant, enough to seem to ruffle her smoothness and do no hurt. He found his consolation in it, and poor Laititia writhed Without t2 324 TTIi: EGOIST. /niti'.' • ■. sin- inst iiiii-. ■!•];. grasped at ;i weapon of oce in farther exalting his devotedness ; which reduced him to cast his head to the heavens and implore them to tially enlighten her. Nevertheless, maunder he must; andhe recurred to it in a way bo utterly unlike himself that I. ntared in his face. She wondered whether there o aything '1 behind thi> everlasting theme of constancy. He took her awakened gaze for a summons to derations of sincerity, and oul they came. She would have fled from him, but to think of flying was to think how b it was that urged her to fly, and yet the thought of ind listening to praises undeserved and no longer .•. as a tort ore. " Mr. Whitford, I bear no comparison with you." yon for my example, Miss Dale." " [ndeed you wrongly; you do not know me." " I could say thai For years !...." [r. Whitford !" * 'Well,! have admired it. You show us how self can be Bmol hen d." '■ A iM be a retort on you !" • I am never thinking of anything else." " 1 conld Bay that." M "i rily conscious of not Bwervinc." • Bui I do; I waver dreadfully ; J am not the same two i the aame, with 'ravishing divisions ' upon the • And yon without the •divisions.' 1 draw such support as 1 1 'Prom - mulacrnm of me, then. And that will on require support." *' • do ii' ' own opinion only " " I am no! a let m< I wish I were like you!" "Then lei Id, J would willingly make the ex- chai •• y.i wonld be amazed al your bargain" re would 1, • would give me the qualities I am in want of, Miss 1 'ale." THE COMIC MUSE ON TWO GOOD SOULS. 325 " Negative, passive, at the best, Mr. Whitford. But 1 should have . . . ." " Oh ! — pardon me. But you inflict the sensations of a boy, with a dose of honesty in him, called up to receive a prize he has won by the dexterous use of a crib." " And how do you suppose she feels, who has a crown of Queen o' the May forced on her head when she is verging on November ?" He rejected her analog} 7 , and she his. They could neither of them bring to light the circumstances which made one another's admiration so unbearable. The more he exalted her for constancy, the more did her mind become bent upon critically examining the object of that imagined virtue; and the more she praised him for possessing the spirit of perfect friendliness, the fiercer grew the passion in him which dis- dained the imputation, hissing like a heated iron-bar that flings the water-drops to steam. He would none of it : "would rather have stood exposed in his profound foolishness. Amiable though they were, and mutually affectionate, they came to a stop in their walk, longing to separate, and not seeing how it was to be done, they had so knit themselves together with the pelting of their interlaudation. " I think it is time for me to run home to my father for an hour," said Laetitia. " I ought to be working," said Vernon. Good progress was made to the disgarlanding of them- selves thus far; yet, an acutely civilized pair, the abrupt- ness of the transition from floweriness to commonplace affected them both, Laetitia chiefly, as she had broken the pause, and she remarked, " I am really Constancy in my opinions." " Another title is customary where stiff opinions are con- cerned. Perhaps by-and-by you will learn your mistake, and then you will acknowledge the name for it." " How ?" said she. " What shall I learn ?" " If you learn that I am a grisly Egoist ?" " You ? And it would not be egoism," added Laetitia, revealing to him at the same instant as to herself, that she swung suspended on a scarce credible guess. " — Will nothing pierce your ears, Mr. Whitford ?" He heard the intruding voice, but he was bent on rubbing out the cloudy letters Laetitia had begun to spell, and ho 11IK EGOIST. in n tone of matter-of-fact: "Just that and no I then turned to Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson. Or a 3olved yon will never Bee Professor I .kiwi when you look on bim P" said the great lady. Vernon bowed to the professor and apologized to him shufflingly and rapidly, incoherently, and with a red face; winch induced Mrs. Mountstuart to scan Letitia's. ter lecturing Vernon for his abandonment of her yester- aing, and flouting liis protestations, she returned to the bnsini ss of the day. " We walked from the lodge-gates the park and prepare otirselves for Dr. Middleton. \\« : irted last night in the middle of a controversy and are some it. Where is our redoubtable anta- ■" Mrs. Mountstnart wheeled Professor Crooklyn round to impany Ven on. "We," b! for modern English scholarship, opposed to the champion of German." " The contrary," observed Professor Crooklyn. u Oh. We," Bhe corrected the error serenely, "are for i bolarship, opposed to English." " \'' tain editions." 14 Del a term of impel feci application to my posil ■ Mj dear ] • on have in Dr. Middleton a mat h is pugnacity, and you will no 1 «;i npon me. There, there they arc-, there he is. Mr. Whitford : cond ;i.l away from the first shuck." Mi 11 back to Laetitia, saying : "He pores tude in phrases, and pecks at it like a I." Pri I attitude and air were so well de- '■I have laughed. l Th< nave theii flavour," the great ladj Id, lest her younger companion should be that tl ool valuable to a L r o\ ern- shadow -fights are ridiculous, but they >ur at a table i t night, no: 1 discard all »i night. We failed: as none else in this •nl 1 could fail, b I. [f we have among ub a cormorant devouring young lady who drinks up all the THE COMIC MUSE ON TWO GOOD SOULS. 327 — ha ! — brandy and water — of our inns and occupies all our flys, why, our condition is abnormal, and Ave must expect to fail : we are deprived of accommodation for accidental cir- cumstances. How Mr. Wbitford could have missed seeing Professor Crooklyn! And what was he doing at the station, Miss Dale ?" " 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 nnt 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 con- tagious." " 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 fur 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 over- head." " I was amused." "Really? You delight me. Who knows but that guests were sincere in their congratulations on a thorou_ successful evening? I have fallen to this, you see ! A know, wretched people! that as often as not it is their of condoling with one. I do it myself: but only where I have been amiable efforts. But imagine my being con- gratulated for that ! — Good morning. Sir Willoughby. — The worst offender! and I am in no pleasant mood with him," Mrs. Mountstuart said aside to Lastitia, who drew back, retiring. Sir Willoughby came on a step or two. He stopped to watch Lastitia's figure swimming to the house. So, as, for instance, beside a stream, when a flower on the o 28 THE EGOIST. surface extends its petals di owning- to subside in the clear pt ill wat exercise our privilege to be absent in the charmed contemplation of a beautiful natural incident. A smile of pleased abstraction melted on his feature3. CHAPTER XXXIV. 1TRS. MOTJOTSTUABT AND SIR WILLOUGHBY. "GOOD morning, my dear Mrs. Mountstuart," Sir Wil- _-hb\- waki tied himself to address the great lady. ""Why '• J [as any one fled ?" " La titia Dale." "Letty Dale? Oh! if you call that flyinsr. Possibly to renew a close conversation with Vernon Whitford, that I cut Bhort. You frightened me with your ' Shepherds-tell- me ' air and tone. Lead rue to one of your garden-seats: of !i< aring to Dr. Middleton, I beg. He mesmerizes me, he maki talk Latin. 1 was curiously susceptible last night. I know I shall everlastingly associate him with an five entertainment and solos on big instruments. We t '" I ' in good vein." " Yon were not." Miss Dale talked well, I thoncrht." with yon, and no doubt she talked well. We did not mix. The yei bad. You shot darts at Colonel you tried testing. Yon brought Dr. Middleton down on you. Dear me, that man is a reverberation in my i. Where is vour lady and love?" - Who • Vm I to name her • I have not seen her for the last hour. Wan. deririq-, I suppose." A very pretty summer-bower," said Mrs. Mountstuart, self. "Well, my dear Sir Willoughby, prefer- snees. preferer. not to be accounted tor. and one never MRS MOUNTSTUART AND SIR WILLOUGHBY. 32U 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 de- scriptive any longer." " Descriptive of whom ? Now you are upon Lastitia Dale!" J 1 " I quote you generally. She has now a graver look." " And weil 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 Lastitia Dale had a singularly animated air last night." " Why ! " Mrs. Mount.stuart 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 admir- able and exact ? Are we never to know our own minds r" He produced a polysyllabic sigh, like those many-jointed compounds of poets in happy languages, wbich are copious in a single expression : " Mine is known to me. It always has been. Cleverness in women is not uncommon. Intel- lect 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 beof pardon ?" THE EGOIST. " Tim universal or flip individual P" He shrugged. " For (In 1 rest, ]>sveholo:rioal affinities may r\i-t coincident with and entirely independent of material or moral prepi , relatioi agements, ties." "Well, thai is no! the raving of passion, certainly," said Mr-. .Mount -mart, " and it sounds as if it were a comfortable rine for nan. On that plea, you might all of you be og Aspasia ami a wife. We saw your fair Middleton and Colonel De Craye at a distance as we entered the park. Profe or Crooklyn is under some hallucination." •■ W hat more likely ?" The readiness and the double-bearing of the reply struck her <• >mic sense with awe. •■ Tlir professor must hear that. He insists on the fly, and the inn, and the wet boots, and the warming mixture, the testimony of the landlady and the railway porter." " I say, what more likely r" "Than that he should insist?" " It' he is under the hallucination!" u !!•• may convince others." '* 1 i a\ <• only to repeat !...." 'What more likely?' It's extremely philosophical. ( with a pursuit of the psychological affinities." "Pro Crooklyn will hardly descend, 1 suppose, from A altitudes to lay his hallucinations before Dr. ton?" Willoughby, ynu are the pink of chivalry !" I', harping on Loctitia, he had emboldened Mrs. Mount- •iie curtain upon Clara. It was oiVensive to him, but the injury don,, to his pride had to be endured for t ral plan of self-protection. ply d' nests from annoyance of kind," he said. "Dr. Middleton can look 'Olympus and thunder,' a- Vernon rails it." 1 mi. That look! It is Dictionary — bitten! gry, homed Diet -an apparation of Dictionary in ;e !" " l " ■■ would andergo a good deal to avoid the sight." ' W at tin' man must be in a storm! Speak as you please self: you are a true and chivalrous knight to dread ] Eor her. But now candidly, how is it you cannot con- to a little management? Listen to an old friend. MRS. MOUNTSTUAET AND SIR WILLOUGHBY. 331 Yon are too lordly. No lover can afford to be incompre- hensible 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 lovers 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 con- tinned : " 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 my. 'X'rl Tin: EGOIST. His eyebrows shot up. That ill-omened man Flitch had ■idled 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 wit ere he had once been happy — at Christ- mast ide, when ail the servants, and the butler at head, gray ohl Mr. Chessington, sat in rows, toasting the young heir of the old Hall in the old port wine! Happy had he been ;. 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. Beheld up close againsi it something that imposed si vice on Sir Willoughby as effectually as a cunning exordium in oratory will enchain mobs to swallow what is not compli- menting them : and this be displayed secure in its being his license to drivel his abominable pathos. Sir Willoughby i gnized Clara's purse. He understood at once how the man must have come by it : he was not so quick in devising si means of stopping the tale. Flitch foiled him. "Intact," he replied to the question: "What have you there?" He i this grand word. And then he turned to ^Irs. Mountstuarl to speak of Paradise and Adam, in whom he the prototype of himself: also the Hebrew people in the I pt, discoursed of by the clergymen, not with- out al;l to him. ivc done me one good, to send me attentive to ■ 1:. niv lady," said Flitch. " when I might have gone to I don, the coachman's home, and been dri\ ing some honour- jihle family, with no gr< al advantage to my morals, according hat I bear of . And a purse found under the scat of a fly in London would have a poor chance of returning intact oung lady losing it." ■ Put it down on that chair ; inquiries will be made, and will see Sir Willoughby," said Mrs. Mountstuart. "In- no doubt : it is not disputed." With one motion of a hager -he set the man rounding. h halted: he was xevy regretful of the termination of ' ■ ' of pathos, and he wished to relate the iinding of MRS. sIOUNTSTUART AND SIR WILLOUGHBY. 333 the purse, but lie could not encounter Mrs. Mountstn art'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 gen- tleman a shock, plainly telling him she had her ideas of his actual posture. Nor was he unhurt by her superior acute- ness 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 : " Las titia'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 sp; ak to Clara on that head; she will convince you I have striven quite recently: — against myself, if you like. I have in- structed her to aid me, given her the fullest instructions, carte blanche. She cannot possibly have a doubt. 1 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 ■' , . '■ I HIE EGOIST. i • fact, T can only answer that my actions are under my control, in v feelings are not. I will do everything consistent with the duties of a man of honour — perpetually running ii:tn 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 crashed of old, and so let them be now. Sentiments, we won't discuss; though you know that senti- ments have a hearing 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 flat- ten i t i lt 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 offspring! - 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 mat- l may have influence with her: not in that one. She declines. She will live and die La?titia 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. B i me— T speak from my experience hitherto — there is a fatality in these things. I cannot conceal from my poor girl thai this fatality exists . . . ." ' Which is the poor girl at present':"' said Mrs. Mount- Btnart, cool in a mystification. I though she will tell you that I have authorized Clara Middleton — done as much as man can to insti- the union you Bn she will own that she is con- • i the presence of this— fatality, I call it for want of tter title between us. It drives her in one direction, me in another— or would, if I submitted to the pressure. i- not the first who has been conscious of it." '• Are we laying hold of a third poor girl Y" said Mrs. Monntstnart. "Ah! I remember. And I remember we i to call it playing fast and loose in those days, n it fatality. It is very strange. It may be that you were unblnshingly courted in those days, and excuseable : and we all supposed .... but away you went for your tour." 'My mother's medical receipt for me. Partially It suc- ceeded. She was for ^rand marriages: not I. I could MT?S. MOUNTSTUART AND SIR WILLOUGOBT. 335 make, 1 could not be, a sacrifice. And then I went in due time to Dr. Cupid on my own account. She has the kind of attraction .... Bat one changes ! On revient toujours. First we begin with a liking : then we give ourselves up to the passion for 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. 2u)w, Mrs. Mountstuart, you do admire her. Chase the idea of the ' dainty rogue ' out of your view of her : you admire her : she is capti- vating ; 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, 1 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." " Don't take away my health, pray ;" cried Willoughby, with a snapping laugh. " Be careful," said Mrs. Mountstuart. "You have got a sentimental tone. You talk of ' feelings crushed of old.' It is to a woman, not to a man that you speak, but that sort of talk is a way of making the ground slippery. I listen in vain for a natural tongue ; and when 1 don't hear it, I suspect plotting in men. You show your under-teeth too at times when you draw in a breath, like a condemned high- caste Hindoo my husband took me to see in a jail in Cal- cutta, to give me some excitement when I was pining for England. The creature did it regularly as he breathed ; you did it last night, and you have been doing it to-day, as if the air cut you to the quick. You have been spoilt. You have been too much anointed. What I've just mentioned in THE EfiOlST. n with me of a settled something on the brain of a in. in ' •• The brain r" Baid Sir Willoughby, frowning. "Yes, y«>u laugh sourly, to look at," said she. Mount- stuart told me thai the muscles of the mouth betray men er than the eyes, when they have cause to be uneasy in r minds." •• But, ma'am, T shall not break my word; I shall not, J inten I, I have resolved to keep it. I do not Eatalize, let my complexion be black or white. Despite my resem- blance to a bigh-class malefactor of the Calcutta prison- .... •• Friend ! friend! you know how I chatter." He saluted ber 6nger-ends. "Despite the extraordinary display of teeth, you will find me go to execution with per- il cl calmneRS ; \\ ith a resignation as good as happiness." •• I. :e a Jacobite lord under the Georges." "Ymi bave told me that you wept to read of one: liko linn. then. My principles have not changed, if I have. When I was younger, I had an idea of a wife who would be with me in my thoughts as well as aims: a woman with a spirit of o nance, and a brain of solid sense. I shall sooner or 1 licate myself to a public life; and shall, I sup- . want the I lor or comforter who ought always to •and at home. It may be unfortunate that I have the d in my lead. But I would never make rigorous ir specific qualities. The cruellest thing in the Id is to si t up a li\imr model before a wife, and compel her to copy it. In any case, here we are upon the road : the I sliall not reprieve myself. I cannot release ■ represents tacts, courtship fancies. She will nd-by of that coveting of everything that I do, ink, dream, imagine .... ta-ta-ta-ta ad infinitum. I. • . was invited here to show her 1 lie example of a fixed as an;, concrete substance you would choose Id on, and not a whit the less feminine." •Ta-ta-ta-ta ad infinitum. You need not tell me you have _n in all that you do. Willoughby Patterne." " ^ ell the autocrat F 5Tes, he can mould and govern ■ lit him. Hi- toughest rebel is himself! I on nee Clara . . . You wish to bee her, I think you MRS. MOUNTSTUART AND SIR WILLOUGHBY. 337 "Her behaviour to Lady Busshe last night was queer." " If you will. She makes a mouth at porcelain. Toujours la porcelaine ! For me, her pettishness is one of her charms, I confess it. Ten years younger, I could not have compared them." " Whom ?" " Laetitia and Clara." " Sir Willoughby, in any case, to quote you, here we are all upon the road, and we must act as if events were going to happen ; and I must ask her to help me on the subject of my wedding-present, for I don't want to have her making mouths at mine, however pretty — and she does it prettily." " k Another dedicatory offering to the rogue in me !' she says of porcelain." " Then porcelain it shall not be. I mean to consult her; I have come determined upon a chat with her. I think I understand. But she produces false impressions on those who don't know you both. ' I shall have that porcelain back,' says Lady Busshe to me, when we were shaking hands last night : ' I think,' says she, ' it should have been the Willow Pattern.' And she really said : ' he's in for being jilted a second time !' " Sir Willoughby restrained a bound of his body that would have sent him up some feet into the air. He felt his skull thundered at within. "Rather than that it should fall upon her!" ejaculated he, correcting his resemblance to the high-caste culprit as soon as it recurred to him. " But you know Lady Busshe," said Mrs. Mountstuart, genuinely solicitous to ease the proud man of his pain. She could see through him to the depth of the skin, which his fencing sensitiveness vainly attempted to cover as it did the heart of him. " Lady Busshe is nothing without her nights, fads and fancies. She has always insisted that you have an unfortunate nose. I remember her saying on the day of your majority, it was the nose of a monarch destined to lose a throne." " Have I ever offended Lady Busshe ?" " She trumpets you. She carries Lady Culmer with hei too, and you may expect a visit of nods and hints and pots of alabaster. They worship you : you are the hope of Eng- land in their eyes, and no woman is worthy of you : but they z TEE EGOIST. are a pair of fatalists, and if you begin upon Letty Dak wuli thnii. you might as well forbid your bauns. They will be all over the country exclaiming on predestination and triages made in heav en. • Clara and her father!" cried Sir Willoughby. Dr. Middleton and his daughter appeared in the circle of shrubs mid flowers. " Bring her to me, and save me from the polyglot," said Mrs. Moiintstuart, in affright at Dr. Middleton's manner of pouring forth into the ears of the downcast girl. The Leisure he loved that he might debate with his genius upon any next step was denied to Willoughby: he had to place his trust in the skill with which he had sown and prepared .Mrs. Mountstuart'a understanding to meet the girl — beautiful abhorred that she was ! detested darling! thing to Bqueeze to death and throw to the dust, and mourn over! Ee had to risk it; and at an hour when Lady Busshe's prognostic grievously impressed his intense apprehensiveness of nature. A^ it happened that Dr. Middleton's notion of a disagree- able duty in colloquy was to deliver all that he contained, and escape the listening to a syllable of reply, Willoughby withdrew his daughter from him opportunely. " Mrs Monntsl uart wants you, Clara." 11 I shall be very happy," Clara replied, and put on a new face. An imperceptible nervous shrinking was met by another force in her bosom, thai pushed her to advance without a reluctance. She 9eeined to glitter. She was banded to Mrs. Moiintstuart. Dr. Middleton laid his hand over Willoughby 's shoulder, ing on a bow before the great lady of the district. Ho kid: " An opposition of female instincts to mascu- line intellect necessarily creates a corresponding antagonism of intellect to in-t in!! = = MIDDLETON AND MRS. MOUNTSTUART. Sn beside me, fair Middleton," said the great lady. u Gladly," said Clara, bowing to her title. " I want to -"iind you. my dear." Clara presented an open countenance with a dim interro- m on the forehead. " Yea :" she said submissively. . were one of my bright faces last night. I was in MISS MIDDLETON AND MES. MOUNTSTUART. 341 love with you. Delicate vessels ring sweetly to a finger- nail, and if the wit is true, you answer to it ; that I can see, and that is what I like. Most of the people one has at a table are drums. A rub-a-dub-dub on them is the only way to get a sound. When they can be persuaded to do it upon one another, they call it conversation." " Colonel De Crave was very funny." " Funny, and witty too." " But never spiteful." " These Irish or half-Irishmen are my taste. If they're not politicians, mind : I mean Irish gentlemen. I will never have another dinner-party without one. Our men's tempers are uncertain. You can't get them to forget themselves. And when the wine is in them the nature comes out, and they must be buffetting, and up start politics, and good-bye to harmony ! My husband, I am sorry to say, was one of those who have a long account of ruined dinners against them. I have seen him and his friends red as the roast and white as the boiled with wiath on a popular topic they had excited themselves over, intrinsically not worth a snap of the fingers. In London !" exclaimed Mrs. Mountsfuart, to aggravate the charge against her lord in the Shades. " But town or country, the table should be sacred. I have heard women say it is a plot on the side of the men to teach us our littleness. I don't believe they have a plot. It would be to compliment them on a talent. I believe they fall upon one another blindly, simply because they are full : which is, we are told, the preparation for the fighting Englishman. They cannot eat and keep a truce. Did you notice that dreadful Mr. Capes ?" " The gentleman who frequently contradicted papa ? But Colonel De Craye was good enough to relieve us." " How, my dear ?" ' Tou did not hear him ? He took advantage of an interval when Mr. Capas was breathing after a pa?an to his friend, the Governor — I think — of one of the Presidencies, to say to the lady beside him : ' He was a wonderful ad- ministrator and great logician ; he married an Anglo-Indian widow, and soon after published a pamphlet in favour of Suttee.' " " And what did the lady say ?" " She said, ' Oh.' " 842 THE EGOIST. " Hark at hor! And was it. beard ?" " Mr. Capes granted the widow, but declared he had never seen the pamphlet in favour of Suttee, and disbelieved in it. Be insisted that it was to be named Sati. He was vehement." •■ N'nw I do remember : — which must have delighted the colonel. And Mr. ( apes retired from the front upon a repe- tition of ' in toto, in toto.' As if ' in toto ' were the language of a dinner-table! But what will ever teach these men ? Must we import Frenchmen to give them an example in the art of conversation, as their grandfathers brought over marquises to instruct them in salads p And our young men too! Wmnen have to take to the hunting-field to be able to talk with them and be on a par with their grooms. Now, re was WillOoghby Patterne, a prince among them for- merly. Now, did you observe him last night? did you notice how, instead of conversing, instead of assisting me — as he was bound to do doubly, owing to the defection of Qon Whit fipnl : a thing I don't yet comprehend — there I it sharpening his lower lip for cutting remarks. And at my best man ! at Colonel De Craye ! If he had attacked Mr. ('apes, with his Governor of Bomby, as the man pro- nounces it, or Colonel Wildjohn and his Protestant Church in Danger, or Sir Wilson 1 'ei t iter harping on his Monarchical or any other! No, he preferred to be sarcastic upon friend Horace, and he had the worst of it. Sarcasm is illy! What is the gain if he has been smart ? People the epigram and remember the other's good temper. On that field, my dear, you must make up your mind to be beaten by ' Friend Horace.' I have my prejudices and I have my prepossessions, but I love good temper, and I love wit, and when I see a man p ed of both, I set my cap at him. and there's my flat confession, and highly unfeminine ied Clara. " We are one, then." Clara put up a mouth empty of words : she was quite one with her. Mrs. Mountstuarl pressed her hand. "When one t intimate with a dainty rogue!" she said. "You forgive me all that, for I could vow that Willoughby has betrayed me." Clara looked soft, kind, hright, in turns, and clouded MISS MIDDLETON AND MRS. MOUNTSTUART. 343 instantly when the lady resumed : " A friend of my own sex, and young, and a close neighbour, is just what I would have prayed for. And I'll excuse you, my dear, for not being so anxious about the friendship of an old woman. But I shall be of use to you, you will find. In the first place, I never tap for secrets. In the second, I keep them. Thirdly, I have some power. And fourth, every young married woman has need of a friend like me. Yes, and Lady Patterne head- ing all the county will be the stronger for my backing. You don't look so mighty well pleased, my dear. Speak out." " Dear Mrs. Mountstuart !" " I tell you, I am very fond of Willoughby, but I saw the faults of the boy and see the man's. He has the pride of a king, and it's a pity if you offend it. He is prodigal in generosity, but he can't forgive. As to his own errors, you must be blind to them as a saint. The secret of him is, that he is one of those excessively civilized creatures who aim at perfection : and I think he ought to be supported in his con- ceit of having attained it ; for the more men of that class, the greater our influence. He excels in manly sports, be- cause he won't be excelled in anything, but as men don't comprehend his fineness, he comes to us ; and his wife must manage him by that key. You look down at the idea of managing. It has to be done. One thing you may be assured of, he will be nroud of you. His wife won't be very much enamoured of herself if she is not the happiest woman in the world. You will have the best horses, the best dresses, the finest jewels, in England ; and an incomparable cook. The house will be changed the moment you enter it as Lady Patterne. And, my dear, just where he is, with all his graces, deficient of attraction, yours will tell. The sort of Othello he would make, or Leontes, I don't know, and none of us ever needs to know. My impression is, that if even a shadow of a suspicion flitted across him, he is a sort of man to double- dye himself in guilt by way of vengeance in anticipation of an imagined offence. Not uncommon with men. I have heard strange stories of them: and so will you in your time to come, but not from me. No young woman shall ever be the sourer for having been my friend. One word of advice now we are on the topic: never play at counter-strokes with him. He will be certain to outstroke you, and you will be driven farther than you meant to go. They say we beat men at that game $4 [■ THE EGOIST. and so we do, at the cost of beating ourselves. And if once uc are started, it. is a race-course ending on a precipice — over goes the winner. We must be moderately slavish to keep our place; which is given us in appearance ; but appearances make up a remarkably large part of life, and far the most comfortable, so long as we are discreet at the right moment. He is a man whose pride, when hurt, would run his wife to perdition to solace it. If he married a troublesome widow, his pamphleton Suttee would be out within the year. Vernon Whitford would receive instructions about it the first frosty moon. You like Miss Dale?" "I think I like her better than she likes me," said Clara. " Have you never warmed together ? " " I have tried it. She is not one bit to blame. I can see how it is that she misunderstands me: or justly condemns me, perhaps I should say." " The hero of two women must die and be wept over in common before they can appreciate one another. You are not cold ? " "No." " You shuddered, my dear." "Did I"? " I do sometimes. Feet will be walking over one's grave, wherei er it lies. Be sure of this : AVilloughby Patterne is a man of unimpeachable honour." ' I do not doubt it." " He means to be devoted to you. He has been accus- tomed to have women hanging around him like votive rings." • I . . . . ! " ' Yon cannot : of course not : any one could see that at a glance. You are all the sweeter to me for not being tame. Marriage cures a multitude of indispositions." •• ( ili ! Mrs. Mountstuart, will you listen to me ? " ■ Presently. Don'i threaten me with confidences. Elo- qnence is a terrible thing in woman. I suspect, my dear, that we both know as much as could be spoken." •• You hardly suspect the truth, I fear." " Let me tell you one thing about jealous men — when fchey are not blackamoors married to disobedient daughters. I peak of our civil creature of the drawing-rooms: and lovers, mind, not husbands: two distinct species, married MISS MIDDLETOTST AND MES MOUNTSTUAET. 345 or not : — they're rarely given to jealousy unless they are flighty themselves. The jealousy fixes theru. They have only to imagine that we are for some fun likewise and they prow as deferential as my footman, as harmless as the sportsman whose gun lias burst. Ah ! my fair Middleton, am I pretending to teach you ? You have read him his lesson, and my table suffered for it last night, but I bear no rancour." " You bewilder me, Mrs. Mountstnart." "Not if I tell you that you have driven the poor man to try whether it would be possible for him to give you up." " I have ? " " Well, and you are successful." "lam?" " Jump, my dear ! " "He will?" " When men love stale instead of fresh, withered better than blooming, excellence in the abstract rather than the palpable. With their idle prate of feminine intellect, and a grotto nymph, and, and a mother of Gracchi ! Why, he must think me dazed with admiration of him to talk to me ! One listens, you know. And he is one of the men who cast a kind of physical spell on you while he has you by the ear, until you begin to think of it by talking to somebody else. I suppose there are clever people who do see deep into the breast while dialogue is in progress. One reads of them. No, my dear, you have very cleverly managed to show him that it isn't at all possible : he can't. And the real cause for alarm in my humble opinion is lest your amiable foil should have been a trifle, as he would say, deceived, too much in earnest, led too far. One may reprove him for not being wiser, but men won't learn without groaning that they are simply weapons taken up to be put down when done with. Leave it to me to compose him. — Willoughby can't give you up. I'm certain he has tried ; his pride has been horridly wounded. You are shrewd, and he has had his lesson. If these little rufflings don't come before mar- riage they come after ; so it's not time lost ; and it's good to be able to look back on them. You are very white, my child." " Can you, Mrs. Mountstuart, can you think I would be so heartlessly treacherous ? ''" 1UY EGOIST. " r»o honest, fair Middleton, and answer me : Can you say bad mil a corner of an idea of producing an effect on Willoughby P" Clara checked the instinct of her tongue to defend her reddening cheeks, with a sense that she was disintegrating ai d crumbling; but she wanted this lady for a friend, and she had to submit to the conditions, and be red and silent. Mrs. Mountstuarl examined her leisurely. " Thai will do. Conscience blushes. One knows it by the outer conflagration. Don't be hard on yourself: there yon are in the mi her extreme. That blush of yours would couni with me against any quantity of evidence — all the I ooklyns in the kingdom. You lost your purse." •" I discovered that it was lost this morning." " Flitch has been here with it. Willoughby has it. Ton will ask him for it ; he will demand payment : you will be a couple of yards' length or so of cranio i sy : and there ends the episode, nobody killed, only a poor man melancholy- wounded, and I must offer him my hand to mend him, vow- i t i i_r to prove to him that Suttee was properly abolished. Well, and now to business. I said I wanted to sound you. 5 have been overdone with porcelain. Poor Lady Buss he is in despair at your disappointment. Now, I mean my v. i dding-present to be to your taste." "Madam !" " Who is the madam you are imploring ?" " Dear .Mrs. Mountstuart ! " "Well ?" '• I shall fall in your esteem. Perhaps you will help me. No one else can. 1 am a prisoner : 1 am compelled to con- tinue this imposture. Oh! 1 slum speaking much: you i to it and 1 dislike it : but I must endeavour to explain that I am unworthy of the position you think a proud one." • Tut-tut ; we are all unworthy, cross our arms, bow our ; accept the honours. Are you playing humble dmaid ? What an old organ-tune that is! Well? Give me reasons." " I do not wish to marry." " 1 le's the great match of the county 1 " " 1 cannot marry him." MISS MIDDLETON AND MRS. MOUNTSTUAET. 847 "Why, you are at the cliurch-cloor with him! Caanot marry him ? " " It does not bind me." " The church-door is as binding as the altar to an honour- able girl. What have you been about P Since I am in for confidences, half ones won't do. We must have honourable young women as well as men of honour. You can't imagine he is to be thrown over now, at this hour ? What have you against him ? come ! " " I have found that I do not . . . ." "What?" " Love him." Mrs. Mountstuart grimaced transiently. " That is no answer. The cause ! " she said " What has he done ? " " Nothing." " And when did you discover this nothing ? " " By degrees : unknown to myself ; suddenly." " Suddenly and by degrees ? I suppose it's useless to ask for a head. But if all this is true, you ought not to be here." " I wish to go ; I am unable." " Have you had a scene together ? M " I have expressed my wish." " In roundabout 'i — girl's English ? " " Quite clearly. Oh ! very clearly." " Have you spoken to your father ? n " I have." " And what does Dr. Middleton say ? " " It is incredible to him." " To me too ! I can understand little differences, little whims, caprices : we don't settle into harness for a tap on the shoulder, as a man becomes a knight : but to break and bounce away from an unhappy gentleman at the church-door is either madness or it's one of the things without a name. You think you are quite sure of yourself ? " " I am so sure, that I look back with regret on the time when I was not." " But you were in love with him." " I was mistaken." " No love ? " " I have none to give." " Dear me ! — Yes, yes, but that tone of sorrowful convio- 348 tiii: egoist. tion is often a trick, it's not new : and I know that assumption of plain Bense to pass off :i monstrosity." Mrs. Mountstuart Btruck her lap : " Soh 1 bnfc I've had to rack my brain for it : f< minine disgusl : 5Tou have been hearing imputations on his past life ? moral character? No? Circumstances ,t make him behave unkindly, not unhandsomely: and we have no claim over a man's past, or it's too late to assert it. What is t he case ? " " We are quite divided." '• Nothing in the way of ... . nothing green-eyed ? " " Far from that!" " Then, name it." " We disag] '■(•." •■ Many a very good agreement is founded on disagreeing. ■i) be regretted thai you are not portionless. If you hud . you would have made very little of disagreeing. You 181 as much bound in honour us if you hud the ring on your finger." '• In honour! But I appeal to his, I am no wife for him." i lut it' he insists, you consent? " " I appeal to reason. Is it, madam . . . ." "But, I say, if he insists, you consent ! " " He will insist upon his own misery as well us mine.' Mrs. Mountstuart rocked herself. "My poor Sir Wil- Erhby ! What a fate! — And I who took you for a clever girl ! Why, I have been admiring your management of him ! And here am I hound to tukc a lesson from Lady od Middleton, don't let it be said that deeper than I ! I put some little vanity in it. I own: I conceal it. She declares that when she at— 1 don't believe her — she had a premonition that it would come back. Surely you won't justify the ex- a woman without common reverence: — tor we please to ourselves, hois a splendid man I I did it chiefly to ( n ourage and come at you). We ten behold Buch a lordly-locking man : soconversable when he feels at home; a picture of an Knu'lish gcntlc- ! The very man we want married for our neighbour- I! A woman who can openly talk of expecting him to vice jilted ! You shrink. It is repulsive. It would he prehensible: except, of course, to Lady Busshe, who r to one of her violent conclusions and became a MISS MIDDLETON AND MRS MOUNTSTUART. 349 prophetess. Conceive a woman imagining- it could happen twice to the same man ! I am not sure she did not send the identical present that arrived and returned once before : you know, the Durham engagement. She told me last night she had it back. I watched her listening very suspiciously to Professor Crooklvn. My dear, it is her passion to foretell disasters — her passion! And when they are confirmed, she triumphs, of course. We shall have her domineering over us with sapient nods at every trifle occurring. The county will be unenclureable. Unsay it, my Middleton ! And don't answer like an oracle because I do all the talking. Pour out to me. You'll soon come to a stop and find the want of reason in the want of words. I assure you that's true. — Let me have a good gaze at you. No," said Mrs. Mountstuart, after posturing herself to peruse Clara's features, " brains you have : one can see it by the nose and the month. I could vow you are the girl I thought you ; you have your wits on tiptoe. How of the heart ? " " None," Clara sig*hed. The sigh was partly voluntary, though unforced ; as one may with ready sincerity aco a character that is our own only through sympathy. Mrs. Mountstuart felt the extra-weight in the young lady's falling breath. There was no necessity for a deep sigh over an absence of heart or confession of it. If Clara did not love the man to whom she was betrothed, sighing about it sig- nified — what '? some pretence: and a pretence is the cloak of a secret. Girls do not sigh in that way with compassion for the man they have no heart for, unless at the same time they should be oppressed by the knowledge or dread of having a heart for some one else. As a rule, they have no compassion to bestow on him : you might as reasonably ex- pect a soldier to bewail the enemy he strikes in action : they must be very disengaged to have it. And supposing a show of the thing to be exhibited, when it has not been worried out of them, there is a reserve in the background : they are pitying themselves under a mask of decent pity of their wretch. So ran Mrs. Mountstuart's calculations, which were like her suspicion, coarse and broad, not absolutely incorrect, but not of an exact measure with the truMi. That pin's head of the truth is rarely hit by design. The search after it of the 850 THE EGOIST. t professionally penetrative in the dark of a bosom may brin^ it forth by the heavy knocking all about the neighbourhood that we call good guessing, Imh it does not come out clean; other matter adheres to it ; and being more it is less than truth. The unadulterateis to be had only by faith in it or by ting for it. A lover ! thought the sagacious dame. There was no Li\ i'v : some love there was : or rather, there was a preparation of the chamber, with no lamp yet lighted. " Do you positively tell me you have no heart for the position of first lady of the county ? " said Mrs. Mountstuart. Clara's reply was firm: " None whatever." "My dear, I will believe you on one condition. — Look at me You have eyes. If you are for mischief, you are armed for it. I !nt how much better, when vou have won a prize, to settle dosvn and wear it! Lady Patterne will have entire occupation for her flights and whimsies in leading the county. And the man, surely the man — he behaved badly last night: but a beauty like this," she pushed a finger at Clara's cheek, and doated a half instant," you have the very beauty to break- in an Ogre s temper. And the man is as governable as he is : rentable. You have the beauty the French call — no, it's the beauty of a queen of elves : one sees them lurking about you, one here, one there. Smile — they dance: be doleful — they hang themselves. No, there's not a trace of satanic ; at least, not yet. And come, come, my Middleton, the man is a man to be proud of. You can send him into Parliament to wear off his humours. To my thinking, he has a fine style: conscious ? I never thought so before last night. I ( ' :| n ' what has happened to him recently. He was once a young Grand Monarque. He was really a superb ntleman. Have you been wounding hiinr" It is my misfortune to be obliged to wound him," said Clara. Ite needlessly, my child, for marry him you must." Clara s bosom rose: her shoulders rose too, narrowing, and her head fell slightly back. Mrs. Mountstuart exclaimed: " But the scandal ! You would never never think of following the example of that Durham girl r — whether she was provoked to it by jealousy or not. It seems to have gone so astonishingly far with you MISS MIDDLETON AND MRS. MOUNTSTUART. 351 in a very short time, that one is alarmed as to where you will stop. Your look just now was downright revulsion." " I fear it is. It is. I am past my own control. Dear madam, you have my assurance that I will not behave scandalously or dishonourably. What I would entreat of you, is to help me. I know this of myself: I am not the best of women. I am impatient, wickedly. I should be no good wife. Feelings like mine teach me unhappy things of myself." "Rich, handsome, lordly, influential, brilliant health, fine ©states," Mrs. Mountstuart enumerated in petulant accents as they started across her mind some of Sir Willoughby's attributes for the attraction of the soul of woman. " I sup- pose you wish me to take you in earnest ? " " I appeal to you for help." "What help?" " Persuade him of the folly of pressing me to keep my word." " I will believe you, my dear Middleton, on one condition : — your talk of no heart is nonsense. A change like this, if one is to believe in the change, occurs through the heart, not because there is none. Don't you see that ? liutif you want me for a friend, you must not sham stupid. It's bad enough in itself : the imitation's horrid. Tou have to be honest with me, and answer me right out. You came here on this visit intending to marry Willoughby Patterne." "Yes." " And gradually you suddenly discovered, since you came here, that you did not intend it, if you could find a means of avoiding it." " Oh ! madam, yes, it is true." " Now comes the test. And, my lovely Middleton, your flamin« cheeks won't suffice for me this time. The old ser- pent can blush like an innocent maid on occasion. You are to speak, and you are to tell me in six words why that was : and don't waste one on ' madam,' or ' Oh ! Mrs. Mountstuart.' Why did you change ? " " I came .... when I came I was in some doubt. In- deed I speak the truth. I found I could not give him tho admiration he has, I dare say, a right to expect. I turned — it surprised me : it surprises me now. But so completely ! So that to think of marrying him is . . . ." 02 THE EGOIST. Ut> — "Defer the simile," Mrs. Mountstuart interposed. "If yon hit on a clever one, you will never get the better of it. Now, by jusl as much as you have outstripped my limitation of v. to you, you show me you are dishonest." " 1 could make a vow." "You would loi> wear yourself." *' Will yon help me ? " " If you are perfectly ingenuous, I may try." " 1 tear lady, w hat more can 1 say ? " " It may be ditlicult. You can reply to a catechism." " I sliall have your help ? " "Well, yes; though 1 don't like stipulations between friends. There is no man living to whom you could will- ingly give your hand? That is my question. I cannot possibly take a step unless I know. Reply briefly : there is or there is not." Clara sat back with bated breath, mentally taking the leap into the abyss, realizing it, and the cold prudence of abstention, and the delirium of the confession. Was there h a man ? It resembled freedom to think there was: to avow it promised freedom. " Oh ! .Mrs. Mountstuart." "Well? " " You will help me ? " "Upon my word, I shall begin to doubt your desire for it." " V. / give my hand, madam? " •■ It. ! And with wits like yours, can't you per- ve where hesitation in answering such a question lands "I lady, will you give me your hand ? may I whisper r •• Vmi need not whisper: I won't look." Clara's voice trembled on a ti rise chord. " Tm re i- 'tie compared with him I feel my insig- nificance. 1 E I could aid him." " What necessity have you to tell me more than that there is one r ' Ah. madam, it is different- not as you imagine. You bid tm- In' scrupulously truthful. 1 am : I wish you to know thi . rent kind of feeling it is from what might be sus- pected from .... a confession. To give my hand, is beyond MISS MIDDLETON AND MRS. MOUNTSTUART. 353 any thought I have ever encouraged, if you had asked me whether there is one whom I admire — yes, I do. I cannot help admiring a beautiful and brave self-denying nature. It is one whom you must pity, and to pity casts you beneath him : for you pity him because it is his nobleness that has been the enemy of his fortunes. He lives for others." Her voice was musically thrilling in that low muted tone of the very heart, impossible to deride or disbelieve. Mrs. Mountstuart set her head nodding on springs. " Is he clever ? " "Very." " He talks well ? " " Yes." *' Handsome ? " " He might be thought so." " Witty ? " " I think he is." " Gay, cheerful ? " " In his manner." " Why, the man would be a mountebank if he adopted any- other. And poor ? " " He is not wealthy." Mrs. Mountstuart preserved a lengthened silence but nipped Clara's fingers once or twice to reassure her without approving. " Of course he's poor," she said at last ; "directly the reverse of what you could have, it must be. Well, my fair Middleton, I can't say you have been dishonest. I'll help you as far as I'm able. How, it is quite impossible to tell. We're in the mire. The best way seems to me, to get this pitiable angel to cut some ridiculous capers and present you another view of him. I don't believe in his innocence. He knew you to be a plighted woman." " He has not once by word or sign hinted a disloyalty." "Then how do you know . . . . ? " " I do not know." " He is not the cause of your wish to break your engage- ment ? " "No." " Then vou have succeeded in just telling me nothing What is ? " "Ah! madam." 2a 354 THE I'OOIST. 44 You would break your engagement purely because the admirable creal ore is in existence ? " Clara shook her head : she could not say : she was dizzy. She had spoken out more than she had ever spoken to her- self : and in doing so she had cast herself a step beyond the line she dared to contemplate. "I wont detain you any longer," said Mrs. Mountstuart. 44 The more we learn, the more we are taught that we are not so wise as we thought we were. I have to go to school to Lady Bnsshe! I really took you for a very clever girl. If you change again, you will notify the important circum- Btance to me, I t rust.' ■• I will," said Clara, and no violent declaration of the im- possibility of her changeing again would have had such an effect <>n her hearer. Mrs. Mountstuart scanned her face for a new reading of it to match with her later impressions. " 1 am to do as I please with the knowledge I have gained ? " 14 1 am utterly in your hands, madam." 44 I have not meant to be unkind." 44 You have not been unkind ; I could embrace you." 44 1 am rather too shattered, and kissing won't put me together. I laughed at Lady Bnsshe! No wonder you went off like a rocket with a disappointing bouquet when I told you you had been successful with poor Sir Willoughby and he could not give you up. 1 noticed that. A woman like Lady Bnsshe, always prying for the lamentable, would have required no further enlightenment. Has he a temper ? " Clara did not ask her to signalize the person thus abruptly obtruded. " He lia^ faults," she said. " There's an end to Sir Willoughby, then ! Though I don't say he will give you up even when he hears the worst, if he must hear it. as for his own sake he should. And I won't say he ought to give you up. He'll be the pitiable angel if he does. For you — but you don't deserve compli- ments; they would be immoral. You have behaved badly, badly, badly. I have never had such a right-about-face in my Life. Von will deserve the stigma: you will be notorious: you will be called Number Two. Think of that ! Not even MISS MIDDLETON ANP MRS. MOUNTSTUART. 355 original ! We will break the conference, or I shall twaddle to extinction. I think I heard the luncheon bell." " It rang." " You don't look fit for company, but you had better come." " Oh ! yes : every day it's the same." " Whether you're in my hands or I'm in yours, we're a couple of arch-conspirators against the peace of the family whose table we're sitting at, and the more we rattle the viler we are, but we must do it to ease our minds. ' Mrs. Mountstuart spread the skirts of her voluminous dress, remarking further: "At a certain age our teachers are young people : we learn by looking backward. It speaks highly for me that I have not called you mad. — Full of faults, goodish-looking, not a bad talker, cheerful, poorish ; —and she prefers that to this ! " the great lady exclaimed in her reverie while emerging from the circle of shrubs upon a view of the Hall. Colonel De Craye advanced to her; certainly good-looking, certainly cheerful, by no means a bad talker, nothing of a Croesus, and variegated with faults. His laughing smile attacked the irresolute hostility of her mien, confident as the sparkle of sunlight in a breeze. The effect of it on herself angered her on behalf of Sir Wil- loughby's bride. " Good morning, Mrs. Mountstuart ; I believe I am the last to greet you." " And how long do you remain here, Colonel De Craye ? " " I kissed earth when I arrived, like the Norman William, and consequently I've an attachment to the soil, ma'am." ' You are not going to take possession of it, I suppose ? " "A handful would satisfy me ! " "You play the Conqueror pretty much, I have heard. Uut property is held more sacred than in the times of the Norman William." " And speaking of property, Miss Micldleton, your purse is found," he said. " I know it is," she replied, as unaffectedly as Mrs. Mount- stuart could have desired, though the ingenuous air of the girl incensed her somewhat. Clara passed on. " You restore purses," observed Mrs. Mountstuart. 2 a ■> 350 THE EGOIST. Her stress on the word, and her look, thrilled De Craye; for there had been a long conversation between the young lady and the dame. ' ; It was an article that dropped and was not stolen," said he. " Barely sweet enough to keep, then ! " "1 think I could have felt to it like poor Flitch, the flyman, -who was the linder." " If you are conscious of these ^captations to appropriate wh;it is not your own, you should quit the neighbourhood." " And do it elsewhere r 1 But that's not virtuous counsel." " And I'm not counselling in the interests of your virtue, Colonel De Crave." " And I dared for a moment to hope that you were, ma'am," he said, ruefully drooping. They were close to the dining-room window, and Mrs. Mountstuart preferred the terminating of a dialogue that did nut promise to leave her features the austerely iron cast with which she had commenced it. She was under the spell of pratitude for his behaviour yesterday evening at her dinner-table; she could not be very severe. CHAPTER XXXVI. ANIMATED CONVKRSAT10N AT A LUNCHEON-TABLE. Verncv was erasing the hall to the dining-room as Mrs. Mountstuari stepped in. She called to him: "Are the champions reconciled ? " He replied: " Hardly that, but they have consented to meet at an altar to offer up a victim to the Gods, in the shape ot modern poetic imitations of the classical." 'That seems innocent enough. The professor has not been anxious about his ch st ? " '• He recollects his cough now and then." "You must help him to forget it." CONVERSATION AT A LUNCHEON-TABLE. 357 "Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer are here," said Vernon, not supposing it to be a grave announcement until the effect of it on Mrs. Mountstuart admonished him. She dropped her voice : " Engage my fair friend for one of your walks the moment we rise from table. You may have to rescue her ;.but do. I mean it." " She's a capita] walker," Vernon remarked in simpleton style. " There's no necessity for any of your pedestrian feats," Mrs. Mountstuart said, and let him go, turning to Colonel De Craye to pronounce an encomium on him : " The most open-minded man I know! Warranted to do perpetual service and no mischief. If you were all ... . instead of catching at every prize you covet ! Yes, you would have your reward for unselfishness, I assure you. Yes, and where you seek it ! That is what none of you men will believe." ' When you behold me in your own livery ! " cried the colonel. "Do I ? " said she dallying with a half-formed design to be confidential. " How is it one is always tempted to address you in the language of innuendo ? I can't guess." " Except that as a dog doesn't comprehend good English we naturally talk bad to him." The great lady was tickled. Who could help being amused by this man ? And after all, if her fair Middleton chose to be a fool, there could be no gainsaying her, sorry though poor Sir Willoughby's friends must feel for him. She tried not to smile. " You are too absurd. Or a baby, you might have added." " I hadn't the daring." "I'll tell you what, Colonel De Craye, I shall end by falling in love with you ; and without esteeming you, I fear." ' The second follows as surely as the flavour upon a draught of Bacchus, if you'll but toss off the glass, ma'am." " We women, sir, think it should be first." " 'Tis to transpose the seasons, and give October the blossom, and April the apple, and no sweet one ! Esteem's a mellow thing that comes after bloom and fire, like an evening at home ; because if it went before it would have no father and couldn't hope for progeny ; for there'd be no nature the business. So please, ma'am, keep to the 358 THE EGOIST. original order, and you'll be nature's child and I tlie most Mi si of mankind." • Really, were I fifteen years younger. I am not so certain .... 1 might try and make you harmless." " Draw the teeth of the lamb so long as you pet him ! " " I challenged you, colonel, and I won't complain of your pitch. But now lay your wit down beside your candour and descend to au everyday level with me for a minute." " Is it innuendo ? " " No, though I dare say it would be easier for you to respond to, if it were." • I'm the stiaightforwardest of men at a word of com- mand." " This is a whisper. Be alert as you were last night. Shuffle the table well. A little liveliness will do it. I don't imagine malice, but there's curiosity, which is often as bad, ami not so lightly foiled. We have Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer here." " To Bweep the cobwebs out of the sky ! " " Well, then, can you fence with broomsticks ?" " I have had a bout with them in my time." " They are terribly direct." "They 'give point,' as Napoleon commanded his cavalry to do." * " You must help me to ward it." " They will require variety in the conversation." "Constant. You are an angel of intelligence, and if I havo the jndgeing of you, I'm afraid you'll be allowed to pass, in Bpite of the scandal above. Open the door; I don't un- bonnet." I )c Crave threw the door open. Lady Busshe was at that moment saying: "And are wo indeed to have yx>u Eor a neighbour, Dr. Middleton? " The Rev. doctor's reply was drowned by the new arrivals. 11 1 thought you had forsaken us," observed Sir W r il- longhby to Mrs. Mountstuart. • And run away with Colonel De Crave ? I'm too weighty, my dear friend. Besides, I have not looked at the Iding-presents yet." ' The very object of our call ! " exclaimed Lady Culmer. " I have to confess I am in dire alarm about mine," Lady CONVERSATION AT A LUNCHEON-TABLE. 359 Busshe nodded across the table at Clara. " Oh ! you may shake your head, but I would rather hear a rough truth than the most complimentary evasion." " How would you define a rough truth, Dr. Middleton ? " said Mrs. Mountstuart. Like the trained warrior who is ready at all hours for the trumpet to arms, Dr. Middleton wakened up for judicial allocution in a trice. " A rough truth, madam, I should define to be that de- scription of truth which is not imparted to mankind with- out a powerful impregnation of the roughness of the teller." " It is a rough truth, ma'am, that the world is composed of fools, and that the exceptions are knaves," Professor Crook lyn furnished the example avoided by the Rev. doctor. " Not to precipitate myself into the jaws of the first definition, which strikes me as being as happy as Jonah's whale, that could carry probably the most learned man of his time inside without the necessity of digesting him," said De Craye, " a rough truth is a rather strong charge of universal nature for the firing off of a modicum of personal fact." " It is a rough truth that Plato is Moses atticizing," said Vernon to Dr. Middleton, to keep the diversion alive. " And that Aristotle had the globe under his cranium," rejoined the Rev. doctor. " And that the modei'ns live on the ancients." " And that not one in ten thousand can refer to the par- ticular treasury he filches." "The Art of our days is a revel of rough truth," remarked Professor Crooklyn. " And the literature has laboriously mastered the adjective, wherever it may be in relation to the noun," Dr. Middleton added. " Orson's first appearance at Court was in the figure of a rough truth, causing the Maids of Honour, accustomed to Tapestry Adams, astonishment and terror," said De Crave. That he might not be left out of the sprightly play, Sir Willoughby levelled a lance at the quintain, smiling on Lastitia : " In fine, caricature is rough truth." {She said : " Is one end of it, and realistic directness is the other." He bowed : " The palm is yours." 3G0 THE EGOIST. Mrs. Mountstuart admired herself as each one trotted forth in mm characteristically, with one exception unaware of the aid which was being rendered to a distressed damsel wretchedly incapable of decent hypocrisy. Her intrepid lead had shown her hand to the colonel and drawn the enemy at a blow. Sir Willonghby's 'in fine,' how r ever, did not please her: still less did his lackadaisical Lothario-like bowing and smiling to Miss Dale: and he, anything but obtuse, per- ceived it and was hart. For how, carrying his tremendous load, was he to compete with these unhandicapped men in the game of nonsense she had such a fondness for starting at a table ? He was further annoyed to hear Miss Eleanor and Miss [sabel Patterae agree together, that "caricature" was the final word of the definition. Relatives should know better than to deliver these awards to us in public. 'Well! ' quoth Lady Busshe, expressive of stupefaction at the strange dust she had raised. "Are they on view, Miss Middleton?" inquired Lady Calmer. ' Them's a regiment of us on view and ready for in-« Bpection," Colonel De Craye bowed to her, but she would aoi be foiled. "Miss Middleton's admirers are always on view," said he. ■ l Are they to be seen ? " said Lady Busshe. Clara made her face a question, with a laudable smooth- ' The wedding-presents," Lady Culmer explained. "Otherwise, my dear, we are in dangerof duplicating and triplicating and quadruplicating, not at all to the satisfac- tion of the bride. Bat there h a worse danger to encounter in the 'on view,* my lady," said De Cray.'; "and that's the magnetic at- traction a display of wedding-presents is sure to have for ,Im ' ineffable burglar, who must have a nuptial soul in him, wherever there's that colleciion on view, he's never a ne off. And 'tis said he knows a lady's dressing-ca:,o presented to her on the occasion, fifteen years alter the event." J " As many as fifteen ? " said Mrs. Mountstuart. "By computation of the police. And if the presents are CONVERSATION AT A LUNCHEON- TABLE. 861 on view, dogs are of no use, nor bolts, nor bars : — lie's worse tban Cupid. The only protection to be found, singular as it may be thought, is in a couple of bottles of the oldest Jamaica rum in the British Isles." " Rum ? " cried Lady Busshe. " The liquor of the Royal Navy, my lady. And with your permission, I'll relate the tale in proof of it. I had a friend engaged 'to a young lady, niece of an old sea-captain of the old school, the Benbow school, the wooden leg and pigtail school ; a perfectly salt old gentleman with a pickled tongue, and a dash of brine in every deed he committed. He looked rolled over to you by the last wave on the shore, sparkling : he was Neptune's own for humour. And when his present to the bride was opened, sure enough there lay a couple of bottles of the oldest Jamaica rum in the British Isles, born before himself, and his father to boot. 'Tis a fabulous spirit I beg you to believe in, my lady, the sole merit of the story being its portentous veracity. The bottles were tied to make them appear twins, as they both had the same claim to seniority. And there was a label on them, telling their great age, to maintain their identity. They were in truth a pair of patriarchal bottles rivalling many of the biggest houses in the kingdom for antiquity. They would have made the donkey that stood between the two bundles of hay look at them with obliquity : supposing him to have, for an animal, a rum taste, and a turn for hilarity. Won- derful old bottles ! So, on the label, just over the date, was written large ; Uncle Benjamin's Wedding-Pkesent to his niece Bessy. Poor Bessy shed tears of disappointment and indignation enough to float the old gentleman on his native element, ship and all. She vowed it was done curmudgeonly to vex her, because her uncle hated wedding-presents and had grunted at the exhibition of cups and saucers, and this and that beautiful service, and epergnes and inkstands, mirrors, knives and forks, dressing-cases, and the whole mighty category. She protested, she flung herself about, she declared those two ugly bottles should not join the ex- hibition in the dining-room, where it was laid out for days, and the family ate their meals where they could, on the walls, like flies. But there was also Uncle Benjamin's legacy on view, in the distance, so it was ruled against her that the bottles should have their place. And one fine 3G2 THE EGOIST. morning down came t"he family after a fearful row of the domestics; shouting, screaming, cries for the police, and murder topping all. What did they see ? They saw two prodigious burglars extended along the floor, each with one bfthe twin bottles in his hand, and a remainder of^ the horror of the midnight hanging about his person like a blown fog, sufficient to frighten them whilst they kicked the rascals entirely intoxicated. Never was wilder disorder of W( idding-presents, and not one lost! — owing, you'll own, to Uncle Benjy's two bottles of ancient Jamaica rum." Colonel De Craye concluded with an asseveration of the truth of the story. " A most provident far-sighted old sea-captain ! " ex- claimed Mrs. Mountstuart, laughing at Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer. These ladies chimed in with her gingerly. "And have you many more clever stories, Colonel De Craye ? " said Lady Busshe. " Ah ! my lady, "when the tree begins to count its gold 'tis ni^h upon bankruptcy." • Poetic!" ejaculated Lady Culmer, spying at Miss Mid- dleton's rippled countenance, and noting that she and Sir Willoughby had not interchanged word or look. " But that in the case of your Patterne Port a bottle of it would outvalue the catalogue of nuptial presents, Wil- loughby, I would recommend your stationing some such con- stabulary to keep watch and ward," said Dr. Middleton as he filled his glass, taking Bordeaux in the middle of the day, under a consciousness of virtue and its reward to come at half-past seven in the evening. " The dogs would require a dozen of that, sir," said De Cra; •Tin n it is not to be thought of. Indeed, one!" Dr. Middleton negatived the idea. "We are no further advanced than when we began," ob- served Lady Busshe. "If we are marked to go by stages," Mrs. Mountstuart assent- d. •■ Why, then, we shall be called old coaches," remarked the colonel. " You," said Lady Culmer, " have the advantage of us in a closer acquaintance with Miss Middleton. You know he* CONVERSATION AT A LUNCHEON- TABLE. 363 tastes, and how far they have been consulted in the little souvenirs already grouped somewhere, although not yet for inspection. 1 am at sea. And here is Lady Busshe in deadly alarm. There is plenty of time to effect a change — though we are drawing on rapidly to the fatal day, Miss Middleton. We are, we are very near it. Oh ! yes. I am one who thinks that these little affairs should be spoken of openly, without that ridiculous bourgeois affectation, so t*hat we may be sure of giving satisfaction. It is a transaction, like everything else in life. I for my part wish to be re- membered favourably. I put it as a test of breeding to speak of these things as plain matter-of-fact. You marry ; I wish you to have something by you to remind you of me. What shall it be ? — useful or ornamental. For an ordinary household the choice is not difficult. But where wealth abounds we are in a dilemma." "And with persons of decided tastes," added Lady Busshe. " I am really very unhappy," she protested to Clara. Sir Willoughby dropped Lastitia : Clara's look of a sedate resolution to preserve silence on the topic of the nuptial gifts, made a diversion imperative. " Your porcelain was exquisitely chosen, and I profess to be a connoisseur," he said. " I am poor in old Saxony, as you know : I can match the county in Sevres, and my inheritance of China will not easily be matched in the country." " You may consider your Dragon vases a present from young Crossjay," said De Craye. "How?" " Hasn't he abstained from breaking them ? the capital boy ! Porcelain and a boy in the house together, is a case of prospective disaster fully equal to Flitch and a fly." " You should understand that my friend Horace — whose wit is in this instance founded on another tale of a boy — brought us a magnificent piece of porcelain, destroyed by the capsizing of his conveyance from the station," said Sir Wil- loughby to Lady Busshe. She and Lady Culmer gave out lamentable Ohs, while Miss Eleanor and Miss Isabel Patterne sketched the incident. Then the lady visitors fixed their eyes in united sympathy upon Clara : recovering from which, after a contemplation of marble, Lady Busshe emphasized : "No, you do not love porcelain, it is evident, Miss Middleton.' >> S64 THE EGOIST. " I am prlad to be assured of it," said Lady Culmer. " Oh ! I know t hat face : I know that look," Lady Busshe affected to remark rallyingly : "it is not the first time I have seen it ." Sir Willoughby smarted to his marrow. "We will rout these Fancies of an over-scrupulous generosity, my dear Lady Busshe." I Icr unwonted breach of delicacy in speaking publicly of her present, and the vulgar persistency of her sticking to the theme, very much perplexed him. And if he mistook her not, she had just alluded to the demoniacal Constantia Dm ham. It might be that he had mistaken her: he was on guard against his terrible sensitiveness. Nevertheless it was hard to account for this behaviour of a lady greatly his friend and admirer, a lady of birth. And Lady Culmer as well! —likewise a lady of birth. Were they in collusion ? had they a puspicion? He turned to Laetitia's face for the antidote to his pain. "Oh, but you are not one yet, and I shall require two voices to convince me," Lady Busshe rejoined after another re at t he ma rble. • Lady Busshe, I beg you not to think me ungrateful," said i ilara. "Kiddle! -gratitude! it is to please your taste, to satisfy I care for -latitude as little as for flattery." • But gratitude is flattering," said Vernon. 'Now, do metaphysics, Mr. Whitford." "Bui do care a bit for flattery, my lady," said De Craye. ,llt ' finest of the Arts; we might call 'it moral sculpture. Adepts in it can cut their friends to any shape they like by practising it with the requisite skill. I myself, poor hand :| - Cam, have made a man act Solomon by constantly | in- his wisdom. Be took a sagacious turn at an early " l "'' '!"' dose, lie wei-hed the smallest question of daily occasions with a deliberation truly oriental. Had I pushed it, he'd have hired a baby and a couple of mothers bo Bquabble over the undivided morsel." " I shall hope for a day in London with you," said Lady Culinm- to ( 'lara. 'You did not forget the Queen of Sheba?" said Mrs. Mountstuart to De < 'rave. CONVERSATION AT A LUNCHEON-TAELE. 365 " "With her appearance, the game has to be resigned to her entirely," he rejoined. " That is," Lady Culmer continued, " if you do not despiso an old woman for your comrade on a shopping excursion." " Despise whom we fleece ! " exclaimed Dr. Middleton. " Oh, no, Lady Culmer, the sheep is sacred." " I am not so sure," said Vernon. " In what way, and to what extent, are you not so sure ? " said Dr. Middleton. " The natural tendency is to scorn the fleeced." " I stand for the contrary. Pity, if you like: particularly when they bleat." " This is to assume that makers of gifts are a fleeced people : I demur," said Mrs. Mountstuart. "Madam, we are expected to give ; we are incited to give; you have dubbed it the fashion to give ; and the person re- fusing to give, or incapable of giving, may anticipate that he will be regarded as benignly as a sheep of a drooping and flaccid wool by the farmer, who is reminded by the poor beast's appearance of a. strange dog that worried the flock. Even Captain Benjamin, as you have seen, was unable to withstand the demand on him. The hymeneal pair are licensed freebooters levying black mail on us ; survivors of an uncivilized period. But in taking without n.ercy, I venture to trust that the manners of a happier aera instruct them not to scorn us. 1 apprehend that Mr. Whitford has a lower order of latrons in his mind." " Permit me to say, sir, that you have not considered the ignoble aspect of the fleeced," said Vernon. " I appeal to the ladies : would they not, if they beheld an ostrich walking down a Queen's Drawing Room, clean-plucked, despise him though they were wearing his plumes ? " "An extreme supposition indeed," said Dr. Middleton, frowning over it : " scarcely legitimately to be suggested." " I think it fair, sir, as an instance." " Has the circumstance occurred, I would ask ? " "In life ? a thousand times." " I fear so," said Mrs. Mountstuart. Lady Busshe showed symptoms of a desire to leave a profitless table. Vernon started up, glancing at the window. " Did you see Crossjay ? " he said to Clara. 8GG THK StiOIST. " No ; I must, if lie is there," said she. She made her waj out, Vernon after her. They both had the excuse. '• Which way did the poor boy go ? " she asked him. " 1 have not the slightest idea," he replied. " But put on your bonnet, if you would escape that pan- of inquisitors." •• Mr. Whitford, what humiliation!' " I suspect you do not feel it the most, and the end of it can't be remote," said he. Thus it happened that when Ladv Bushe and Lady Culmer quitted the dining-room, Miss Middleton had spirited herself away from summoning voice and messenger. Sir Willough by apologized for her absence. "If I could be jealous, it would be of that boy Crossjay." " Vnii are an excellent man, and the best of cousins," was Lady Busshe's enigmatical answer. The exceedingly lively conversation at bis table was lauded by Lady Culmer. " Though," said she, " what it all meant, and what was the drift of it, 1 couldn't tell to save my life. Is it every day the same with you here ? " " Very much." " How you must enjoy a spell of dulness ! " " If you said, simplicity and not talking for effect ! I gene- rally caBl anchor by Lsetitia Dale." "Ah! ' Lady Busshe coughed. "But the fact is, Mrs. Mountstuart is mad for cleverness." " I think, my lady, Lsetitia Dale is to the full as clever as any of the star-; Mrs. Mountstuart assembles, or I." "Talkative cleverness, I mean." " In conversation as well. Perhaps you have not yet given her a chance" " V -, she is clever, of course, poor dear. She is looking better too." " Handsome, I thought," said Lady Culmer. "She varies," observed Sir Willoughby. The ladies took scat in their carriage and fell at once into a close-bonnet colloquy. Not a single allusion had they made to the wedding-presents after leaving the luncheon-table. The cause of their visit was obvious. CLEVER FENCING AND THE NEED FOR IT. 367 CHAPTER XXXVII. CONTAIN CLEVER FENCING AND INTIMATIONS OF THE NESD FOR IT. That woman, Lady Busslie, had predicted, after the event, Constantia Durham's defection. She had also, subsequent to Willoughby's departure on his travels, uttered sceptical things concerning his rooted attachment to Lsetitia Dale. In her bitter vulgarity, that beaten rival of Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson for the leadership of the county had taken his nose for a melancholy prognostic of his fortunes ; she had recently played on his name : she had spoken the hideous English of his fate. Little as she knew, she was alive to the worst in- terpretation of appearances. No other eulogy occurred to her now than to call him the best of cousins, because Vernon Whitford was housed and clothed and fed by 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 wealthy and a gossip — a forge of showering sparks — and she carried Lady Culmer with her. The two had driven from his house to spread the malignant rumour abroad : already they blew the biting world on his raw wound. Neither of them was like Mrs. Mountstuart, a witty woman, who could be hood- winked ; they were dull women, who steadily kept on their own scent of the fact, and the only way to confound such inveterate forces was, to be ahead of them, and seize and transform the expected fact, and astonish them, when they came up to him, with a totally unanticipated fact. " You see, you were in error, ladies." " And so we were, Sir Willoughby, and we acknowledge it. We never could have guessed that!" Thus the phantom couple in the future delivered them- selves, as Avell they 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 the population judged by circumstances : airy shows and seems had no effect on them. Dexterity of fence was thrown away. 80S THE EGOIST. A flying peep at the remorseless might of dulness in com. pelling us to a concrete performance counter to our inclina- 8, if we would deceive its terrible instinct, gave Wil- loughby for a moment the survey of a sage. His intensity of personal feeling struck so vivid an illumination of man- kit d at intervals that he would have been individually wise, had he i D moved by the source of his accurate percep- tions to a personal feeling of opposition to his own sagacity, lb' loathed and he despised the vision, so his mind had no benefit of it, though he himself was whipped along. He chose rather (and the choice is open to us all) to be flattered by the distinction it revealed between himself and mankind. Hut if he was not as others were, why was he discomfited, solicitous, miserable P To think that it should be so, ran dead against his conqueror's theories wherein he had been trained, which, so long as he gained success awarded success to native merit, grandeur to the grand in soul, as light kindles light : nature presents the example. His early training, his bright beginning of life, had taught him to look to earth's principal fruits as his natural portion, and it was owing to a L r irl that he stood a mark for tongues, naked, wincing at the le malignity of a pair of harridans. Why not whistle the girl aw a - : Why. then he would be free to enjoy, careless, younger than his youth in the rebound to happiness! And then would his nostrils begin to lilt and sniff at the i ping up of a thick pestiferous vapour. Then in that volume of stench would he discern the sullen yellow eye of malice. A malarious earth would hunt him all over it. The ith of the world, the world's view of him, was partly his vital breath, his view of himself. The ancestry of the tor- hired man had bequeathed him this condition of high civili- an among their other bequests. Your withered contracted ' E 3ts of the hut and the grot reck not of public opinion; they crave but for liberty ami leisure to scratch themselves and soothe an excessive scratch. Willoughby was expansive, a blooming one, born to Look down upon a tributary world, and to exult in being looked to. Do we wonder at his con- Bteination in the' prospect of that world's blowing foul on him ? Princes have their obligations to teach them they are mortal, and the brilliant heir of a tributary world is equally enchained by the homage it brings him: — more, inasmuch as CLEVER FENCING AND THE NEED FOR IT. 3G9 it is immaterial, elusive, not gathered by the tax, and he cannot capitally punish the treasonable recusants. Still must he be brilliant ; he must court his people. He must 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 could stride to and fro, and stretch out his arms for physical relief, secure from observation of his fantastical shapes, under the idea that he was meditating. There was perhaps enough to make him fancy it in the heavy fire of shots exchanged between his nerves and the situation; there were notable flashes. He would not avow that he was in an agony: it was merely a desire for exercise. Quintessence of worldliness, Mrs. Mountstuart appeared through his farthest window, swinging her skirts on a turn at the end of the lawn, with Horace De Craye smirking beside her. And the woman's vaunted penetration was unable to detect the histrionic Irishism of the fellow. Or she liked him for his acting and nonsense ; nor she only. The voluble beast was created to snare women. Willoughby became smitten with an adoration of stedfastness in women. The incarnation of that divine quality crossed his eyes. She was clad in beauty. A horrible nondescript convulsion composed of yawn and groan drove him to his instruments, to avert a renewal of the shock ; and while arranging and fixing them for their unwonted task, he compared himself advantageously with men like Vernon and De Craye, and others of the county, his fellows in the hunting-field and on the Magistrate's bench, who neither understood nor cared for solid work, beneficial practical work, the work of Science. He was obliged to relinquish it : his hand shook. "Experiments will not advance much at this rate," he said, casting the noxious 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 not coming to him seemed ominous : nor was her behaviour at the luncheon-table quite obscure. She had evidently instigated the gentlemen to cross and counter-chatter Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer. For what purpose ? Clara's features gave the answer. 2 B 370 TT1F, '--flOIST. They were implacable. And he could be the same. In the solitude of his room he cried right out: "1 swoar it, I will never yield her to Horace De Crave! She shall feel some of my torments, and try to get the better of them by knowing she deserves them." lie had spoken it, and it was an oath upon the record. Desire to do her intolerable hurt became an ecstasy in his veins, and produced another stretching fit that terminated in a violent shake of the body and limbs ; during which he was a spectacle for !Mrs. Mountstuart at one of the windows. He langhed as he went to her, Baying: " Xo, no work to- day : it won't be done, positively refuses." "I am taking the professor away," said she; "he is fidgetty about the cold he caught." Sir Willonghby stepped out to her. "I was trying at a bit of work for an hour, not to be idle all day. ' " You work in that den of yours every day p" " Never less than an hour, if I can snatch it." "It is a wonderful resource !" The remark set him throbbing and thinking that a pro- Longation of his crisis exposed him to the approaches of some onranic malady, possibly heart-disease. " A habit," he said. " Tn 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 know- ledge of my day. thai is all." '• And a pearl among country gentlemen !" " In yonr gracions consideration, my clear lady. Gene- rally speaking, it would be more adviseable to become a chatterer and keep an anecdotal note-book. I could not do it, simply because I could not live with my own emptiness for the sake of making an occasional display of fireworks. I aim at solidity. It is a narrow aim, no doubt; not much appreciated." •• ha titia Dale appreciates it." A smile of enforced ruefulness, like a leaf curling in heat, wrinkled hifl mouth. Why did she ■ ik of her conversation with Clara? "' Have th< _ht Crossjay P" he said. • Apparently the iving chase to him." The likelihood was, that Clara had been overcome by timidity. CLEVER FENCING AND THE NEED FOR IT. 371 " 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 of his 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. He won me in five minutes. I don't accuse him. Nature gifted him to cast the 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 have no great requirement of it ; I cannot say. We are riddles to ourselves." Mrs. Mountstuart pricked the turf with the point of her parasol. She looked down and she looked up. " Well ?" said he to her eyes. " Well, and where is Last tia Dale ?" He turned about to show his face elsewhere. When he fronted her again, she looked very fixedly, and set her head shaking. " It will not do, my dear Sir Willoughby !'* " What ?" " It." " I never could solve enigmas." " Playing ta-ta-ta-ta ad infinitum, then. Things have gone far. All parties would be happier for an excursion. Send her home." " Lastitia ? I can't part with her." Mrs. Mountstuart put a tooth on her under-lip as her head renewed its brushing negative. 2 b 2 372 THE EGOIST. " In what way can it be hurtful that she should be here, ma'am ?" he ventured to persist. ••Think." " She is proof." " Twice !" The word was big artillery. He tried the affectation of a staring stupidity. She might have seen his heart thump, and he quitted the mask for 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 contiilence in me. I would perish 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 a gentle ghost, rolled a thunder that mad- dened him, but he dared not take it up to -fight against it on plain terms. " Is it for mv 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 a tyrant. I am one of the most easy-going of men. Let us preserve the forms due to society : I say no more. As for poor old Vernon, people call me a good sort of cousin; I sliouM like to see him comfortably married; decently married this time. I have proposed to contribute to hia establishment. I mention it to show that the case has been practically considered. He has had a tolerably ring experience of the state; he might be inclined if, yon took him in hand, for another venture. It's a demoralizing lottery. However, Government sanctions it." •• l!ut. Sir Willoughby, what is the use of my taking him in hand, when, ;is yon tell me, Laetitia Dale holds back?" " She certainly does." ' Then we are talking to no purpose, unless you under- take to melt her." He suffered a lurking smile to kindle to some strength of meaning. •■ 5 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" CLEVER FENCING AND THE NEED FOE IT. '673 stedfastness of character, that I should be a poor advocate in the endeavour to break it. And frankly, I know the danger. I saved my honour when I made the attempt : that is all I can say." " Upon my word," Mrs. Mountstuart threw back her head to let her eyes behold him summarily over tbeir fine aqui- line bridge, " you have the heart of mystification, my good friend." " Abandon the idea of Lastitia Dale." " And marry your cousin Vernon to whom ? Where are we?" " As T said, ma'am, I am an easy-going man. I really have not a spice of the tyrant in me. An intemperate crea- ture held by the collar may have that notion of me, while pulling to be released as promptly as it entered the noose. But I do strictly and sternly object to the scandal of violent separations, open breaches of solemn engagements, a public rupture. Put it that I am the cause, I will not consent to a violation of decorum. Is that clear ? It is just possible for things to be arranged so that all parties may be happy in their way without much hubbub. Mind, it is not I who have willed it so. I am, and I am forced to be, passive. But I will not be obstructive." He paused, waving his hand to signify the vanity of the more that might be said. Some conception of him, dashed by incredulity, excited the lady's intelligence. " 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 the lynx that does. We won't dis- cuss it at present. I certainly must be a younger woman than I supposed, for I am learning hard. — Here comes the professor, buttoned up to the ears, and Dr. Middleton flap- ping in the breeze. There will be a cough, and a footnote referring to the young lady at the station, if we stand together, so please order my carriage." " 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. I am so far in the dark, that I have to help myself by recollecting how Lady Busshe opposed my view of a certain matter formerly. Scepticism is her forte. 374 TIIE EGOIST. It will be the very oddest thing if after all .... ! No, I shall 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 from adding: ' If you are making" one of me.' Sir Willoughby went to ring for her carriage. She knew. That was palpable : Clara had betrayed him. 1 The earlier Colonel De Crave leaves Patterne Hall the better :' she had said that : and, ' all parties would be happier for an excursion.' She knew the position of things and she guessed the remainder. But what she did not know, and could not divine, was the man who fenced her. He speculated further on the witty and the dull. These latter are the redoubtable body. They will have facts to convince them ; they had, he confessed it to himself, pre- ;ated him into the novel sphere of his dark hints to Mrg. Mountstuart; from which the utter darkness might allow him to escape, yet it embraced him singularly, and even pleasantly, 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 teadfast woman — no rogue. The exceeding beauty of [fastness in women clothed Laetitia in graces Clara could Dot match. A tried stedfast woman is the one jewel of the sex. She points to her husband like the sunflower; her love illuminates him; she lives in him, for him; she Ges to his worth ; she drags the world to his feei ; she leads the chorus of his praises ; she justifies him in his own em. Surely there is not on earth such beauty! It we have to pass through anguish to discover it and cherish t he peace it gives, to clasp it, calling it ours, is a full reward. Deep in his reverie, he said his adieux to Mrs. Mount- rt, and strolled up the avenue behind the carriage- wheels, unwilling to mee< Laetitia till he had exhausted the : h savour of the cud of fancy. 3 ipposing it dune! — It would be generous on his part. It would redound to hi- credit. Bis inline would be a fortress, impregnable to tongues. He would have divine security in his home. CLEVER FENCING AND THE NEED FOR IT. o75 One who read and knew and worshipped him would be Bitting there starlike : sitting there, awaiting him, his fixed star. It would be marriage with a mii^ror, with an echo ; mar- riage with a shining mirror, a choric echo. It would be marriage with an intellect, w T ith a fine under- standing ; to make his home a fountain of repeatable wit : to make his dear old Patterne Hall the luminary of the county. He revolved it as a chant : with anon and anon involun- tarily a discordant animadversion on Lady Busshe. His attendant imps heard the angry inward cry. Forthwith he set about painting Laetitia in delectable human colours, like a miniature of the past century, reserv- ing her ideal figure for his private satisfaction. The world was to bow to her visible beauty, and he gave her enamel and glow, a taller statue, a swimming air, a transcendancy that exorcised the image of the old witch who had driven him to this. The result in him was, that Lastitia became humanly and avowedly beautiful. Her dark eyelashes on the pallor of her cheeks lent their aid to the transformation, which was a necessity to him, so it was performed. He received the waxen impression. His retinue of imps had a revel. We hear wonders of men, and we see a lifting up of hands in the world. The wonders would be explained, and never a hand need to interject, if the mystifying man were but accompanied and reported of by that monkey-eyed confraternity. They spy the heart and its twists. The heart is the magical gentleman. None of them would follow where there 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 of the heart to the mountain rillet is taken up to show us the unbaffled force of the little channel in seeking to swell its volume, strenuously, sinuously, ever in pursuit of self ; the busiest as it is the most single-aiming of forces on our earth. And We are directed to the sinuosities for posta of observation chiefly instructive. TIIK EGOIST. Few maintain a stand there. People pee, and tliey rush aw;iv to interchange liftings of hands at the sight, instead of ntlv studying the phenomenon of energy. [uently a man in love with one woman, and in all hut all-. 'lute consciousness, behind the thinnest of veils, pre- paring bis mind to love another, will be barely credible. The particular hunger of the forceful but adaptable heart ia the key of him. Heboid the mountain rillet, become a k, become a torrent, how it inarms a handsome boulder: if the stone will not go with it, on it hurries, pursuing Belf in extension, down to where perchance a dam has been raised of a sufficient depth to enfold and keep it from inordi- nate rest lessness. Lastitia represented this peaceful restrain, ing space in prospect. Hit she was a faded young woman. He was aware of it ; and latically looking at himself with her upturned tubs, he accepted her benevolently-, as a God grateful for worship, and used the divinity she imparted to paint and renovate her. His heart required her so. The heart works the springs of imagination; imagination received its com- mission from the heart, and w T as a cunning artist. Cunning to such a degree of seductive genius that the masterpiece it offered to his contemplation enabled him simultaneously to gaze on Clara and think of Laetitia. Clara came through the park-gates with Vernon, 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 ap- proached. CHAPTER XXXVIII. IN WHICH WIS TAKE A STEP TO THE CENTRE OF EGOISM. Tit Wrnon soon left them. " Vim have not seen Crossjay ?" Willoughby inquired. " No," said Clara. "Once more 1 beg you to pardon him. He spoke falsely, owing to his poor boy's idea of chivalry." TO THE CENTRE OF EGOISM. 377 "The chivalry to the sex which commences in lies, ends by creating the woman's hero, whom we see about the world and in certain Courts of Law." His ability to silence her was great : she could not reply to speech like that. " You have," said he, " made a confidante of Mrs. Mount- stuart." " Yes." " This is your purse." " I thank you." "Professor Crooklyn has managed to make your father acquainted with Your project. That, I suppose, is the rail- way ticket in the fold of the purse. He was assured at the station that you had taken a ticket to London, and would not want the fly." " It is true. I was foolish." " You have had a pleasant walk with Vernon — turning mo in and out P" " We did Dot speak of you. You allude to what he would never consent to." " He's an honest fellow, in his old-fashioned way. He's a secret old fellow. Does he ever talk about his wife to you?" Clara dropped her purse, and stooped and picked it up. " I know nothing of Mr. Whitford's affairs," she said, and she opened the purse and tore to pieces the railway-ticket. " The story's a proof that romantic spirits do not furnish the most romantic history. You have the word chivalry frequently on your lips. He chivalrously married the daughter of the lodging-house where he resided before I took him. We obtained information of the auspicious union in a newspaper report of Mrs. Whitford's drunkenness aud rioting at a London railway terminus — probably the one whither your ticket would have taken you yesterday, for I heard the lady was on her way to us for supplies, the con- nubial larder being empty." " I am sorry ; I am ignorant ; I have heard nothing ; I know nothing," said Clara. " You are disgusted. But half the students and authors yon hear of marry in that way. And very few have Vernon'a luck." " She had good qualities ?" asked Clara. Her under lip hung. TITE KG 01 ST. It looked like disgust; he begged her not indulge the II If. "• Literary men, it is notorious, even with the entry to have no taste in women. The housewife is their i Ladies frighten and would, no doubt, bo an annoy- ance and hindrance to them at home." " Vmi said he was fortunate." " You have a kindness for him." " 1 respect him." '•lie is a friendly old feilow in his awkward fashion; honourable, and so forth. But a disreputable alliance of thai suit sticks to a man. The world will talk. Yes, he was fort miate so far ; he fell into the mire and got out of it. Were he to marry again . . . ." " She .....?" " Died. Do not be startled ; it was a natural death. She responded to the sole wishes left to his family. He buried the woman, and I received him. I took him on my tour. A second marriage might cover the first: there would be a buzz about the old business: the woman's relatives write to him still, try to bleed him, I dare say. However, now you understand Ins irloominess. I don't imagine he regrets his 1 — . Hi' probably sentimentalizes, like most men when they are well rid of a burden. You must not think the worse of him." " I do not," said Clara. "I defend him whenever the matter's discussed." " I hope you do." " Without approving his folly. I can't wash him clean." Tiny were at the Hall-doors. She waited for any per- sonal communications he might be pleased to make, and as there was none, she ran upstairs to her room. lie In I tossed her to Vernon in his mind not only pain- lessly, but with a keen acid of satisfaction. The heart is the wizard. Next he bent his deliberate steps to Laditia. The mind was guilty of some hesitation ; the feet went forward. .She was working at an embroidery by an open window. Colonel De Cr;i ied outside, and AVilloughby pardoned le :■ air id' demure amusumen', on hearing him say: "No, I have had one of the pleasantest half-hours of my life, and TO THE CENTRE OF EGOISM. 379 would rather idle here, if idle you will have it, than employ my faculties on horse-back." " Time is not lost in conversing with Miss Dale," said Willoughby. The light was tender to her complexion where she sat in partial shadow. De Craje asked whether Crossjay had been caught. Lsetitia murmured a kind word for the boy. Willoughby examined her embroidery. The ladies Eleanor and Isabel appeared. They invited her to take carriage-exercise with them. Laatitia did not immediately answer, and Willoughby remarked : " Miss Dale has been reproving Horace for idle- ness, and I recommend you to etilist him to do duty, while I relieve him here." The ladies had but to look at the colonel. He was at their disposal, if they would have him. He was marched to the carriage. Lsetitia plied her threads. " Colonel De Crave spoke of Crossjay," she said. " May I hope you have forgiven the poor boy, Sir Willoughby ?" He replied : " Plead for him." " I wish I had eloquence." " In my opinion you have it." " If he offends, it is never from meanness. At school, among comrades, he would shine. He is in too strong a light ; his feelings and his moral nature are over- excited." " That was not the case when he was at home with you." " I am severe ; I am stern." " A Spartan mother !" " My system of managing a boy would be after that model : except in this : he should always feel that he could obtain forgiveness." " Not at the expense of justice ?" " Ah ! young creatures are not to be arraigned before the higher Courts. It seems to me perilous to terrify their imaginations. If we do so, are we not likely to produce the very evil we are combating ? The alternations for the young should be school and home : and it should be in their hearts to have confidence that forgiveness alternates with discipline. They are of too tender an age for the rigours of the world ; we are in danger of hardening them. I prove to you that I 380 THE EGOTRT. nm • id of eloquence. You encouraged me to speak, Willoughby." '• Vmii Bpeak wisely. I. ; a." 11 I tliink it true. Will imt you reflect on it? You have milv to him, Laetitia the latter. But what if there might i -: '\ in holding tenaciously to Clara than in casting her off for Laetitia ? No, she had done things to set his pride throbbing in the quick. She had gone bleeding About first to one, then to another ; she had betrayed him to Vernon, and to Mrs. Mountstuart; a look in the eyes of Horace De Craye said, to him as well: to whom not ? He tit hold to her for vengeance ;. but that appetite was short-lived in him if it ministered nothing to his purposes. " I discard all idea of vengeance," he said, and thrilled burn- ingly to a smart in his admiration of the man who could be so magnanimous under mortal injury: for the more admiral. !<• he, the more pitiable. He drank a drop or two of s« lf-pity like a poison, repelling the assaults of public pity. 1 a must be ip. It must be seen by the world that, as he felt, the thing he did was right. Laocoon of his own serpents, he struggled to a certain magnificence of attitude in the muscular net of constrictions he flung around himself. I a must be given up. bright Abominable ! She must en up: but not to one whose touch of her would be - in the blood of the yielder, snakes in his bed : she must an extinguisher; to be the second wife of an old-fashioned semi-recluse, disgraced in his first. And were iblicly known that she bad been cast off, and had fallen Id \ i i noil forarefnge, and part in spite, part in shame. IN THE HEART OP TnE EGOTST. 383 part m desperation, part in a fit of good sense under the cir- cumstances, espoused him, her beauty would not influence the world in its judgement. The world would know what to think. As the instinct of self-preservation whispeied to Willoughby, the world, were it requisite, might be taught to think what it assuredly would not think if she should be seen tripping to the altar with Horace De Craye. Self-pre- servation, not vengeance, breathed that whisper. He glanced at her iniquity for a justification of it, without any desire to do her a permanent hurt : he was highly civilized : but with a strong intention to give her all the benefit of the scandal, supposing a scandal, or ordinary tattle. " And so he handed her to his cousin and secretary, Ver- non Whitford, who opened his mouth and shut his eyes" Tou hear the world ? How are we to stop "it from chatter- ing ? Enough that he had no desire to harm her. Some gentle anticipations of her being tarnished were imperative ; they came spontaneously to him ; otherwise the radiance of that bright Abominable in loss would have been insufferable ; he could not have borne it; he could never have surrendered her. Moreover, a happy present effect was the result. He conjured up the anticipated chatter and shrug of the world so vividly that her beauty grew hectic with the stain, bereft of its formidable magnetism. He could meet her calmly ; he had steeled himself. Purity in women was his principal stipulation, and a woman puffed at, was not the person to cause him tremours. Consider him indulgently : the Egoist is the Son of Him- self He is likewise the Father. And the son loves the father, the father the son ; they reciprocate affection through the closest of ties ; and shall they view behaviour unkindly wounding either of them, not for each other's dear sake abhorring the criminal ? They would not injure you, but they cannot consent to see one another suffer or crave in vain. The two rub together in sympathy besides relationship to an intenser one. Are you, without much offending, sacrificed by them, it is on the altar of their mutual love, to filial piety or paternal tenderness : the younger has offered a dainty morsel to the elder, or the elder to the younger. Absorbed in their great example of devotion, they do not think of you. They are beautiful I Til K EGOIST. Y( t ?* if most trne thai t lio yonncror hns the passions of 1 1 : thereof will come division between them ; and this is They are then pathetic. This was the state of Sir Willoughby lending ear to his elder, nntil he submitted to bite ai the fruit proposed to him — with how wry a mouth senior chose not to mark. At Least, as we per- .: half of him was ripe of wisdom in his own interests. The cruder half had hut to hi- obedient to the leadership of icity for his interests to I, • secured, and a filial disposition I him; painfully indeed; hut the same rare quality directed th I gentleman to Bwallow his pain. That the sou should bewail his fate were a dishonour to the sire. He renced, and submitted. Thus, to say, consider him in- dulgently, is too much an appeal for charity on behalf of one requiring hut initial anatomy — a slicing in halves — to ex- ite, perchance exalt him. The Egoist is our fountain- i. primeval man: the primitive is born again, the elemen- tal bituted. Born again, into new conditions, the ay be highly polished of men, and forfeit nothing the roughness of his original nature. He is not only his own father, he is ours; and he is also our son. We have 1 him, he u*?. Such were we, to such are we return- ing : not other, sings the poet, than one who roil fully works his Rballop I the tide, 'si brachia forte remisit ' : — let him [y relax the labour of his arms, however high up the .in. and hack he goes, 'in pejus,' to the early principle ii- being, with seeds and plants, that are as carelessly weighed in the hand and as indiscriminately husbanded as our humanity. Poets on the other side may be cited for an assurance that the primitive is ao1 the degenerate: rather is he a sign of the indestructibility of the race, of the ancient energy in re- moving obstacles to individual growth; a sample of what wo would be, had we his concentrated power. He is the original innocent, I he pure simple. It is we who have fallen ; we have melted into Society, diluted our essence, dissolved. He stands in the midst monumentally, a landmark of the tough and honest old with the symbolic alphabet of striking arms fiii I running our early language, scrawled over hisperson, the glorious firsl t'int and arrow-head for his crest : at one the spectre of the Kitchen-midden and our ripest issue. But Society is about him. The occasional spectacle of the IN THE HEART OF THE EGOIST. 085 primitive dangling on a rope, has impressed his mind with the strength of his natural enemy : from which uncongenial sight he has turned shuddering hardly less to behold the blast that is blown upon a reputation where one has been disrespectful of the many. By these means, through medita- tion on the contrast of circumstances in life, a pulse of imagination has begun to stir, and he has entered the upper sphere, or circle of spiritual Egoism: he has become the civilized Egoist ; primitive still, as sure as man has teeth, but developed in his manner of using them. Degenerate or not (and there is no just reason to suppose it), Sir Willoughby was a social Egoist, fiercely imaginative in whatsoever concerned him. He had discovered a greater realm than that of the sensual appetites, and he rushed across and around it in his conquering period with an Alex- ander's pride. On these wind-like journeys he had carried Constantia, subsequently Clara ; and however it may have been in the case of Miss Durham, in that of Miss Middle- ton it is almost certain she caught her glimpse of his interior from sheer fatigue in hearing him discourse of it. What he revealed was not the cause of her sickness : women can bear revelations — they are exciting: but the monotonousness. He slew imagination. There is no direr disaster in love than the death of imagination. He dragged her through the labyrinths of his penetralia, in his hungry coveting to be loved more and still more, more still, until imagination gave up the ghost, and he talked to her plain hearing like a monster. It must have been that ; for the spell of the primitive upon women is masterful up to the time of contact. ' And so he handed her to his cousin and secretary Vernon "VVhitford, who opened his mouth and shut his eyes.' The urgent question was, how it was to be accomplished. Willoughby worked at the subject with all his power of concentration : a power that had often led him to feel and say, that as a banister, a diplomatist, or a general, he would have won his grades : and granting him a personal interest in the business, he might have achieved eminence: he schemed and fenced remarkably well. He projected a scene, following expressions of anxiety on account of old Vernon and his future settlement : and then — Clara maintaining her doggedness, to which he was nov 2 c THE kgoist. bo accustomed ihat he could not conceive a change in it— > - be: " It' yon determine on breaking, I give yon back your word on out- condition.' Whereupon she starts : hg I on her promise: she declines: affairs resume their former footing ; she frets, she begs for the disclosure: he her by telling her his desire to keep her in the family: she is unilluminated, but strongly moved by curiosity : he philosophizes on marriage — 'What are we? poor crea- tures ! we must get through life as we can, doing as much good as we can to those we love; and think as you please, I love old Vernon. Am I not giving you the greatest possible proof of ii She will not see. Then flatly out comes the one condition. That and no other. 'Take Vernon and I release you.' She refuses. Now ensues the debate, all the oratory being with him. 'Is it because of his unfor- tunate 6rst marriage ? You assured me you thought no worse of him : Ac' She declares the proposal revolting. He can distinguish nothing that should offend her in a pro- posal to make his cousin happy if she will not him. Irony and Barcasm relieve his emotions, but he convinces her he aling plainly and intends generosity. She is confused ; she speaks in maiden fashion. He touches again on Vernon's early escapade. She does not enjoy it. The scene closes with his Kidding her reflect on it, and remember the one condition of her release. Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, now reduced to believe that he burns to be free, is then called '" [° r an interview with Clara. His aunts Eleanor and Isabel I her. Laetitia in passionate earnest besieges °_ er - Her father is wrought on to besiege her. Finally X ' : " n ia attacked by Willoughby and Mrs. Mountstuart:— and here, Willoughby chose to think, was the main diffi- Bul the girl has monev ; she is agreeable; Vernon a her; she is fond of his 'Alps,' they have tastes in common, he likes her Father, and in the end he besieges her. V\ ill she yieldr I),. Craye is absent. There is no other way of shunning a marriage she is incomprehensibly but franti- cal ■'■ •• ,,) - She is in the toils. Her father will stay at I atterne Hall as long as his host desires it. Shehesitates, ts i overcome; in spite of a certain nausea due to Vernon's preceding alliance, she > ields. Willou^hhy revolved the entire drama in Clara's presence. It helped him to look on her coolly. Conducting her to the IN THE HEART OF THE EGOIST. 387 dinner-table, he spoke of Crossjay, not unkindly ; and at table lie revolved the set of scenes with a heated animation that took fire from the wine and the face of his friend Horace, while he encouraged Horace to be flowingly Irish. He nipped the felloAV good-humouredly once or twice, having never felt so friendly to him since the day of his arrival ; but the position of critic is instinctively taken by men who do not flow: and Patterne Port kept Dr. Middleton in a benevolent reserve when Willoughby decided that something said by De Craye was not new, and laughingly accused him of failing to consult his anecdotal note-book for the double- cross to his last sprightly sally. "Your sallies are excellent, Horace, but spare us your Aunt Sallies ! " De Craye had no repartee, nor did Dr. Middleton challenge a pun. We have only to sharpen our wits to trip your seductive rattler whenever we may choose to think proper ; and evidently, if we condescended to it, we could do better than he. The critic who has hatched a witticism is impelled to this opinion. Judging by the smiles of the ladies, they thought so too. Shortly before eleven o'clock, Dr. Middleton made a Spartan stand against the offer of another bottle of Port. The regulation couple of bottles had been consumed in equal partnership, and the Rev. doctor and his host were free to pay a ceremonial visit to the drawing-room, where they were not expected. A piece of work of the elder ladies, a silken boudoir sofa-rug, was being examined, with high approval of the two younger. Vernon and Colonel De Craye had gone out in search of Crossjay, one to Mr. Dale's cottage, the other to call at the head and under-game-keepers. They were said to be strolling and smoking, for the night was fine. Anything but obtuse, Willoughby left the room and came back with the key of Crossjay's door in his pocket. He foresaw that the delinquent might be of service to him. Laetitia and Clara sang together. Lastitia was flushed, Clara pale. At eleven they saluted the ladies Eleanor and Isabel. Willoughby said, " Good night " to each of them, contrasting as he did so the downcast look of Laetitia with Clara's frigid directness. He divined that they were off to talk over their one object of common interest, Crossjay* Saluting his aunts, he took up the rug, to celebrate their diligence and taste ; and that he might make Dr. Middleton impatient for bed, he provoked him to admire it, held it out 2c2 3S3 THE KGOTBT. and l:ii 1 it out, nnd caused the courteous old gentleman some nsion in bitting on fresh terms of commendation. fore midnight the room was empty. Ten minutes later, Willoughby paid it a visit, and found it untenanted by the person Ik- had engaged to be there. Vexed by his disap- pointment, be paced up and down, and chanced abstractedly to catch the rug in his hand ; for what purpose, he might well himself; admiration of ladies' work, in their absence, was unlikely to occurto him. Nevertheless the touch of the warm soft silk was meltingly feminine. A glance at the mantel-piece clock told him Laetitia was twenty minutes behind the hour. Her remissness might endanger all his plans, alter the whole course of his life. The co-lours in which he painted her were too lively to last ; the madness in his head threat- ened to subside. Certain it was that he could not be ready a second night for the sacrifice he had been about to perform. The clock was at the half hour after twelve. He flung the silken thing on the central ottoman, extinguished the lamps, and walked out of the room, charging the absent La-tit ia to bear her misfortune with a consciousness of de- serving it. CHAPTER XL. MIDNTGTTT: SIR WILLOUGHBY AND LATITIA : WITH YOUNG CROSSJAY UNDER A COVERLET. ToiJNd Cross jay was a glutton at holidays and never thought of home till it was dark. The close of the day saw him :ai miles away from the Hall, dubious whether he would round his numerous adventures by sleeping at an inn; for he had lots of money, and the idea of jumping up in the morning in a strange place was thrilling. Besides, when he was shaken out of sleep by Sir Willoughby, he had been that he was to go, and not to show his face at Patterne MIDNIGHT. 389 again. On the other hand, Miss Middleton had bidden him come back. There was little question with him which per- son he should obey : he followed his heart. Supper at an inn, where he found a company to listen to his adventures, delayed him, and a short cut, intended to make up for it, lost hira his road. He reached the Hall very late, ready to be in love with the horrible pleasure of a night's rest under the stars, if necessary. But a candle burned at one of the back windows. He knocked, and a kitchen-maid let him in. She had a bowl of hot soup pre- pared for him. Cross] ay tried a mouthful to please her. His head dropped over it. She roused him to his feet, and he pitched against her shoulder. The dry air of the kitchen department had proved too much for the tired youngster. Mary, the maid, got him to step as firmly as he was able, and led him by the back-way to the hall, bidding him creep noiselessly to bed. He understood his position in the house, and though he could have gone fast to sleep on the stairs, he took a steady aim at his room and gained the door cat- like. The door resisted. He was appalhd and unstrung in a minute. The door was locked. Crossjay felt as if he were in the presence of Sir Willoughby. He fled on ricketty legs, and had a fall and bumps down half-a-dozen stairs. A door opened above. He rushed across the hall to the drawing- room, invitingly open, and there staggered in darkness to the ottoman and rolled himself in something sleek and warm, soft as hands of ladies, and redolent of them ; so delicious that he hugged the folds about his head and heels. While he was endeavouring to think where he was, his legs curled, his eyelids shut, and he was in the thick of the cTay's adven- tures, doing yet more wonderful things. He heard his own name : that was quite certain. He knew that he heard it with his ears, as he pursued the fleetest dreams ever accorded to mortal. It did not mix : it was outside him, and like the danger-pole in the ice, which the skater shooting hither and yonder comes on again, it recurred; and now it marked a point in his career, now it caused him to relax his pace; he began to circle, and whirled closer round it, until, as at a blow, his heart knocked, he tightened himself, thought of bolting, and lay dead-still to throb and hearken. " Oh ! Sir Willoughby," a voice had said. • TDK EGOIf :•• The nc-ccnts were Bharp with alarm. " My friend ! my dearest ! " was i lie answer. 11 I i ime i" Bpeak of ( Irossjay." '• Will you sil here, on t be ottoman ? " No, 1 cannot wait. 1 hoped I bad heard Crossjay ro« turn. I wonld rather not sit down. May I entreat you to pardon him when he comes home ? " *' Von. and you only, may do so. I permit none else. Of I - jay to-morrow." •• Be ma\ be lying in the fields. We are anxious." "The rascal can take pretty good care of himself." " Crossjay is perpetually meeting accidents-" '* Be shall be indemnified if he has had excess of punish- " I think I will say good night, Sir Willoughby." " When freely and unreservedly you have given me your hand. - ' re was hesitation. "To Bay g 1 night ?*' " I ask for your hand." lit. Sir Willoughby," " You do not give it. Yon are in doubt ? Still ? "What iust 1 use to convince yon ? And yet you know me. Who knows me but you? You have always known 5 "ii arc my home and my temple.' Have you forgotten your verses for the day of my majority ? '"The dawn-stnr 1ms arisen m lii plenitude of lijjlit ....'" Do not repeat them, pray ! " cried Lretitia with a pa«?p. "I have repeated them to myself a thousand times: in India, America, Japan: they were like our English skylark oiling to me. *" My heart, now burst thy prison Willi proud aerial flight! '" " n '' ' I 1 i will not force me to listen to nonsense I wrote when I was a child. No more of those most h lines! If you knew what it is to write and despise MIDNIGHT. 391 one's -writing, you would not distress me. And since you will not speak of Crossjay to-night, allow me to retire." " You know me, and therefore you know my contempt for verses, as a rule, Laetitia. But not for yours to me. Why should you call them foolish ? They expressed your feelings — I hold them sacred. They are something religious to me, not mere poetry. Perhaps the third verse is my favourite • • . " It will be more than I can bear ! " " You were in earnest when you wrote them ? " " I was very young, very enthusiastic, very silly." " You were and are my image of constancy ! " " It is an error, Sir Willoughby ; I am far from being the same." " We are all older, I trust wiser. I am, I will own; much wiser. Wise at last ! I offer you my hand." She did not reply. " I offer you my hand and name, Laetitia ! " No response. " You think me bound in honour to another ? " She was mute. " I am free. Thank heaven ! I am free to choose my mate — the woman I have always loved ! Freely and un- reservedly, as I ask you to give your hand, I offer mine. You are the mistress of Patterne Hall ; my wife ! " She had not a word. " My dearest ! do you not rightly understand ? The hand I am offering you is disengaged. It is offered to the . lady I respect above all others. I have made the discovery that I cannot love without respecting; and as I will not marry without loving, it ensues that I am free — I ana yours. At last ? — your lips move : tell me the words. Have always loved, I said. You cany in your bosom the magnet of constancy, and I, in spite of apparent deviations, declare to you that I have never ceased to be sensible of the attraction. And now there is not an impediment. AVe two against the world ! we are one. Let me confess to an old foible — perfectly youth- ful, and you will ascribe it to youth : once I desired to ab- sorb. I mistrusted ; that was the reason : I perceive it. You teach me the difference of an alliance with a lady of intellect. The pride I have in you, Lastitia. definitively cures me of that insane passion — call it an insatiable hunger 392 TTTE EGOIST. nize J( as a folly of youth. I have, as it were, gone the tour, to come home to you at last? -and live our manly life of comparative equals. At last, then ! But remember, thai in the younger man yon would have had a despot — baps a jealous despot. Young men, 1 assure you, are orientally inclined in their ideas of love. Love gets a bad name from them. We, my Laetitia, do not regard love as a Belfishness. If it is, it is the essence of life. At least it is our selfishness iendered beautiful. I talk to you like a man who has found a compatriot in a foreign land. It seems to me that I have not opened my mouth for an age. lcettainly have nnt unlocked my heart. Those who sing for joy are not unintelligible to me. If T had not something in me worth saying, 1 think I should sing. In every sense you reconcile me lo men and the world, Lastitia. Why press you speak? I will be the .speaker. As surely as you know me, 1 know you ; and . . . ." Laetitia burst forth with, "No!" " I do not know you? " said he, searchimdy mellifluous. "Hardly." " How not?" " I am changed ? *' " In what way ? " "Deeply." "Sedater?" " Materially." iur will come back : have no fear; I promise it. If von imagine you want renewing, I have the specific, I, my lo\ e, I ' ' • Forgive me— will you tell me, Sir Willoughby, whether yon have broken with .Miss Middleton ? " Etesl satisfied, my dear Loetitia. She is as free as I am. t can do no more than a man of honour should do. She releases me. To-morrow or next day she departs. We, itia, yon and I. my love, are home birds. It does not do for the home bud to couple with the migratory. The little imperceptible change yon allude to, is nothing. Italy will • vou - J ; "" ready to stake my own health— never yet shaken by a doctor of medicine:- I say medicine advisedly, ''" ,1 "' 1 ' 1 ' are doctors of Divinity who would shake giants :— that an Italian trip will send you back— that I shall bring you home from Italy a blooming bride. You shake your MIDNIGHT. 893 head — despondently ? My love, I guarantee it. Cannot 1 give you colour ? Behold! Come to the light, look in the giass." " I may redden," said Lastitia. " I suppose that is due to the action of the heart. I am changed. Heart, for any other purpose, I have not. I am like you, Sir Willoughby, in this : I could not marry without loving, and I do not know what love is, except that it is an empty dream." " Marriage, my dearest . . . ." "You are mistaken." " I will cure you, my Laatitia. Look to me, I am the tonic. It is not common confidence, but conviction. I, my love, I!' " There is no cure for what I feel, Sir Willoughby." " Spare me the formal prefix, I beg. You place your hand in mine, relying on me. I am pledged for the remainder. We end as we began : my request is for your hand — your hand in marriage." " I cannot give it." " To be my wife ! " " It is an honour : I must decline it." "Are you quite well, Lastitia ? I propose in the plainest terms 1 can employ, to make you Lady Patterne — mine." " I am compelled to refuse." " Why ? Refuse ? Your reason ! " " The reason has been named." He took a stride to inspirit his wits. ' There's a madness comes over women at times, I know. Answer me, Laetitia : — by all the evidence a man can have, I could swear it : — but answer me : you loved me once ? " " I was an exceedingly foolish, romantic girl." " You evade my question : I am serious. Oh ! " he walked away from her, booming a sound of utter repudiation of her present imbecility, and hurrying to her side, said : " But it was manifest to the whole world ! It was a legend. To love like Laetitia Dale, was a current phrase. You were an example, a light to women : no one was your match for devotion. You were a precious cameo, still gazing ! And J was the object. You loved me. You loved me, you belonged to me, you were mine, my possession, my jewel ; I was prouder of your constancy than of anything else that I had on earth. It was a part of the order of the universe to me. A doubt of 894 THE EGOIST. it would hnvo disturbed my creed. Why, good heaven! where [a not hing solid on earth ? You loved me ! " •■ I was childish indeed." ■• Yon !,. . ed me passionately ! " •• 1),, you insisl on shaming me through and thi*ough, Sir Willoughby P 1 have been exposed enough. " " You cannot blot ont the past : it is written, itis recorded. Y .i Loved me devotedly, silence is no escape. You loved me." • I did." " Yon never loved mo, you shallow woman ! 'I did !' As if there could be a cessation of a love ! What are we to reckon on as ours ? "We prize a woman's love ; we guard it jealously, we trusl to it, dream of it; there is our wealth; there is our talisman ! And when Ave open the casket, it has flown ! — barren vacuity ! — we are poorer than dogs. As well think of keeping a costly wine in potter's clay as love in the heart of a woman ! There are women — women ? Oh ! they are all of a stamp — coin ! Coin for any hand ! It's a fiction, an imposture — they cannot love ! They are the shadows of men. Compared with men, they have as much heart in them the shadow beside the body ! Laetitia ! " "Sir Willoughby." '• Yon refuse my offer?" "I nn. '• You refuse to take me for your husband ?" " 1 ca-nnol be your wife." " You have changed ? . . . . You have set yonr heart ? .... Yon could marry? .... there is a man? .... Yon could marry one! I will have an answer, I am sick of isions. What was in the mind of heaven when women were created, will be the riddle to the end of the world! Every good man in turn lias made the inquiry. I have a riuht to know who robs me — We may try as we like to solve it. — Satan is painted laughing! — I say I have a right to know who robs me. Answer me." '' I shall not marry." " That Is not an answer." " I ]o\ e qo 0] "You loved me. — You are silent ? — but you confessed it. Then yon confess it was a love that could die ! Are you unable to perceive how that redounds to my discredit ? You MIDNIGHT. 395 loved me, you have ceased to love me. In other words, yon charge me with incapacity to sustain a woman's love. You accuse me of inspiring a miserable passion that cannot last a life-time! You let the world see that I am a man to be aimed at for a temporary mark ! And simply because I happen to be in your neighbourhood at an age when a young woman is impressionable ! You make a public example of me a s a man for whom women may have a caprice, but that is all ; he cannot enchain them ; he fascinates passingly ; they fall off. Is it just, for me to be taken up and cast down at your will ? Reflect on that scandal ! Shadows ? Why, a man's shadow is faithful to him at least. What are women ? There is not a comparison in nature that does not tower above them ! not one that does not hoot at them ! I, throughout my life guided by absolute deference to their weakness — paying them politeness, courtesy — whatever I touch I am happy in, except when I touch women ! How is it ? What is the mystery ? Some monstrous explanation must exist. What can it be ? I am favoured by fortune from my birth until I enter into relations with women ! But will you be so good as to account for it in your defence of them ? Oh ! were the relations dishonourable, it would be quite another matter. Then they .... I could recount .... I disdain to chronicle such victories. Quite another matter ! But they are flies, and I am something more stable. They are flies. I look beyond the day ; I owe a duty to my line. They are flies. I foresee it, I shall be crossed in my fate so long as I fail to shun them — flies ! Not merely born for the day, I maintain that they are spiritually ephemeral. — Well, my opinion of your sex is directly traceable to you. You may alter it, or fling another of us men out on the world with the old bitter experience. Consider this, that it is on your head if my ideal of women is wrecked. It rests with you to restore it. 1 love you. I discover that you are the one woman I have always loved. I come to you, I sue you, and suddenly — you have changed ! ' I have changed : I am not the same.' What can it mean ? ' I cannot marry : I love no one.' And you say you do not know what love is — avowing in the same breath that you did love me ! Am I the empty dream ? My hand, heart, fortune, name, are yours, at your feet : you kick them hence. I am here — you reject me. But why, for what mortal reason am I here other THK EGOI8T. mv faith in your love? You drew me to you, to repel :hed re i1 3 : t that, Sir Willoughby." •• i; i any possible - mthat I am still entangled, e you I am, perfectly free in fact and in "It is not i • • \ r you b p power. Wonkl you have me I I'n ':" ■• i >h ! no; ir would complete my grief." ■ Y _ - Then von believe in my affection, and i hurl it away. I have no doubt that as a poetess, you . love is eternal. And you have loved me. And 1 me you love me no more. You are not very logical, tia Dale." • p .rely are: if I am one, which I little pretend t i be for writing silly verses. I have passed out of thai delusion, with thi ■ You Bhall not ' iose dear old days, Latitia. I see them now; when I rode by your cottage and you were at ir window, pen in hand, your hair straying over your i 1. :iantic, yes; not foolish. Why were you foolish in thinking of m< ^v. \',| in. man Is happier to hear an ejaculation that he laboured for with so much sweat of liis brow than the on, I ran assure you," Dr. Middleton mildly groaned. •• I have notions of the trouble of Abraham. A sermon of that description i^ an immolation of the parent, however it may go w n li t he child." Willoughby sool hed his < !lara. ■• 1 wish I had been here to i hare it. I might have saved yon some tears. I may have been hasty in our little dissen- I will acknowledge that I have been. My temper is : ascible." Lfl mine!" exclaimed Dr. Middleton. " And yet 1 am not aware that I made the worse husband for it. Nor do 1 rightly comprehend how a probably justly exciteable temper can stand for a plea in mitigation of an attempt at an out rag ls breach of fail h." " The sermon is over, sir." ■ I;. . erberai ioi - !" t he Rev. doctor waved his arm placably. "Take it lor 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 < Jlara. 'Thai the owner of your hand should petition you for inquired her fat hi She Bonght refuge in a fit of tears. Willoughby bent above her, mute. 1 B -erne that is hardly conceivable as a parent's obligation once in a lustrum, to be repeated within the half hour :" shouted her fat her. She drew up her shoulders and shook ; let them fall and dropped her hi ad. " My dearest ! your hand !" fluted Willoughby. The hand surrendered; it was much like the icicle of a sudden thaw. W illoughby squeezed it to his ribs. Dr. Middleton marched up and down the room with hia Dfi. MIDDLETON : CLAEA- SIR WILLOUGITBY. 403 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 sequinoctial fury departs. 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. Mid- dleton would for the moment have supposed his daughter. Clara said : " Shall you be on the lawn, papa ?" Willoughby interposed. " Stay, sir ; give us your bless- ing." " 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 Wil- loughby. " I cannot !" Clara cried in extremity. " The day is important on its arrival," said her father , " but I apprehend the decision to be of the chief import- ance 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 2 u2 404 THB EG0I8T. the blood of the girl, he called her his darling, and hall tnd her, Bhadow ii g forth a salute. She strung her body to submit, seeing her father take it •• his immediate rel ii*i nenl . \\ illougbby was npon him before be reached the door. '• lb ar iis .nit. sir. Do not go. Stay, al my entreaty. I we have m>t come to a perfect reconcilement." •• It" thai is your opinion," said Clara, "it is good reason for nut distressing my father." ■ Dr. Middleton, 1 Love your daughter. I wooed her and her; 1 had your consent to our union, and I was the bappii -i of mankind. In Borne way, since her coming to my I I know in it how— Bhe will not tell me, or cannot — I aded. ( >ii" may he innocent and offend. I have never pretended to impeccability, which is an admission that I may naturally offend. My appeal to her is for an explana- tion or for pardon, I obtain neither. Had our positions i. iih! not for any real offence — not for the can be imagined — 1 think not — I hope not — could I have been tempted to propose the dissolution of our ent. To love is to love, with me; an engagement it urn hond. "With all my errors I have that merit of :• fidelity — to the world laughable ! I confess to a mul- fcitude of errors ; 1 have thai single merit, and am not tho more estimable in your daughter's eyes on account of it, I In plain words, 1 am, I do not doubt, one of the fools among men; of the description of human dog commonly known as faithful — whose destiny is thai of a tribe. A man who cries oul when he is hurt is absurd, and I am not asking ympathy. Call me luckless. But I abhor a breach of a. A broken pledge is hateful to me. I should regard i' in in; a form of suicide. There are principles which civilized men must contend for. Our social fabric is based them. As my word stands forme, I hold others to theirs. Jt thai i nol done, the world is more or less a carnival of In tins instance — Ah! Clara, my love! and have principles: you have inherited, you have been in- i with them: have I. then, in my ignorance I past penitence, that you, of all women ? .... And without being able to name my sin!— Not only for what I I by it. but in the abstract, judicially— apart from the I interest, grief, pain, and the possi. DR. MIDDLETON : CLARA ! SIR WILLOUGHBY. 40,5 bility 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 presumption 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 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 ?" (ill) THE EGOIST. •• | » » i |i ive us, dear father." •• v.- otlence, Clara, m\ eel What is it ? "Will yon nnl-- name it ?" • Father, will you leave us? We can better speak to- ri- . . . ." • We have spoken, Clara, how often !" Willoughby re- sumed, " with what loult p" — that you loved me, that you i ed t'> love mo: that your heart was mine, that you have withdrawn it. plucked it from me: that yon request in.- to consenl to a sacrifice involving my reputation, my life. And what have I done? I am the same, unchangeable. I loved ami Love yon : my heart was yours, and is, and will be yours for ever. You are my affianced — that is, my wife. What have I d " Ir is indeed useless," Clara sighed. Noi iseless, my girl, that you should inform this gentle- man, your affianced husband, of the ground of the objection rived against him." " I cannot say." "Do you know?" " If 1 could name it, I could hope to overcome it." Dr. Middleton addressed Sir Willoughby. ' I verily believe we are directing the girl to dissect a caprice. Such things are seen large by these young people, hut as they have neither organs nor arteries, nor brains, nor membranes, dissection and inspection will be alike profit- lessly practised. Your inquiry is natural for a lover, whose passion to inter into relations with the sex is ordinarily in proportion to his igmxrance of the stuff composing them. At a particular aire they traffic in whims: which are, I pre- sume, the spiritual of hysterics; and are indubitably pre- long as they are not pu: shed too far. Examples are not wanting to prove that a flighty initiative on the part of the male is a handsome corrective. In that case, we should probably have had the roof off the house, and the girl now feet. Ha !" :>i-e me. father. I am punished for ever thinking myself the Buperior of any woman," said Clara. r hand out to him, my dear, since he is for a formal ■ ciliation : and I can't wonder." ber ! I have said I do not .... I have said I can- ..." DR. MIDDLETON : CLARA : SIR WILLOUGHBY. 407 " By the most merciful ! "what ? what ? the name for it ! words for it !" " Do not frown on me, father. I wish him happiness. I cannot marry him. I do not love him." " You will remember that you informed me aforetime that you did love him." " I was ignorant .... I did not know myself. I wish him to be happy." " You deny him the happiness you wish him !" " It would not be for his happiness were I to wed him." " Oh !" burst from Willoughby. ' You hear him. He rejects your prediction, Clara Middle- ton." She caught her clasped hands up to her throat. "Wretched, wretched, both !" " And you have not a word against him, miserable girl !" " Miserable ! I am." " It is the cry of an animal !" " Yes, father." " You feel like one ? Your behaviour is of that shape. You have not a word ?" " Against myself : not against him." " And I, when you speak so generously, am to yield you ? give you up?" cried Willoughby. "Ah! my love, my Clara, impose what you will on me ; not that. It is too much for man. It is, I swear it, beyond my strength." " Pursue, continue the strain : 'tis in the right key," said Dr Middleton, departing. Willoughby wheeled and waylaid him with a bound. " Plead for me, sir ; you are all-powerful. Let her be mine, she shall be happy, or I will perish for it. I will call it on my head. — Impossible ! I cannot lose her. Lose you, my love ? It would be to strip myself of every blessing of body and soul. It would be to deny myself possession of grace, beauty, wit, all the incomparable charms of loveliness of mind and person in woman, and plant myself in a desert. You are my mate, the sum of everything I call mine. Clara, I should be less than man to submit to such a loss. Consent to it ? But I love you ! 1 worship you ! How can I consent to lose you ? . . . ." He saw the eyes of the desperately wily young woman Till EGOIST. k sideways. Dr. Middleton was pacing at ever shorter by the door. •• y,,!i hate m lloughby sank his voice. " it' i! Bhould turn to hate!" she murmured. '• Hatred of your husband ?" " l could ii"t promise," Bhe murmured more softly in her wil ■■ 1 1;. i red ':" he cried aloud, and Dr. Middleton stopped in lung np his head ; "Hatred of your husband ? e vowed to love and honour? Oh! no. e mine, it is not to be Eeared. I trust to my knowledge ture; I trusl In your blood, I trust in your educa- tion. Had I Dothing else to inspire confidence, I could trust inyoureyes. And Clara, take the confession : I would rather be hated than lose you. For if I lose you, you are in another world, out of this one holding me in its death-like cold : but if von hate me, we are together, we are still together. Any alliance, any. in preference to separation!" Clara listened with a critical ear. His language and tone were new ; and comprehending that they were in part ad- dressed I i her father, whose phrase: "A breach of faith:" he had so cunningly used, disdain of the actor prompted the eme blunder of her saving — frigidly though she said it: " You have not talked to me in this way hefore." " Finally," remarked her father, summing up the situation M le it from that little speech,"he talks to you in this way now ; and yon are under my injunction to stretch your haul out to him for a symbol of union, or to state your ■ -i ;i m to thai course. He,byyour admission, is at the .nus. and there, failing the why not, must you join him." Her head whirled. She had been severely flagellated and I previous to Wllloughby's entrance. Language to her peculiar repulsion eluded her. She formed the md perceived thai they would not stand to bear a ili from h< r father. She perceived too that Willoughby ready with his agony of supplication as she with hers. he had I for a resource, he had gestures, quite as bi i't : and a cry of her loathing of the union would fetch ervailing torrent of the man's love. ---What could she i oist ? 'I'll- epitlet has no meaning in such I ' shrieked the hundred-voiced instinct of within her, and alone with her father, alone with BR. MIDDLETON : CLARA : SIR WILLOUGHBY. 409 Willoughby, she could have invented some equivalent, to do her heart justice for the injury it sustained in her being unable to name the true and immense objection : but the pair in presence paralyzed her. She dramatized them each springing forward by turns, with crushing rejoinders. The activity of her mind revelled in giving them a tongue, but would not do it for herself. Then ensued the inevitable consequence of an incapacity to speak at the heart's urgent dictate : heart and mind became divided. One throbbed hotly, the other hung* aloof ; and mentally, while the sick inarticulate heart kept clamouring, she answered it with all that she imagined for those two men to say. And she dropped poison on it to still its reproaches : bidding herself remember her fatal postponements in order to preserve the seeming of consistency before her father ; calling it hypocrite ; asking herself, what was she ! who loved her ! And thus beating down her heart, she completed the mischief with a piercing view of the foundation of her father's advocacy of Wil- loughby, and more lamentably asked herself what her value was, if she stood bereft of respect for her father. Reason, on the other hand, was animated by her better nature to plead his case against her : she clung to her respect for him, and felt herself drowning with it: and she echoed Willoughby consciously, doubling her horror with the consciousness, in crying out on a world where the most sacred feelings are subject to such lapses. It doubled her horror, that she should echo the man ; but it proved that she was no better than he : only some years younger. Those years would soon be outlived: after which, he and she would be of a pattern. She was unloved : she did no harm to any one by keeping her word to this man : she had pledged it, and it would be a breach of faith not to keep it. No one loved her. Behold the quality of her father's love ! To give him happiness was now the principal aim for her, her own happiness being decently buried ; and here he was happy : Avhy should she be the cause of his going and losing the poor pleasure he so much enjoyed ? The idea of her devotedness nattered her feebleness. She betrayed signs of hesitation ; and in hesitating, she looked away from a look at Willoug-hby, thinking (so much against her nature Avas it to resign herself to him) that it would not have been so difficult with an ill-favoured man. With one ■110 THE EGOIST. lmn-il.lv ugly, it would have been a horrible exultation to r youth and take the fiendish leap. I i ; irtunately for Sir Willoughby, he had his reasons for g impatience; and seeing her deliberate, seeing her iok at his fine figure, his opinion of himself combined with his recollection of a particular maxim of the Great ! to assure him that her resistance was over: chiefly :._. as he supposed, to his physical perfections. I equently indeed, in the c< u test, between gentlemen and ladies, have the maxims of the Book stimulated the assailant to victory. Tin \ are rosy with blood of victims. To hear tin mi i- to hear a horn that blows the mort : has blown it a thousand tunes. It is good to remember how often they i icceeded, when, for the benefit of some future Lady Vauban, who may bestir her wits to gather maxims for the inspiriting of the Defence, the circumstance of a failure has to be r nled. Willoughby could not wait for the melting of the snows. He Baw full surely the dissolving process; and sincerely admiring and coveting her as he did, rashly this ill-fated bleman attempted to precipitate it, and so doing arrested. Whence might we draw a note upon vonder maxim, in words akin to these: Make certain ere a breath come from thee that thou be not a frost. ••.Mine! She is mine!" he cried: "mine once more! mine utterly ! mine eternally!" and he followed up his devouring exclamations in person as she, less decidedly, retreated. She retreated, as young ladies should ever do, two or three steps, and he would not notice that she had I ime an angry Dian, all arrows: her maidenliness in surrendering pleased him. Grasping one fair hand, he just allowed her to edge away from his embrace, crying: "Not [able of what I have gone through ! You shall not have to explain it, my Clara I will study you more diligently, to be guided by you, my darling. If I offend again, my will not find it hard to speak what my bride withheld — I do not ask why : perhaps not able to weigh the effect of her reticence: not at that time, when she was younger and perienced, estimating the sacredness of a plighted « "'■ It is past, we are one, my dear sir and father. may leave US now." DR. MIDDLETON : CLARA: SIR WILLOUGHBY. 41 1 "I profoundly rejoice to hear that I may," said Dr. Middleton. Clara writhed her captured hand. " No, papa, stay. It is an error, an error. You must not leave me. Do not think me utterly, eternally, belonging to any one but you. No one shall say I am his but you." " Are you quicksands, Clara Middleton, that nothing can be built on you ? Whither is a flighty head and a shifty will carrying the girl P" " Clara and I, sir," said Willoughby. " And so you shall," said the doctor, turning about. " Not yet, papa :" Clara sprang to him. " Why, you, you, you, it was you who craved to be alone ■with Willoughby!" her father shouted; "and here we are rounded to our starting-point, with the solitary difference that now you do not want to be alone with Willoughby. First I am bidden go ; next I am pulled back ; and judging by collar and coat-tail, I suspect you to be a young woman to wear an angel's temper threadbare before you determine upon which one of the tides driving him to and fro you intend to launch on yourself. Where is your mind ?" Clara smoothed her forehead. " I wish to please you, papa." " I request you to please the gentleman who is your ap- pointed husband." " I am anxious to perform my duty." " That should be a satisfactory basis for you, Willoughby; — as girls go !" " Let me, sir, simply entreat to have her hand in mine before you." •' Why not, Clara ?" " Why an empty ceremony, papa ?" " The implication is, that she-is prepared for the important one, friend Willoughby." " Her hand, sir ; the reassurance of her hand in mine under your eyes : — after all that I have suffered, I claim it, I think I claim it reasonably, to restore me to confidence." " Quite reasonably ; which is not to say, necessarily ; but, I will add, justifiably; and it may be, sagaciously, when dealing with the volatile." " And here," said Willoughby, " is my hand." Clara recoiled. 412 Tin: EGOIST. Be stepped on. Her father Erowned. She lifted both her rom thta shrinking elbows, darted a look of repnlsion . and ran to her father, crying: "Call it my I am volatile, capricious, flighty, very foolish. But thai I attach a real meaning to it, and. feel it to be I _ I cannot think it an empty ceremony, if it is before mly be a little considerate to your moody girl. will be in a fil in a few hours. Spare me this •: : I musl colled myself. I thought I was free; I though! be would noi press me. If I give my hand hurriedly . I shall. I know, immediately repent it. There is the picture of But, papa. I mean to try to be above that, and I and walk by myself, I shall grow calm to perceive where my duty lies . . . . " In which direction shall you walk?" said Willoughby. lorn is doI upon a particular road," said Dr. Mid- dle ton. I. sir, of that one which leads to the rail- •i." • With some justice!" Dr. Middlcton sighed over his er. Clara coloured to deep crimson: but she was beyond an eer, and I by an offence coming from Wil- /hby. " I will promise not to leave his grounds, papa." ' My child, you have threatened to be a breaker of pro- ■ •• i di !" she wailed. " But I will make it a vow to you." • Why not make it a vow to me this moment, for this 3 contentment, that he shall be your husband \\ it bin a given period !" i" yon voluntarily. I burn to be alone." I hall lose her!" exclaimed Willoughby in heartfelt ■ • How 90 P" said Dr. Middleton. "I have her, sir, if you will me by continuing in abeyance. — You will come within an hoar voluntarily, Clara : and you will either at yield your hand to him, or yon will furnish reasons, and they must he good ones, for withholding it." •• V •• You win r ■■ I will " DE. M1DDLET0N : CLARA : SIR WILLOUGI1JBY. 413 11 Mind, I say reasons." "Reasons, papa. If I have none . . . ." " If you have none that are to my satisfaction, you im. plieitly, and instantly, and cordially obey my command." " I will obey." " What more would you require ?" Dr. ]\liddleton bowed to Sir Willoughby in triumph. "Will she "Sir! Sir!" " She is vour daughter, sir. I am satisfied." " She has perchance wrestled with her engagement, as the aboriginals of a land newly discovered by a crew of adventu- rous colonists do battle with the garments imposed on them by our considerate civilization ; — ultimately to rejoice with excessive dignity in the wearing of a battered cocked-hat and trowsers not extending to the shanks : but she did not break her engagement, sir; and we will anticipate that, moderating a young woman's native wildness, she may, after the manner of my comparison, take a similar pride in her fortune in good season." Willoughby had not leisure to sound the depth of Dr. Mid- leton's compliment. He had seen Clara gliding out of the room during the delivery ; and his fear returned on him that, not being won, she was lost. "She has gone;" her father noticed her absence. "She does not waste time in the mission to procure that astonish- ing product of a shallow soil, her reasons ; if such be the object of her search. But no: it signifies that she deems herself to have need of composure — nothing more. No one likes to be turned aboiit ; we like to turn ourselves about : and in the question of an act to be committed, we stipulate that it shall be our act — girls and others. After the lapse of an hour, it will appear to her as her act. — Happily, Wil- loughby, we do not dine away from Patterne to-night." "No, sir." " It may be attributable to a sense of deserving, but I could plead guilty to a weakness for old Port to-day." " There shall be an extra-bottle, sir." " All going favourably with you, as I have no cause to doubt," said Dr. Middleton, with the motion of wafting hia host out of the library. [ Tin: EGOIST. CHAPTEB XLII. §B0ws Tin: mmnim; aims of a pebcepttve MINT). St' from the Hall, a few minutes before Dr. Mid- :i,l Sir Willoughby had entered tin- drawing-room night, Vernon par-ted company with Colonel De Craye at the park-gates, and betook himself to the cottage of the hales, where i >. 1 1 1 1 i 1 1 lt had been beard of bis wanderer; and he : red the Mime disappointing reply from Dr. Corney, out oi the bed-room window of t be genial physician, -whose asto- nishment at his covering so long a stretch of road at night a boy like Crossjay gifted with the lives of a became violent and ra]>]>ed Punch-like blows on the window-sill at Vernon's refusal to take shelter and rest. non's excuse was thai be had 'no one hut that fellow to or,' and he strode off, naming a farm five miles distant. Dr Uorney howled an invitation to early breakfast to him, lie event of his passing on his way back, and retired to to think of him. The result of a variety of conjectures can Bed bim to set Vernon down as Miss Middleton's knight, and he felt a strong compassion for his poor friend. ' Though,' thought he, 'a hopeless attachment is as pretty an accom- panimenl to the tune of life as a gentleman might wish to have, for il of those big doses of discord which make all the minor ones fit in like an agreeable harmony, and so along as pleasantly as the fortune-favoured, when they come to compute !" Sir Willoughby was the fortune-favoured in the little tor's mind; that high-stepping gentleman having wealth, sideration, and the most ravishing young lady in the world for a bride. Still, though he reckoned all these advantages enjoyed by Sir Willoughby at their full value, ild imagine the ultimate balance of good fortune to be in favour of Vernon. Bui to do so. he had to reduce the, whole calculation to the extreme abstract, and feed his lean friend, as it were, on dew and root-: and the happy effect lay in a distant future, on the borders of old age, re he was to be blesl with his lady's regretful preference, and rejoice in the fruits of good constitutional habits. The i wa Irish. Sir Willoughby was a character of man profoundly opposed to Dr. Corney's nature; the A PERCEPTIVE MIND. 415 Tatter's instincts bristled with antagonism — not to his race, for Vernon was of the same race, partly of the same blood, and Corney loved him : the type of person was the annoy- ance. And the circumstance of its prevailing successl'ulness in the country where he was placed, while it held him silent as if under a law, heaped stores of insurgency in the Celtic bosom. Corney contemplating Sir Willoughby, and a trotting kern governed by Strongbow, have a point of likeness between them ; with the point of difference, that Corney was enlight- ened to know of a friend better adapted for eminent station, and especially better adapted to please a lovely lady — could these high-bred Englishwomen but be taught to conceive another idea of manliness than the formal carved-in-wood idol of their national worship ! Dr. Corney breakfasted very early, without seeing Vernon. He was off to a patient while the first lark of the morning carolled above, and the business of the day not yet fallen upon men in the shape of cloud, was happily intermixed with nature's hues and pipings. Turning off the highroad up a green lane, an hour later, he beheld a youngster prying into a hedge head and arms, by the peculiar strenuous twist of whose hinder parts, indicative of a frame plunged on the pursuit in hand, he clearly distinguished young Crossjay. Out came eggs. The doctor pulled up. " What bird ?" he bellowed. " Yellowhammer," Crossjay yelled back. •'Now, sir, you'll drop a couple of those eggs in the nest." '• Don't order me," Crossjay was retorting : '• Oh ! it's you, Dr. Corney. Good morning. I said that, because I always do drop a couple back. I promised Mr. Whitford I would, and Miss Middleton too." " Had breakfast ?" " Not vet." " Not hungry ?" " I should be if I thought about it." " Jump up." "I think I'd rather not Dr. Corney." " And you'll just do what Dr. Corney tells you ; and set your mind on rashers of curly fat bacon and sweetly-smoking coffee, toast, hot cakes, marmalade and damson-jam. Wide go the fellow's nostrils, and there's water at the dimples of his mouth ! Up, my man." 4 1 i) Hi T. Cro88J ay jumped ap beside the doctor, who remarked, as he touched his horse: "] don't wanl a man this morning, though I'll enlist vmi in my service if I do. You're fond of Middletonr"' h tead of answering, Crossjay heaved the sigh of love bi ars a bur len. \ik1 so am I." pursued the doctor- "Ton '11 have to put up with a rival. It's worse than fond: I'm in love with her. 1 tow do you like that ?" •■ I don'1 mind how many love her," said Crossjay. "You're worthy of a gratuitous breakfast in the front parlour of the besi hotel of the place they call Arcadia. And how about vour bed last night ?" " Pretty middling." " Hani, was it, where the bones haven't cushion ?" l> I don't care for bed. A couple of hours, and that's ngh for me." " But you're fond of Miss Middleton anyhow, and that's a virl To his great surprise, Dr. Corney beheld two big round - force their way out of this tough youngster's eyes, and all the while the boy's Eace was proud. Cr< said, when he could trust himself to disjoin his lips: " 1 want to see Mr. Whitford." ■• I lave \ on goi oews for him ?" "I've something to ask him. It's about what I ought .." •Thru, my boy, you have the right name addressed in the wrong direction : for I found you turning your shoulders on Mr. Whitford. And he has been out of his bed, hunting all the unholy eight you've made it for him. That's melancholy. What do you say to asking my advice?" Crossjay sighed. "I can't speak to anybody but Mr. Whitford." " And you're hot to speak to him ?" u I want to." " And I found you runn ay from him. You're a c y. Mr. ( !roj • Patti ne." " Ah ! Bo'd an;, body be who knew as much as I do," said I y, with a sober sadness that caused the doctor to treat hi: I8ly." 'The fad is," he said, "Mi-. Whitford is beating the A PERCEPTIVE MIND. 417 country for you. My best plan will be to drive you to tLe Hall." " I'd rather not go to the Hall," Crossjay spoke reso- lutely. "You won't see Miss Middleton anywhere but at the Hall." " I don't want to see Miss Middleton, if I can't be a bit of nse to her." " No danger threatening the lady, is there ?" Crossjay treated the question as if it had not been put. " Now, tell me," said Dr Corney, " would there be a chance for me, supposing Miss Middleton were disen- gaged ?" The answer was easy. *' I'm sure she wouldn't." " And why, sir, are you so cock sure ?" There was no saying ; but the doctor pressed for it, and at last Crossjay gave his opinion that she would take Mr. Whitford. The doctor asked why; and Crossjay said it was because Mr. Whitford was the best man in the world. To which, with a lusty " Amen to that," Dr. Corney remarked : " I should have fancied Colonel De Craye would have had the first chance : he's more of a lady's man." Crossjay surprised him again by petulantly saying : "Don't," The boy added: "I don't want to talk, except about birds and things. What a jolly morning it is! I saw the sun rise. No rain to-day. You're right about hungry, Dr. Corney !" The kindly little man swung his whip. Crossjay informed him of his disgrace at the Hall, and of every incident con- nected with it, from the tramp to the baronet, save Miss Middleton's adventure, and the night-scene in the drawing- room. A strong smell of something- left out struck Dr. Corney, and he said : " You'll not let Miss Middleton know of my affection. After all, it's only a little bit of love. But, as Patrick said to Kathleen, when she owned to such a little bit, ' that's the best bit of all !' and he was as right as I am about hungry." Crossjay scorned to talk of loving, he declared. " I never tell Miss Middleton what I feel. Why, there's Miss Dale's cottage!" 2 E 418 Tin booist. ■■ I- er to your empty inside than my mansion," said ■ an 1 we'll Btop just to inquire whether a bed's i 1 for you there to-night, and if not, I'll have you with ra< . and bottle you and exhibit you, for you're a rare n. Breakfast, you may count ou, from Mr. Dale. I leman." "••I; B Colonel De Crave." • i Jome after aews of you." " 1 wond ••'' , Middleton sends him; of course she does." ssjay turned bis full face to the doctor. "I haven't •i ber for such a long time! But he saw me last night, i he might have I >ld ber that, if she's anxious. — Good morning, colonel. I've had a good walk and a capital drive, and I'm as hungry as the boat's crew of Captain He j limped down. The colonel and t lie doctor saluted smiling. " L've run-- the bell," said De Crave. A maid came to the gate, and upon her steps appeared Mi-- I talc, who flung herself at Crossjay, mingling kisses and reproaches. She scarcely raised her face to the colonel more than to reply to his greeting, and excuse the hungry boy for hurrying indoors t<> breakfast. " I'll wait," said De Craye. He had seen that she was paler than usual. So bad Dr. Corney ; and the doctor I to her concerning her father's health. She reported that he had nut yet pis in, and took Crossjay to herself. '■ That's well," said the doctor, "if the invalid sleeps long. '1 lady is not looking so well, though. But ladies vary; show the mind on the countenance, for want of the pouching we meet with to conceal it; they're like military :• a funeral or a ^ala ; one day furled, and next day iming. Men are ships' figure-heads, about the same for irm or a calm, and not too handsome, thanks to the n. It- e since we encountered last, colonel: on :d the Dublin boat, 1 recollect, and a night it was !" " I n collect tb me on my legs, doctor." " Ah, and you'll please to notify that Corney's no quack at sea. by favour of the monks of the Chartreuse, whoso power to still the waves. And we hear that miracles are done with !" A. PERCEPTIVE MIND. 41 1) " Roll a physician and a monk together, doctor !" "True: it'll be a miracle if they combine. Though the cure of the soul is often the entire and total cure of the body : and it's maliciously said, that the body given over to our treatment is a signal to set the soul flying. By the "way, colonel, that boy has a trifle on his mind." " I suppose he has been worrying a fanner or a game- keeper." " Try him. You'll find him tight. He's got Miss Mid- dleton on the brain. There's a bit of a secret ; and he's not so cheerful about it." " We'll see," said the colonel. Dr. Corney nodded. " I have to visit my patient here presently. I'm too early for him : so I'll make a call or two on the lame birds that are up," he remarked, and drove away. De Craye strolled through the garden. He was a gentleman of those actively perceptive wits which, if ever they reflect, do so by hops and jumps : upon some dancing mirror within, we may fancy. He penetrated a plot in a flash ; and in a flash he formed one ; but in both cases, it was after long hovering and not over-eager deliberation, by the patient exercise of his quick perceptives. The fact that Crossjay was considered to have Miss Middleton on the brain, threw a series of images of everything relating to Crossjay for the last forty hours into relief before him: and as he did not in the slightest degree speculate on anyone of them, but merely shifted and surveyed them, the falcon that he was in spirit as well as in bis handsome face leisurely allowed his instinct to direct him where to strike. A reflective disposition has this danger in action, that it commonly precipitates con- jecture for the purpose of working upon probabilities with the methods and in the tracks to which it is accustomed : and to conjecture rashly is to play into the puzzles of the maze. He who can watch circling above it awhile, quietly viewing, and collecting in his eye, gathers matter that makes the secret thing discourse to the brain by weight and balance ; he will get either the right clue or none ; more frequently none ; but he will escape the entanglement of his own cleverness, he will always be nearer to the enigma than the guesser or the calculator, and he will retain a breadth of vision forfeited by 2 e2 . i .,..,. () f success, be !y perce itive, a reader of features, u er mom D look M Dale. She had return* I 1 not, as it appeared, owing to her fat tier's remembered a redness of ber eyelids when on the corridor one t i i -_r 1 « t . She sent Cross j ay ion as the boy was well filled. He sent Cn th a request. She did not yield to it immediately. i to the from 1 door reluctantly, and seemed discon" I • d f or a mes Miss M iddleton. ae to give. He persisted. But there was really ! • . Bhe said. trusl me with the smallest word ?" said he, ber visibly thinking whether sin; could despatch a raid tint -, she had no heart for messages. " 1 b! all see her in a day or two, Colonel De Cray©.' 1 " She will miss you severely." " We shall Boon meel "And poor Willoughby!" Li doured and -tood silent. A me rarity allured Crossjay. ' I fear he has been doing mischief," she said. "I cannot • me." ppet ite i< good ?" " \ i 1 indeed." ' '■ ( ! '. e ta.il.lrd. A boy with a noble appetite is/ never a - lock. ■ ' : "''l C ■ red over the garden. •lonel, " we'll see if we can't arrange ug between you and Miss Middleton. You're a lucky thinking of von." "I kii • '■ I >' alwa - thinking of her," said Crossjay. ape, she's the person you must '■ res, if I know where she i " Wh pally she'll be al the Hall." oreply:Ci idful secret jumped to li ' '' ■ lock for beingfull of I Mr. Whitford so much," he said. ' - • ethine to tell him ':" A PERCEPTIVE MIND. 421 "I don't know what to do : I don't understand it!'-' The Becret wriggled to his mouth. He swallowed it down : " Yes, I want to talk to Mr. Whitford." " He's another of Miss Middleton's friends." "I know he is. He's true steel." " "We're all her friends, Crossjay. I flatter myself I'm a Toledo when I'm wanted. How long had you been in the house last night before you ran into me." " I don't know, sir : I fell asleep for some time, and then I woke! . . . ." " Where did you find yotirself ?" " I was in the drawing-room." " Come, Crossjay, you're not a fellow to be scared by ghosts ? You looked it when you made a dash at my midriff." " I don't believe there are such things. Do you, colonel ? You can't !" " There's no saying. We'll hope not ; for it wouldn't be fair fighting. A man with a ghost to back him 'd beat any ten. We couldn't box him, or play cards, or stand a chance with him as a rival in love. Did you, now, catch a sight of a ghost ?" " They weren't ghosts !" Crossjay said what he was sure of, and his voice pronounced his conviction. " I doubt whether Miss Middleton is particularly happy," remarked the colonel. " Why ? Why, you upset her, you know, now and then." The boy swelled. " I'd do .... I'd go .... I wouldn't have her unhappy .... It's that ! that's it! And I don't know what I ought to do. I wish I could see Mr. Whit- ford." "You get into such headlong scrapes, my lad." " I wasn't in any scrape yesterday." " So you made yourself up a comfortable bed in tha irawingr.room ? Lucky Sir Willoughby didn't see you." " He^didn't, though !" " A close shave, was it ?" " I was under a cover of something silk.' f " He woke you ?" "I suppose he did. I heard him." "Talking?" " lie was talking." THi: EGOIST. "What! talking to himself ?" The secret threatened Crossjay to be out or suffocate him. I »■ i Y:i\ e gave him a respite. "You like Sir Willoughby, don't you?" I -v produced a still-born affirmative. " Be's kind to you," said the colonel; "he'll set you up ami loi k after 3 our interests." "Yes, 1 like him," said Crossjay, with his customary rapidity in touching Hie subject; "I like him; he's kind, ami all that, ami tips and plays with you, and all that; but per can make out why lie wouldn't see my father when my lather came here to sec him ten miles, and had to walk >ack ten miles in the rain, to go by rail a long way, down Dome, as far as Devonport, because Sir Willoughby wouldn't him, though he was at home, my father saw. "We all though! it so odd : and my father wouldn't let us talk much about it. My father's a very brave man." ■ ' laptain Patterne is as brave a man as ever lived," said 1 ), • 1 " I'm positive you'd like him, colonel." " I know of his deeds, and I admire him, andjthat's a good step to liking." II ■ warmed the boy's thoughts of his father. ■ Because, what they say at home is, a little bread and cheese, and a '_ r la-s of ale, and a rest, to a poor man — lots of great h ill give yon that, and we wouldn't have asked for more than that. My sisters say they think Sir Wll- . hhy must be selfish. He's awfully proud; and perhaps it was because my fat her wasn't dressed well enough. But whal can we do? We're very poor at home, and lots of us, and all hungry. My father says he isn't paid xcry well fur 1. » the Government, lie's only a marine." "' He's a hero!" said De Craye. He came home very tired, with a cold, and had a doctor. I '• Sir Willoughby did send him money, and. mother wished 1 end it back, and my father said she was not like a woman — with our big family, lie said lie thought Sir Willoughby an exl raordinary man." '■ Not at all; very common; indigenous," said De Crave. The art of cutting, ia one of the branches of a polito A PERCEPTIVE MIND. 423 education in this country, and you'll have to learn it, if you expect to be looked on as a gentleman and a Patterne, my boy I begin to see how it is Miss Middleton takes to you so. Follow her directions. But I hope you did not listen to a private conversation. Miss Middleton would not approve of that." " Colonel De Craye, how could I help myself ? I heard a lot before I knew what it was. There was poetry !" " Still, Cross jay, if it was important ! — was it ?" The boy swelled again, and the colonel asked him : " Does Miss Dale know of your having played listener ?" " She !" said Crossjay. " Oh ! 1 couldn't tell Tier." He breathed thick : then came a threat of tears. " She wouldn't do anything to hurt Miss Middleton. I'm sure of that. It wasn't her fault. She — there goes Mr. Whit- ford !" Crossjay bounded away. The colonel had no inclination to wait for his return. He walked fast up the road, not perspicuously conscious that his motive was to be well in advance of Vernon Whit ford : to whom after all, the knowledge imparted by Crossjay would be of small advantage. That fellow would probably trot off to Willoughby to row him for breaking his word to Miss Middleton ! There are men, thought De Craye, who see nothing, feel nothing. He crossed a stile into the wood above the lake, where, as he was in the humour to think himself signally lucky, espying her, he took it as a matter of course that the lady who taught his heart to leap should be posted by the Fates. And he wondered little at her power, for rarely had the world seen such union of princess and sylph as in that lady's figure. She stood holding by a beech-branch, gazing down on the water. 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 -Ul THE EGOIST. 1 himself more than Clara, who was not in the 1 to take surprises. It was the Bight of her which haJ animated him t<> strike his game ; he was down on it. Another instinct at work (they spring up in twentiew ( iier than in twos when the heart is the hunter) prompted him to directness and quickness, to carry her on the Loud of t he discovery. i something of her mental self-possession as was on a level with a meaning she had not yet ins; but she had to submit to his lead, distinctly per- « ring where its drift divided to the forked currents of what might l>e in his mind and what was in hers. '■ Miss M a, 1 bear a bit of a likeness to the mes- to the glorious despoi - my head is off if I speak not I K eryi hing 1 have is on the die. Did I guess wrong your wish ? — I read it in the dark, by the heart. JL»ut here's a certainty : Willoughby sets you free." "You have come from him ?" she could imagine nothing . and she was unable to preserve a disguise; she i '. ! . d. - Prom Miss Dale." " A h !" ( 'lai a drooped : " she told me that once." "'Tis the fact that tells it now." " You have nut son him since you left the house ?" "Darkly: cl< a: not unlike the hand of destiny- through a veil. Hi I himself to iliss Dale last night, o the witching hours of twelve and one." - Mi 3 Dale? "Would she other? Could she? The poor lady hag languished beyond a decade. She's love in the feminine 1 '"•" M.n Bpeaking seriously, Colonel De Crave?" " Would I dare to trifle with you, .Miss Middleton?" '• I have reason to know it cannot be." ' It I have a head, it is a fresh and blooming truth. And i I dee my vanity on it !" '■ I.' t me go to her." She stepped. " < Jonsider," said he. "Miss Dale and 1 are excellent friends. It would not in lelicate to her. She has a kind of regard for me, thro _h Crossjay. — Oh! can it be? There must be soma delusion. You have seen — you wish to be of service to me; A TERCEPTIVE MIND. 425 you may too easily be deceived. Last night ? — lie 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 Craj~e, 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 hnd 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 on 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. Him- self 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 some- thing 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 426 THE EGOIST. the moment the service was done. As he was per* y the admirable character of the man of honour, he i attend to the observance of details ; and sure of her h iic was beginning to feel, there was a touch of the i; in i lara Middleton which made him fear to stamp tnce; despite a barely resistible impulse, coming of his g and approved by his maxims. He looked at the l,nowafree lady's hand. Willoughby settled, his chance at. Who else was in the way ? No one. He coun- d himself to wait for her: she might have ideas of deli- Her face was troubled, speculative; the brows clouded, the Lips compressed. " Von have Tint 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 mes age : she talks vaguely of meeting you some days hence. And it is not the first time he has gone to her for his consolal ion." ••That is not a proposal," Clara reflected. "He is too prudent. J I c did not propose to her at the time you men- tion. Have von not been hasty. Colonel De Crave?" Shadows crossed her forehead. She glanced in the direc- tion of the house, and stopped her walk. • Last night, Miss Middleton, there was a listener." " Wh "Crossjay was under that pretty silk coverlet worked by the Miss Patternes. lie came home late, found his door ! :ed, 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 and I met him, jusl after I had come back from my eh, bursting, and took him to my room, and laid him on the Bofa, and abused him for not lying quiet. He was rest- : '~ a fish on a hank. Winn I woke in the morning he Dr. Corney came across him somewhere on the I I and drove him to the cottage. J was ringing the bell. ' d me the hoy had yon on his brain, and was miserable, so Crossjay and 1 bad a talk." did not repeat to you the conversation he had aid Clara. • N A PERCEPTIVE MIND. 427 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 con- fessor." " 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 bean 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 discovered 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 con- versed with De Crave 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 haha 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 forgives me ! " was in Clara's mind, though she would have declared herself innocent before the scrutator. 428 MB EGOIST. CHAPTER XLITL Df WHICH ?1H WILLOUGHBY IS LED TO TrnXK THAT THE ELEMENTS HAVE CONSPIRED AGAINST HI.M. Claea had not taken many steps in the garden before sha learnt hi >t waa her debt of gratitude to Colonel De i e. Willoughby and her father were awaiting her. Do Crave, with his ready comprehension of circumstances, turned aside unseen among the shrubs. She advanced slowly. " '1 ours, we may trust, have dispersed ? " her father hailed her. " • >ne word, iiinl these discussions are over, we dislike them equally," said Willoughby. "No scenes," Dr. Middleton added. " Speak your decision my girl, pro fonna, seeing that lie who has the light demands it, and pray release me." i llara 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 phot. "To Miss Dale?— for advice?" Dr. Middleton invoked the Furies. " What is the signifi- cation of this new freak ? " ■• Miss Dale must be consulted, papa." "Consulted with reference to the disposal of your band in marriage ? ' She must be." " Miss Dal-, do you say?" " I do. papa." Dr. Middleton regained his natural elevation from the i of body habitual with men of an cm n Wished sanity, jj gues and others, who are called on at odd intervals pect the magnitude of the LnfinitesimaHy absurd in human nature: small, that is. under the light of reason, immense in the realms of madness. Hi- daughter profoundly confused him. He swelled out his chest, remark in '_r to Willoughby: "I do not wonder at your sea re i ! , ,,f countenance, my friend. To dis- A CONSPIRACY OP THE ELEMENTS. 429 cover yourself engaged to a girl as mad as Cassandra, with- out a boast of the distinction of her being sun-struck, can be no specially comfortable 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 r ippli- cant. She puts me out of harmony with creation — We are plighted, Clara. It is pure waste of time to speak of solicit- ing advice on the subject." " Would it be a breach of faith for me to break my en- gagement ? " 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 ? " said she. " 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. " Tou were to capitulate, or to furnish reasons for your re- fusal. 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 ! " Tin; i QOIST. •■ Perfectly free I bs on the day when I offered it first," Willoughby frankly waved his bonourable band. Bis face was blanched : enemies in the air seemed to have whispered things to her: ho doubted tho fidelity of thu abo\ !•. •■ Since last night P " saM she. "Oh! if you insist, T reply, since lasl night." "Ton know whal 1 mean, Sir Willoughby." "i lh! certainly." " Fou Bpeak the (ruth ? " '"Sir Willoughby'!" her father ejaculated in wrath. "But will you explain what you mean, epitome that you are of all tin' contradictions ami mutabilities ascribed to ion from tlie beginning! 'Certainly,' he says, ami knows no more than I. She begs grace lor 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 itract is ed from public ignominy by his gen- i'.. Nor can I congratulate him on his fortune, should • ml to bear with you to the utmost; for instead of the young woman 1 supposed myself to be bestowing on him, I see a fantastical planguncula enlivened by the \\ anton tempers of a nursery chit. If one may conceive a meaning in her, in miserable apology for sueh behaviour, some spirit of jealousy informs the girl." "I can only remark, that there is no foundation for it," said Willoughby. "lam willing to sntisly you, Clara. Name the person who discomposes you. I can scarcely imagine one to exist : bul who can t< II ? " She could name no person. The detestable imputation of 11- . would be confirmed if she mentioned a name: and ed Lael it ia was not to be named. He pursued his advantage: "Jealousy is one of the fits lam a stranger to, — I fancy, sir, that gentlemen have dis- i ed it. I Bpcak for myself. — But [ can make allowances. I it is considered a compliment; and often a 1 will Boothe it. The whole affair is bo senseless! Bow- ,1 will enter the witness-box, or stand at the prisoner's bar! Anything to qniel a distempered mind." "Of yon. sir," said Dr. Middleton, "might a parent be id." " It is not jealousy ; I could not he jealous ! " Clara cried. A CONSPIRACY OF THE ELEMENTS. 431 string 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, thonqh, 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. " F irmavit fidem. 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 re- sembling 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 Lcetitia, 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 thev could see it. — Lastitia 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 ! " AYilloughby bowed to the encomium, and allowed some fatigue to be visible, fie half yawned: "I claim no happier title, sir," and made light of the weariful discussion. Clara was shaken : she feared that Cross jay had heard incorrectly, or that Colonel De Craye had guessed erroneously. It was too likely that Willoughby should have proposed Vernon to La?titia. 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 dairymaids), all the 432 TDK EflOTST. i - iard 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 arrows and shield to awe the creature man, forbade her ntteran t whal 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 haina. 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 3. The refuge of a sullen fit, the refuge of tears, ■ \t 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 m< pite, papa," she implored him, bitterly ciona 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 leman out of heaven, albeit in the likeness of one of earth, woaldhave to cut it: her cry within, as she succumbed to weakness, being fervider: ' Anything bnt marry this one!' She was faint with strife and dejected, a condition in the yonng when their imaginative energies hold revel uncon- fcrol ■ I are protectively desperate. •• No i-i -pile!" said Willoughby genially. "And I say, no respite!" observed her father. "Ton have assumed a position that has not been granted you, Clara Middleton." '• I cannot bear to offend you, father." '•Him! Your duty is not to offend him. Address your ' to him. I refuse to be dragged over the same ■ I, to reiterate the same command perpetually." •■ It authority is deputed to me, I claim you," said Wil- loughby. •• You have not broken faith with me ? " Assuredly not, or would it be possible for me to press my claim . bid join the right hand to the right," said Dr. Mid- d ton: ''no.it would not be possible. What insane root she has been nibbling, I know not, but she must consign ■It to the guid of those whom the gods have not A CONSPIRACY OF TITF ELEMENTS. 433 abandoned, until her intellect is liberated. She was once .... there : I look not back : — if she it was, and no simulacrum of a reasonable daughter. I welcome the appearance of my friend Mr. Whitford. He is my sea-bath and supper on the beach of Troy, after the day's battle and dust." Vernon walked straight up to them : an act unusual with him, for he was shy of committing an intrusion. Clara guessed by that, and more by the dancing frown of speculative humour he turned on Willoughby, that he had come charged in support of her. His forehead was curiously lively, as of one who has got a surprise well under, to feed on its amusing contents. " Have you seen Crossjay, Mr. Whitford ? " she said. " I've pounced on Crossjay; his bones are sound." " Where did he sleep ? " " On a sofa, it seems." She smiled, with good hope ; Vernon had the story. Willoughby thought it just to himself that he should defend his measure of severity. " The boy lied ; he pfayed a double game." " For which he should have been reasoned with at the Grecian portico of a boy," said the Rev. doctor. " My system is different, sir. I could not inflict what I would not endure myself." " So is Greek excluded from the later generations ; and you leave a field, the most fertile in the moralities in youth, unploughed and unsown. Ah! well. This growing too fine is our way of relapsing upon barbarism. Beware of over- sensitiveness, where nature has plainly indicated her alter- native gateway of knowledge. And now, I presume, I am at liberty." " Vernon will excuse us for a minute or two." "I hold bv Mr. Whitford now I have him." "I'll join you in the laboratory, Vernon," Willoughby nodded bluntly. " We will leave them, Mr. Whitford. They are at the time-honoured dissension upon a particular day that, for the sake of dignity, blushes to be named." " What dav ? " said Vernon, like a rustic. " The day, these people call it." Vernon sent one of his "vivid eyeshots from one to the other. His eyes fixed on Willoughby 's with a quivering 2f TEIE FOOTST. plow, beyond amazement, as if his humour stood at furnace heat, and absorbed all t hat came. Willonghby m it ioned to him to go. • Have you Been Miss Dale, Mr. Whitford?" said Clara. He answered : " - No. Something has shocked her." '• Is it her feeling for Crossjay ? " •■ Ah,'' Vernon Baid to Willonghby, "your pocketing of tin' key of Crossjay 's bed-room door was a masterstroke!" The celestial irony suffused her, and she bathed and swam iii it, on bearing its dupe reply: "My methods of discipline are short. I was not aware that she had been to bis duor." ' but I may hope that Miss Dale will see me," said Clara. "We are in sympathy about the hoy." '-.Mi-. Dale might be seen. He seems to be of a divided mind with his daughter," Vernon rejoined. " She has locked herself up in her room." " He is not the only father in that unwholesome predica- ment," said Dr. Middleton. '• II" talks of comimr to you, Willdiighby." "Why to me?" Willoughby chastened his irritation: " He will be welcome, of course. It would be better that the l»oy should come." " I ; t here is a chance of your forgiving him," said Clara. Let the Dales know I am prepared to listen to the boy, aon. There can be no necessity for Mr. Dale to drag himself here." ' 1 1" ■■'■' are Mr. Dale and his daughter of a divided mind," Mr. Whitford?" said Clara. non simulated an uneasiness. With a vacant gaze enlarged around Willoughby and was more discomfort. ing than intentness, Ik; replied: "Perhaps she is unwilling • jive him her entire confidence, .Mi^s Middleton." In which respect, then, our situations present their solitary point of onlikeness in resemblance, for I have it in ," obsen i 'I I >r. Middleton. dropped her eyelids for the wave to pass over. "It ■true that Miss Dale was a person of the extremest lour." 'Why should we be prying into the domestic affairs of Willonghby interjected, and drew out his watch, merely fur a diversion; he was on tiptoe to learn A CONSPIRACY OF THE ELEMENTS. 435 whefher Vernon was as well instructed as Clara, and hung to the view that he could not be, while drenching in the sensation that he was : — and if so, what were the Powers above but a body of conspirators ? He paid Laatitia that compliment. He could not conceive the human beti'ayal of the secret. Clara's discovery of it had set his common sense adrift. " The domestic affairs of the Dales do not concern me," said Vernon. " And yet, my friend," Dr. Middleton balanced himself, and with an air of benevolent slyness, the import of which did not awaken Willoughby until too late, remarked: "They might concern you. I will even add, that there is a pro- bability of your being not less than the fount and origin of this division of father and daughter, though "Willoughby in the drawing-room last night stands accuseably the agent." " Favour me, sir, with an explanation," said Vernon, seeking to gather it from Clara. Dr. Middleton threw the explanation upon "Willoughby. Clara communicated as much as she was able in one of those looks of still depth which say, Think ! and without causing a thought to stir, take us into the pellucid mind. Vernon Avas enlightened before Willoughby had spoken. His mouth shut rigidly, and there was a springing increase of the luminous wavering of his eyes. Some star that Clara had watched at night was like them in the vivid wink and overflow of its light. Yet, as he was perfectly sedate, none could have suspected his blood to be chasing wild with laughter, and his frame strung to the utmost to keep it from volleying. So happy was she in his aspect, that her chief anxiety was to recover the name of the star whose shining beckons and speaks, and is in the quick of spirit-fire. It is the sole star which on a night of frost and strong moonlight preserves an indomitable fervency : that she remembered, and the picture of a hoar earth and a lean Orion in flooded heavens, and the star beneath, Eastward of him : but the name ! the name ! — She heard Willoughby indistinctly. " Oh, the old story; another effort; you know my wish; a failure, of course, and no thanks on either side, I suppose I must ask your excuse. — They neither of them see what's good for them, sir." " Manifestly, however," said Dr. Middleton, " if on e may 2f2 TEE EGOIST. opine from the division we have heard of, the father is disposed to ba< nominee." •1 as far as I am concerned, I made a mess of ■ r Vernon withstood the incitement to acquiesce, but he sparkled with his recognition of the fact. •■ Yon meanl well, W'illoughby." " 1 hope su, Vernon." " ( Inly you have driven her away." "We must resign ourselves." "It won't affect me, for I'm off to-morrow." "You see, sir. the t hunks ] get." "Mr. Whit toi-d," said I >r. M iddleton, " you have a tower of Btrength in the lady's rather.'' •• Would you have me bring it to bear upon the lady, sir r - Wherefore not?" " To make her marriage a matter of obedience to her fat lor?" '• Ay, my friend, a lusty lover would have her gladly on those terms, well knowing it to be for the lady's good. Whal do you say, Willoughby ? " "Sir! Say? Whal can 1 say? Miss Dale has not plighted her faith. Had she done so, she is a lady who ild never dishonour it." •' She is an ideal of constancy, who would keep to it though it had been broken on the other side," said Vernon, and ( Ilara thrilled. ' I take that, sir, to be a statue of constancy, modelled upon which, a lady of our flesh may be proclaimed as graduating for the condition of idiotcy," said Dr. Middle- i " Hut faith is faith, sir." "But the broken is the broken, sir, -whether in porcelain or in human engagements: and all that the one of the two continuing faithful. I should rather say, regretful, can do, • devote the remainder of life to the picking up of the frag ■ an occupation properly to be pursued, for the comfort of mankind, within the enclosure of an appointed i." ' V , i d< the poetry of sentiment, Dr. Middleton." " To invigorate the poetry of nature, Mr. Whitford." A CONSPIRACY OF THE ELEMENTS. 437 "Then you. maintain, sir, that when faith is broken by one, the engagement ceases, and the other is absolutely free ? " "I do; I am the champion of that platitude, and sound that knell to the sentimental world ; and since you have chosen to defend it, I will appeal to Willoughby, and ask him if he would not side with the world of good sense in applauding the nuptials of man or maid married within a month of a jilting ? " Clara slipped her arm under her father's. " Poetry, sir," said AVilloughby, " I never have been hypo- crite enough to pretend to understand or care for." Dr. Middleton laughed. Yernon too seemed to admire his cousin for a reply that rang in Clara's ears as the dullest ever spoken. Her arm grew cold on her father's. She began to fear Willoughby again. He depended entirely on his agility to elude the thrusts that assailed him. Had he been able to believe in the treachery of the Powers above, he would at once have seen design in these deadly strokes, for his feelings had rarely been more acute than at the present crisis ; and he would then have led away Clara, to wrangle it out with her, relying on Vernon's friendliness not to betray him to her father : but a wrangle with Clara promised no immediate fruits, nothing agreeable ; and the lifelong trust he had re- posed in his protecting genii, obscured his intelligence to evidence he would otherwise have accepted on the spot, on the faith of his delicate susceptibility to the mildest im- pressions which wounded him. Clara might have stooped to listen at the door : she might have heard sufficient to create a suspicion. But Yernon was not in the house last night ; she could not have communicated it to him, and he had not seen Lastitia, who was besides trustworthy, an admirable if a foolish and ill-fated woman. Preferring to consider Yernon a pragmatical moralist played upon by a sententious drone, he thought it politic to detach them, and vanquish Clara while she was in the beaten mood, as she had appeared before Vernon's vexatious arrival. " I'm afraid, my dear fellow, you are rather too dainty and fussy for a very successful wooer," he said. " It's beautiful on paper, and absurd in life. We have a bit of private busi* TTTE EGOIST. i to discuss. We will go inside, sir, I think. I will soon i." Clara pressed her father's arm. " lid he. " Five minutes. There's a slight delusion to clear, sir. My dear Clara, you will see with different eyes." '■■ Papa wishes to work with .Mr. Whitford." Her bear! sank to hear her father say: " No, 'tis a lost morning. I must consent to pay tax of it forgiving another young woman to the world. I have a daughter ! You will, 1 hope, compensate me. Mr. Whitford,in the afternoon. Be not downcast. I have observed you meditative of late. You will have no clear brain so long as that stuff is on the mind. I could venture to propose to do some pleading for you, should it be needed for the prompter expedition of the ir." Vernon briefly thanked him, and said : " Willoughby has exerted all his eloquence, and you see the result : you have lost Miss Dale and I have not won her. He did everything that one man can do for another in so delicate a case: oven to the 'repeating of her famous birth- day verses to him, to flatter the poetess. His best efforts were foiled by the lady's indisposition forme." " Behold," said Dr. Middleton, as Willoughby, electrified by the mention of the verses, took a sharp stride or two, "you have in him an advocate who will not be rebuffed by one refusal, and I can affirm that he is tenacious, pertinacious as are few. Justly so. Not to believe in a lady's No, is the approved method of carrying that fortress built to yield. Although unquestionably to have a young man pleading in our interests with a lady, counts its objections. Yet Wil- loughby being notoriously engaged, may be held to enjoy the privileges of his elders." " As an engaged man, sir, he was on a level with his elders in pleading on my behalf with Mi>> Dale," said Vernon. Willoughby strode and muttered. Providence had grown mythical in his thoughts, if not malicious : and it is the peril of t!. ship, that the object will wearsuch an alternative ■ when it appears no loi abservient. • Are we coming, sir ? " he said, and was unheeded. The Rev. doctor would not ho do'Vau led () f rolling his billow. As an honourable gentleman faithful to his own engage- A CONSPIRACY OP THE ELEMENTS. 439 ment and desirous of establishing his relatives, he deserves, in my judgement, the lady's esteem as well as your cordial thanks ; nor should a temporary failure dishearten either of you, notwithstanding the precipitate retreat of the lady from Patterne, and her seclusion in her sanctum on the occasion of your recent visit." " Supposing he had succeeded," said Vernon, driving Wil- loughby to frenzy, " should I have been bound to marry ?" Matter for cogitation was offered to Dr. Middleton. " The proposal was without your sanction ? " " Entirely." " You admire the lady ? " " Respectfully." " You do not incline to the state ?" " An inch of an angle w-ouli exaggerate my inclination." " How long are we to stand and hear this insufferable non- sense you talk ? " cried Willoughby. " But if Mr. Whitford was not consulted . . . ." Dr. Middle- ton said, and was overborne by Willoughby 's hurried : " Oblige me, sir. — Oblige me, my good fellow ! " he swept his arm to Vernon, and gestured a conducting hand to Clara. "Here is Mrs. Mountstuart!" she exclaimed. "Willoughby stared. Was it an irruption of a friend or a foe ? He doubted, and stood petrified between the double- question. Clara had seen Mrs. Mountstuart and Colonel De Craye separating: and now the great lady sailed along the sward like a royal barge in festival trim. She looked friendly, but friendly to everybody, which was always a frost on Willoughby, and terribly friendly to Clara. Coming up to her she whipered : " News indeed ! Wonder- ful ! I could not credit his hint of it yesterday. Are you satisfied ? " " Pray, Mrs. Mountstuart, take an opportunity to speak to papa," Clara whispered in return. Mrs. Mountstuart bowed to Dr. Middleton, nodded to Ver- non, and swam upon Willoughby, with : " Is it ? But is it ? Am I really to believe ? You have ? My dear Sir Wil- loughby ? Really? " The confounded gentleman heaved on a bare plank of wreck in mid sea. He could oppose only a paralyzed smile to the assault. / 10 THE EGOIST. His intuitive discretion taught him to fall back a stop, while she Baid: " So! " the plummet word of our mysterious i fathoms ; and he fell back further, saying : " Madam ? " in a tone advising her to speak low. She recovered her volubility, followed his partial retreat and (1 mppod her voice : " Impossible to have imagined it as an actual fact ! Tou were always full of surprises, but this ! this ! Nothing manlier, iv 'thing more gentlemanly has ever been done: nothing: nothing that so completely changes an untenable situation into a comfortable and proper footing for everybody. It is what I like : it is what I love : — sound sense ! Men are so selfish : one cannot persuade them to be reasonable in such positions. But you, Sir Willoughby, have shown wisdom and sentiment : the rarest of all combinations in men." " Where have you ? . . . ." Willoughby contrived to say. " Heai-d ? The hedges, the house-tops, everywhere. All the neighbourhood will have it before nightfall. Lady Busshe and Lady Culnier will soon be rushing here, and declaring they never expected anything else, I do not doubt. I am not so pretentious. I l>eg your excuse for that ' twice ' of mine yesterday. Even if it hurt my vanity, I should be happy to confess my error : I was utterly out. But then I did not reckon on a fatal attachment, I thought men wero incapable of it. I thought we women were the only poor creatures persecuted by a fatality. It is a fatality ! You tried hard to escape, indeed you did. And she will do honour to your final surrender, my dear friend. She is gentle, and very clever, very : she is devoted to you: she will entertain excellently. I see her like a flower in sun- shine. She will expand to a perfect hostess. Patterne will shine under her reign ; you have my warrant for that. And so will you. Yes, you flourish best when adored. It must be adoration. You have been under a cloud of late. Years ago I said it was a match, when no one supposed you could stoop. Lady Busshe would have it was a screen, and she was deemed high wisdom. The world will be with you. All the women will be : excepting, of course, Lady Busshe, whose pride is in prophesy ; and she will soon be too glad to swell the host. There, my friend, your sincerest and oldest admirer congratulates you. I could not contain myself; I was compelled to pour forth. And now I must A CONSPIRACY OP THE ELEMENTS. 441 go and be talked to by Dr. Middleton. How does he take it? They leave?" " He is perfectly well," said Willoughby, aloud, quite dis- traught. She acknowledged his just correction of her for running on to an extreme in low-toned converse, though they stood sufficiently isolated from the others. These had by this time been joined by Colonel De Crave, and were all chatting in a group — of himself, Willoughby horribly suspected. Clara was gone from him ! Gone ! but he remembered his oath and vowed it again: not to Horace De Crave! She was gone, lost, sunk into the world of waters of rival men, and he determined that his whole force should be used to keep her from that man: the false friend who had supplanted him in her shallow heart, and might, if he succeeded, boast of having done it by simply appearing on the scene. Willoughby intercepted Mrs. Mountstuart as she was passing over to Dr. Middleton : " My dear lady ! spare me a minute." * De Craye sauntered up, with a face of the friendliest humour : " Never was man like you, Willoughby, for shaking new patterns in a kaleidoscope." " Have you turned punster. Horace ? " Willoughby replied, smarting to find yet another in the demon secret, and he drew Dr. Middleton two or three steps aside, and hurriedly begged him to abstain from prosecuting the subject with Clara. " We must try to make her happy as we best can, sir. She may have her reasons — a young lady's reasons ! " He laughed, and left the Rev. doctor considering within himself under the arch of his lofty frown of stupefaction. De Craye smiled slyly and winningly as he shadowed a deep droop on the bend of his head before Clara, signifying his absolute devotion to her service, and this present good fruit for witness of his merits. She smiled sweetly though vaguely. There was no con- cealment of their intimacy. " The battle is over," Vernon said quietly, when Wil- loughby had walked some paces beside Mrs. Mountstuart, adding : " You may expect to see Mr. Dale here. He knows." Vernon and Clara exchanged one look, hard on his part, in contrast with her softness, and he proceeded to the house. .] ; _> THE EGOIST. De Craye waited for a wprd or a promising loot. Ho was . being Bel f- assured, and passed on, Clara linked her arm with her father's once more, and I, on a sadden brightness : " Sirius, papa !" He repeated H in the profoundesl manner: "Sirius! And is there, he asked, "a feminine scintilla of sense in that?" "It is the name of the star I was thinking of, dear papa." '• It was the star observed by King Agamemnon before the [ficein Anlis. You were thinking of that? But, my . 1 1 1 \- [phigeneia, yon have not a father who will insist on sacrificing yon." •• Did I hear him tell you to humour me, papa ? " Dr. Middleton hnmphed. " Verily the dog-star rages in many heads," he responded. CHAPTER XLTA7. DR. MIDDLETON : THE LADIES ELEANOR AND ISABEL: AND MR. DALE. Clara looked up at the flying clouds. She travelled with them now. and tasti 'I freedom, but she prudently forebore to v< ■ her father; she held herself in reserve. Tli' summoned by the mid-day bell. 1 • ,v were speakers at the meal, few were eaters. Clara impelled to join it by her desire to study Mrs. Mount- Bthart's face. Willonghby was obliged to preside. It was a meal of an assembly of mutes and plates, that struck the ear the well-known sound of a collection of offerings in church after an impressive exhortation from the pulpit. A sally ut Colonel De Craye's met the reception "riven to a charity-boy's muffled bnrsl of animal Bpirits in the silence of t!i«' sacred edifice. Willonghby tried polities with Dr. Middleton, whose regular appetite preserved him from un- ?enial speculations when the hour for appeasing it had cone-, and he alone did honour to the dishes, replying to hi> host : " 'limes an bad, yon say. and we have a Ministry doing TEE PATTERNE LADIES. 443 ■with us what they will. Well, sir, arid that being- so, and opposition a manner of kicking them into greater stability, it is the time for wise men to retire within themselves, with the steady determination of the seed in the earth to grow. Repose upon nature, sleep in firm faith, and abide the seasons. That is my counsel to the weaker party." The counsel was excellent, but it killed the topic. Dr. Middleton's appetite was watched for the signal to rise and breathe freely ; and such is the grace accorded to a good man of an untroubled conscience engaged in doing his duty to himself, that he perceived nothing of the general restlessness ; he went through the dishes calmly, and as calmly he quoted Milton to the ladies Eleanor and Isabel, when the company sprang up all at once upon his closing his repast. Vernon was taken away from him by Willoughby. Mrs. Mountstuart beckoned covertly to Clara. Willoughby should have had something to say to him, Dr. Middleton thought : the position was not clear. But the situation was not disagreeable ; and he was in no serious hurry, though he wished to be enlightened. " This," Dr. Middleton said to the spinster aunts, as he accompanied them to the drawing-room, " shall be no lost day for me if I may devote the remainder of it to you." " The thunder, we fear, is not remote," murmured one. " We fear it is imminent," sighed the other. They took to chanting in alternation. " — We are accustomed to peruse our Willoughby, and we know him by a shadow." " — From his infancy to his glorious youth and his estab- lished manhood." " — He was ever the soul of chivalry." " — Duty : duty first. The happiness of his family : the well-being of his dependents." " — If proud of his name, it was not an over-weening pride ; it was founded in the conscious possession of exalted qualities." " — He could be humble when occasion called for it." Dr. Middleton bowed to the litany, feeling that occasion called for humbleness from him. " Let us hope !...." he said, with unassumed penitence on behalf of his inscrutable daughter. The ladies resumed : 4 1 1 THE EGOIST. " — Vernon Whitford, not of his blood, is his brother!" "—A 1 1 Mind instances! Lsetitia Dale remembers them better t ban we." " — Thai any blow should strike him!" " — That anoi her should be in store for him !" " — It seems impossible he can be (|iiite misunderstood!" " Lei us hope! . . . ." said Dr. Middleton. " — One would not deem it too much for the dispenser of idness to expect to be a little looked up to !" Wlien he was a chiid he one day mounted a chair, and there he stood in danger, would not let us toueh him, because he was taller than we, and we were to gaze. Do you re- member bim, Eleanor ? 'I am the sun of the house!' It was inimitable !" -Your feelings ; he would have your feelings ! He was fourteen when his cousin Grace Whitford married, and we ld-i him. They had been the greatest friends; and it whs Long before he appeared among us. lie has never cared to see her since./" " — But he has befriended her husband. Never has he failed in generosity. His only fault is — " " — His sensitiveness. And that is — " " — His secret. And that—" " — Vnu are not to discover! It is the same with him in manhood. No one will accuse Willoughby Patterne of a ■iency of manliness : but what is it ? — he suffers, as none suffer, if he is not loved. He himself is inalterably constant in affect ion." hat it is no one can say. We have lived with him a 11 his life, and we know him ready to make any sacrifice : only, he does d< mand the whole heart in return. And if he doubts, he 1 as we have seen him to-day." Shattered : as we have never seen him look before." "We will hope," said \)v. .Middleton, this time hastily. He I to say 'what it was :' he had it in him to solve perplexity in their inquiry. He did say, adopting familiar speech to suit the theme: "You know, ladies, we English come of a rough stock. A dose of rough dealing in our as no harm, braces us. Otherwise we are likely to feel chilly: we grow too fine where tenuity of stature is )ilv buffetted by gales, namely, in our self-esteem. ire barbarians, on a forcing soil of wealth, in a consei* THE PATTEENE LADIES. 445 vatory of comfortable security; but still barbarians. So, you see, we sliine at our best "when we are plucked out of that, to where hard blows are given, in a state of war. In a state of war we are at home, our men are high-minded fellows, Scipios and good legionaries. In the state of peace we do not live in peace : our native roughness breaks out in unexpected places, under extraordinary aspects — tyrannic-, extravagances, domestic exactions : and if we have not Lad sharp early training .... within and without .... the old-fashioned island-instrument to drill into us the civiliza- tion of our masters, the ancients, we show it by running here and there to some excess. Ahem. Yet," added the Rev. doctor, abandoning his effort to deliver a weighty truth obscurely for the comprehension of dainty spinster ladies, the superabundance of whom in England was in his opinion largely the cause of our decay as a people, " yet I have not observed this ultra-sensitiveness in Willoughby. He has borne to hear more than I, certainly no example of the frailty, could have endured." " He concealed it," said the ladies. "It is intense." " Then is it a disease ?" " It bears no explanation ; it is mystic." " It is a cultus, then, a form of self- worship." " Self !" they ejaculated. " But is not Self indifferent to others ? Is it Self that craves for sympathy, love and devotion ?" " He is an admirable host, ladies." " He is admirable in all respects." " Admirable must he be who can impress discerning women, his life-long housemates, so favourably. He is, I repeat, a perfect host." " He will be a perfect husband." " In all probability." " It is a certainty. Let him be loved and obeyed, he will be guided. That is the secret for her whom he so fatally loves. That, if we had dared, we would have hinted to her. She will rule him through her love of him, and through him all about her. And it will not be a rule he submits to, but a love he accepts, If she could see it !" "If she were a metaphysician!" sighed L)r. Middleton. ** — But a sensitiveness so keen as his mio-ht — " " — Fretted by an unsympathizing mate — " 1 HE EGOIST. « — Tn f! l0 end become, for the best of us is mortal — " M_Callons!" «« — H e would feel perhaps as much — " "—Or more!—" " — He would still be tender — " " — But he might grow outwardly hard!" Botli ladies looked up at Dr. Middleton, as they revealed tin- dreadful prospect. " It is the story told of ccms !" he said, sad as they. The th d drooping: the ladies with an attempt to digest his remark; the Rev. doctor in dejection lest his gallantry should no longer continue to wrestle with his good 36. He was rescued. The door opened and a footman announced: [r. Dale." M^- Eleanor and Miss Isabel made a sign to one another of raising their hands. They advanced to him, and welcomed him. "l',:i b 1. Mr. Dale. You have not brought us La 1 news of our Lajtitia ?" •• So rare is the pleasure of welcoming you here, Mr. Dale, that we are in some alarm, when, as we trust, it should bo matter for unmixed congratulation." " Has Dr. Corney been doing wonders ?" "I am indebted to him for the drive to your house, ladies," said Mr. Dale, a spare, close-buttoned gentleman, with an Indian complexion deadened in the sick-chamber. " It is unusual for me to stir from my precincts." "The Rev. Dr. Middleton." Mr. Dale bowed. He seemed surprised. " You live in a splendid air, sir," observed the Rev. tor. '• I can profit little by it, sir," replied Mr. Dale. He asked the la lies : " Will Sir Willoughby be disengaged ?" They consulted : "He is with Vernon. We will send to him." The bell was rung. " I have had the gratification of making the acquaintance of your daughter, Mr. Dale, a most escimable lady," said Dr. ton. Mr. Dale bowed. " She is honoured by your praises, sir. THE PATTERNE LADIES. 447 To the best of my belief — I speak as a father — she merits them. Hitherto I have had no doubts." " Of Lastitia ?" exclaimed the ladies ; and spoke of her as gentleness and goodness incarnate. " Hitherto I have devoutly thought so," said Mr. Dale. " Surely she is the very sweetest nurse, the most devoted of daughters !" " As far as concerns her duty to her father, I can say she- is that, ladies." " In all her relations, Mr. Dale!" " It is my praj'er," he said. The footman appeared. He announced that Sir "Wil- loughby was in the laboratory with Mr. Whitford, and the dour locked. " Domestic business," the ladies remarked. " You know Willoughby's diligent attention to affairs, Mr. Dale." " He is well ?" Mr. Dale inquired. " In excellent health." " Body and mind ?" " But, dear Mr. Dale, he is never ill." " Ah ! For one to hear that who is never well ! And Mr. Whitford is quite sound ?" " Sound ? The question alarms me for myself," said Dr. Middleton. " Sound as our Constitution, the Credit of the country, the reputation of our Prince of poets. I pray you to have no fears for him." Mr. Dale gave the mild little sniff of a man thrown deeper into perplexity. He said : " Mr. Whitford works his head ; he is a hard student; he may not be always, if I may so put it, at home on worldly affairs." " Dismiss that defamatory legend of the student, Mr. Dale ; and take my word for it, that he who persistently works his head has the strongest for all affairs." " Ah ! Your daughter, sir, is here ?" " My daughter is here, sir, and will be most happy to pre- sent her respects to the father of her friend Miss Dale." " They are friends ?" " Very cordial friends." Mr. Dale administered another feebly pacifying sniff to himself. 4 |S THE KGOIST. • I !" lio Bighed in apostrophe, and swept his fore- 1 I with ;i hand seen to shake. The ladies asked him anxiously whether he felt the heat of the room ; and one offered him a smelling-bottle. I [e thanked them. " I can hold out until Sir Willoughby oomi •■ We fear to disturb him when his door is locked, Mr. Dale; but, if you wish it, we will venture on a message. Y,,u have really no bad news of our La-titia ? She left us hurriedly this morning, without any leave-taking, except a 1 to one of the maids, that your condition required her inn ■ presence." '• My condition! And now her door is locked to me! We have spoken through the door, and that is all. I stand sick and stupefied between two locked doors, neither of which will open, it appears, to give me the enlightenment I need more than medicine." "Dear me!" cried Dr. Middleton, "I am struck by your description of your position, Mr. Dale. It would aptly apply to our humanity of the present generation ; and were these the days when I Bermohized, I could propose that it should afford me an illustration for the pulpit. For my part, when doors are closed 1 try not their locks ; and I attribute my perfect equanimity, health even, to an uninquiring acceptation of the fact that they are closed to me. I read my page by the light I have. On the contrary, the world of this day, if I may presume to quote you for my purpose, is heard knock- ing at those two locked doors of the secret of things on each side of us, and is beheld standing sick and stupefied because it h ■ no response to its knocking. Why, sir, let the world compare the diverse fortunes of the beggar and the postman: knock to give, and it is opened unto you : knock nd it continues shut. I say. carry a letter to your ed door, and you shall have a good reception: but there is none thai is handed out. For which reason . . . ." Mr. Dale swept a perspiring forehead, and extended his hand in supplication; " I am an invalid, Dr. Middleton," he Baid. - I am unable to cope with analogies. I have but bn t r the slow digestion of facts." ' For Facts, we are bradypeptics to a man, sir. We know not yet if nature be a fact or an effort to master one. The world has not yet assimilated the first fact it stepped on. THE PATTERN E LADIES. 44fl "We are still in the endeavour to make good blood of the fact of our being." Pressing his hands at his temples, Mr. Dak- moaned : " My head twirls; I did unwisely to come out. I came on an impulse; I trust, honourable. I am unfit — I cannot follow you, Dr. Middleton. Pardon me." " Nay, sir, let me say, from my experience of my country- men, that, if you do not follow me, and can abstain from abusing me in consequence, you are magnanimous," the Rev. doctor replied, hardly consenting to let go the man he had found to indemnify him for his gallant service of acquiesc- ing as a mute to the ladies, though he knew his breathing robustfulness to be as an East wind to weak nerves, and himself an engine of punishment when he had been torn for a day from his books. Miss Eleanor said : " The enlightenment you need, Mr. Dale ? Can we enlighten you P" " I think not," he answered faintly. " I think I will wait for Sir Willoughby .... or Mr. Whitford. If I can keep my strength. Or could I exchange — I fear to break clown — two words with the young lady who is, was . . . . Y" " Miss Middleton, my daughter, sir ? She shall be at your disposition ; I will bring her to you." Dr. Middleton stopped at the window. " She, it is true, may better know the mind of Miss Dale than I. But I flatter myself I know the gentleman better. I think, Mr. Dale, addressing you as the lady's father, you will find me a persuasive, I could be an impassioned, advocate in his interests." Mr. Dale was confounded ; the weakly sapling caught in a gust falls back as he did. " Advocate ?" he said. He had little breath. " His impassioned advocate, I repeat : for I have the highest opinion of him. You see, sir, I am acquainted with the circumstances. I believe," Dr. Middleton half-turned to the ladies, " we must, until your potent inducements, Mr. Dale, have been joined to my instances, and we overcome "what feminine scruples there may be, treat the circum- stances as not generally public. Our Strephon may be chargeable with shyness. Bat if for the present it is incum- bent on us, in proper consideration for the parties, not t/o be nominally precise, it is hardly requisite in this household that we should be. He is now for protesting indifference to 2 G 450 TIIK EGOIST. the state. I fancy we understand that phase of amatory Frigidity. Frankly, Mr. Dale, I was once in my life myeelf refused by a lady, and 1 was not indignant, merely indifferent tu i he marriage-tie." " .M v daughter has refused him, sir?" " 'I arily it would appear that she has declined the proposal." '• He was at liberty V ... he could honourably? . . . ." " His best friend and nean . t relative is your guarantee." "I know it; I hear so: I am informed of that; I have 1 of the proposal, and that he could honourably make it. Still, I am helpless, I cannot move, until I am assured that my daughter's reasons are such as a father need not rline." " Doos the lady, perchance, equivocate?" " J have not seen her this morning; I rise late. I hear an astounding account of the cause for her departure from Pat- terne, and 1 find her door locked to me — no answer." " It is that she has no reasons to give, and she feared the demand fob them." " Ladies !" dolorously exclaimed Mr. Dale. "We guess the secret, we guess it!" they exclaimed in reply ; and they looked smilingly, as Dr. Middleton looked. "She had no reasons to giver" Mr. Dale spelt these words to his understanding. " Then, sir, she knew you not adverse ?" ' Undoubtedly, by my high esteem for the gentleman, she must have known me not adverse. But she would not con- sider me a principal. She could hardly have conceived me nle. I am simply the gentleman's friend. A zealous friend, let me add." Mr. Dale put out an imploring hand ; it was too much for him. "Pardon me; I have a poor head. And your daughter the same, sir ?" • We will not measure it too closely, but I may say, my r the same, sir. And likewise — may I not add ?— wiies." Mr. Dah- made sign that he was overfilled. "Where am I ! And Loetith ref ised him ?" " Temporarily, let us assume, \7ill it not partly depeud on you, Mr. Dale i" THE PATTERNE LADIES. 451 " But what strange things have been happening during my daughter's absence from the cottage !" cried Mr. Dale, betraying an elixir in his veins. " I feel that I could laugh if I did not dread to be thought insane. She refused his hand, and he was 'at liberty to offer it ? My girl ! We are all on our heads. The fairy-tales were right and the lesson- books were wrong. But it is really, it is really very de- moralizing. An invalid — and I am one, and no momentary exhilaration will be taken for the contrary — clings to the idea of stability, order. The slightest disturbance of the wonted course of things unsettles him. Why, for years I have been prophesying it ! and for years I have had every- thing against me, and now when it is confirmed, I am wondering that I must not call myself a fool !" " And for years, dear Mr. Dale, this union, in spite of counter-currents and human arrangements, has been our Willoughby's constant preoccupation," said Miss Eleanor. " His most cherished aim," said Miss Isabel. " The name was not spoken by me," said Dr. Middleton. " But it is out, and perhaps better out, if we would avoid the chance of mystifications. I do not suppose we are seri- ously committing a breach of confidence, though he might have wished to mention it to you first himself. I have it from Willoughby that last night he appealed to your daugh- ter, Mr. Dale — not for the first time, if I apprehend him correctly ; and unsuccessfully. He despairs. I do not : sup- posing, that is, your assistance vouchsafed to us. And I do not despair, because the gentleman is a gentleman of worth, of acknowledged worth. You know him well enou/;h to grant me that. I will bring you my daughter to help me in sounding his praises." Dr. Middleton stepped through the window to the lawn on an elastic foot, beaming with the happiness he felt charged to confer on his friend Mr. Whitford. " Ladies ! it passes all wonders," Mr. Dale gasped. " Willoughby's generosity does pass all wonders," they said in chorus. The door opened : Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer were announced. 2g2 |52 IHi2 EGOIST. CHAPTER XLV. THE PATH l.M. l.AI'll S : MK. DALE: LADY BUSPHE AND LADY ,11.1; : AND MRS. MODNTSTUART JENK1NS0N. 1. iv BDSSHE and Lady Culmer entered spying to right .,,,,! f the sighl of Mr. Dale in the room, Lady Busshe murmured to her friend : " Confirmation !" Lady Culmer murmured : " Corney is quite reliable." " 'I he man is his own best tonic." " Be i> invaluable for the country." ;Mi— Eleanor and ISliss Isabel greeted them. The amiability of the Pattern e ladies, combined with their total eclipse behind their illustrious nephew, invited enter- prising women of the world to take liberties, and they were not backward. Lady Bu'sshesaid: "Well? the news! we have the out- lines. Don't be astonished: we know the points : we have rd the gun. I could have told you as much yesterday. I pit. And I guessed it the day before. Oh! I do believe in fatalities now. Lady Calmer and I agree to take that view : it is the simplest. Well, and are you satistied, my dear The ladies grimaced interrogatively. "With what?" " With it ! with all ! with her! with him!" or Willoughb; " Can it be possible that they require a dose of Corney ?" 1 ihe remarked to Lady Culmer. 1 They play discretion to perfection," said Lady Culmer. '" But, my dears, we are in the secret." • How did she behave r" whispered Lady Pusshe. "No high flights and flutters, I do hope. She was well-connected, they say; though I don't comprehend what they mean by a line of scholars — one thinks of a row of pinafores : and she pretty. Thai is well enough at the start. It never will stand againsl brains. He had the two in the house to con- tract them, and .... the result! A young woman with ' us — in a housi beats all your Beauties. Lady Culmer and I have determined on that view. He thought her a A GENERAL ASSEMBLY. 453 delightful partner for a dance, and found her rather tiresome at the end of the gallopade. I saw it yesterday, clear as daylight. She did not understand him, and he did under- stand her. That will be oar report." " She is young : she will learn," said the ladies, uneasily, but in total ignorance of her meaning. " And you are charitable, and always were. I remember you had a good word for that girl Durham." Lady Busshe crossed the room to Mr. Dale, who was turning over leaves of a grand book of the heraldic devices of our great Families. " Study it," she said, " study it, my dear Mr. Dale ; you are in it, by right of possessing a clever and accomplished daughter. At page 300 you will find the Patterne crest. And mark me, she will drag you into the Peerage before she has done — relatively, you know. Sir Willoughby and wife ■will not be contented to sit down and manage the estates. Has not Laetitia immense ambition ? And very creditable, I say." Mr. Dale tried to protest something. He shut the book, examined the binding, flapped the cover with a finger, hoped her ladyship was in good health, alluded to his own and the strangeness of the bird out of the cage. " You will probably take up your residence here, in a larger and handsomer cage, Mr. Dale." He shook his head. " Do I apprehend ....?" he said. " I know" said she. • " Dear me, can it be ?" Mr. Dale gazed upward, with the feelings of one awakened late to see a world alive in broad daylight. Lady Busshe dropped her voice. She took the liberty permitted to her with an inferior in station, while treating him to a tone of familiarity in acknowledgement of his ex- pected rise : which is high breeding, or the exact measure- ment of social dues. " La?titia will be happy, you may be sure. I love to see a long and faithful attachment rewarded — love it ! Her tale is the triumph of patience. Far above Grizzel ! No woman will be ashamed of pointing to Lady Patterne. You are uncertain ? You are in doubt ? Let me hear — as low as you like. But there is no doubt of the new shifting of the scene ? — no doubt of the proposal ? Dear Mr. Dale ! a very 4. "4 THE EGOIST. little 1. mi. ler. Yon are here because — ? of course you wish ta Sir Willoughby. She? I did not catch you quite. She r .... it seems, yon say? . . . ." 1. > lv Calmer said to the Patterne ladies: '• V.'.n must have had a distressing time. These affairs always mount up to a climax, unless people are very well bred. We saw it coming. Naturally Ave did not expect Midi a transformation of brides: who could? If I had Laid myself down on my back to think, I should have had it. I am unerring when I set to speculating on my back. One is cooler : ideas come; they have not to be forced. That is why 1 am brighter on. a dull winter afternoon, on the sofa, le my tea-service, than at any other season. However, your trouble is over. When did the Middletons leave ?" " The .Middletons leave ?" said the ladies. u Dr. Middleton and his daughter." " They have not left us." "The Middletons are here?" " Thej are. here, yes. Why shouldthey have left Patterne ?" "Why?" " Yes. They are likely to stay some days longer." " ( ; Iness !" " There is no ground for any report to the contrary, Lady Culm ■!•." "No ground!" Lady Culmer called out to Lady Bnsshe. A cry canre back from that startled dame. " She has refused him!" "Who?" "fi i has!" " She ?— Sir Willonghby ?" " Ri 'used! — declines the honour." "Oh! never! No, that carries the incredible beyond romance! Bui is he perfectly at . . . . ?" " Quite, it seems. And she was asked in due form and refused." >id ao again!" " My dear, I have it from Mr. Dale." Mr. Dale, what can be the signification of her conduct !" "Indeed, Lady Culmer," said Mr. Dale, not unpleasantly agitated by the interest he excited, in spite of his astonish- ment at a public discussion of the matter in this house, " I A GENERAL ASSEMBLY. 455 am in the dark. Her father should know, but I do not. Her door is locked to me ; I have not seen her. I am abso- lutely in the dark. I am a recluse. I have forgotten the ways of the world. I should have supposed her father would first have been addressed." " Tut-tut. Modern gentlemen are not so formal ; they are creatures of impulse and take a pride in it. He spoke. We settle that. But where did you get this tale of a refusal ?" " I have it from Dr. Middleton." " From Dr. Middleton!" shouted Lady Busshe. " The Middletons are here," said Lady Culmer. "What whirl are we in ?" Lady Busshe got up, ran two or three steps and seated herself in another chair. " Oh ! do let us proceed upon system. If not, we shall presently be rageing; we shall be dangerous. The Middletons are here, and Dr. Middleton himself communicates to Mr. Dale that La^titia Dale has refused the hand of Sir Willonghby, who is ostensibly engaged to his own daughter ! And pray, Mr. Dale, how did Dr. Middleton speak of it ? Compose yourself ; there is no violent hurry, though our sympathy with you and our interest in all the parties does perhaps agitate us a little. Quite at your leisure — speak !" " Madam .... Lady Busshe." Mr. Dale gulped a ball in his throat. "I see no reason why I should not speak. I do not see how I can have been deluded. The Miss Pat- ternes heard him. Dr. Middleton began upon it, not I. I was unaware, when I came, that it was a refusal. I had been informed that there was a proposal. My authority for the tale was positive. The object of my visit was to assure myself of the integrity of my daughter's conduct. She had always the highest sense of honour. But passion is known to mislead, and there was this most strange report. I feared that our humblest apologies were due to Dr. Mid- dleton and his (laughter. I know r the charm Lajtitia can exercise. Madam, in the plainest language, without a pos- sibility of my misapprehending him, Dr. Middleton spoke of himself as the advocate of the suitor for my daughter's hand. I have a poor head. I supposed at once an amicable rupture between Sir Willoughby and Miss Middleton, or that the version which had reached me of their engagement was not strictly accurate. My head is weak. Dr. Mid' 456 TITE EGOIST. dleton's language b trying to a bead like mine; but I can Bpeak positively on the essential points: be spoke of himself ;i> ready to be the impassioned advocate of the suitor for my daughter's hand. Those were his words. I understood him i" entreat me to intercede with her. Nay, the name \. :1 , mentioned. There was no concealment. I am certain there could not be a misapprehension. And. my feelings touched by his anxiety for Sir Willoughby's happiness. ] attributed it to a sentiment upon which I need not dwell. Impassioned advocate, he said." "We are in a perfect maelstrom!" cried Lady Busshe, turning to everybody. " It is a complete hurricane!" cried Lady Culmer. A lighi broke over the faces of the Patterne ladies. They exchanged it with one another. They had been so shocked as to be almost offended by Lady Busshe, but their natural gentleness and habitual submission rendered them unequal to the task of checking her. " Is it nof," said Miss Eleanor, " a misunderstanding that a change of names will rectify ?" " This is by no means the first occasion," said Miss Isabel, "th.it Willoughby has pleaded for his eousin Vernon." '• We deplore extremely the painful error into which Mr. I >ale has fallen." " It springs, we now perceive, from an entire misappre- hension of Dr. Middleton's." " Vernon was in his mind. It was clear to us." "Impossible that it could have been Willoughby!" " Yoi i see the Impossibility, the error !" "And the Middletons here!" said Lady Busshe. "Oh! if we leave unilluminated we shall be the laughing-stock of the county. -Mr. Dale, please, wake up. Do you see P You may have been mistaken." • La ly Busshe," he woke up ; "I may have mistaken Dr. Middletoti ; he has a language that I can compare only to riew-day of the field forces. But I have the story on authority that I cannot question: it is confirmed by my liter's unexampled behaviour. And if I live through this day 1 shall lo ik about me as a ghost to-morrow." I 1 ii- Mr. Dale!" said the Patterne ladies compas- 5101 A GENERAL ASSEMBLY. 457 Lady Busshe murmured to them : " You know the two did not agree ; they did not get on : I saw it ; I predicted it." " She will understand him in time," said they. "Never. And my belief is, they have parted by consent, and Letty Dale wins the day at last. Yes, now I do believe it." The ladies maintained a decided negative, but they knew too much not to feel perplexed, and they betrayed it, though they said : " Dear Lady Busshe ! is it credible, in decency ?" " Dear Mrs. Mountstuart !" Lady Busshe invoked her great rival appearing among them : " You come most oppor- tunely ; we are in a state of inextricable confusion : we are bordering on frenzy. You, and none but you, can help us. You know, you always know; we hang on you. Is there any truth in it ? a particle ?" Mrs. Mountstuart seated herself regally. "Ah!' Mr. Dale !" she said, inclining to him. " Yes, dear Lady Busshe, there is a particle." " Now, do not roast us ! You can ; you have the art. I have the whole story. That is, I have a part. I mean, I have the outlines. I cannot be deceived, but you can fill them in, I know you can. I saw it yesterday. Now, tell us, tell us. It must be quite true or utterly false. Which is it ?" " Be precise." " His fatality ! you called her. Yes, I was sceptical. But here we have it all come round again, and if the tale is true, I shall own you infallible. Has he ? — and she ?" "Both." "And the Middletons here? They have not gone ; they keep the field. And more astounding, she refuses him ! And to add to it, Dr. Middleton intercedes with Mr. Dale for Sir Willoughby !" " Dr. Middleton intercedes !" This was rather astonishing to Mrs. Mountstuart. "For Vernon," Miss Eleanor emphasized. " For Vernon Whitford, his cousin," said Miss Isabel, still more emphatically. " Who," said Mrs. Mountstuart, with a sovereign lift and turn of her head, " speaks of a refusal ?" " I have it from Mr. Dale," said Ladv Busshe. a/ THE EGOIST. •■ I had it, T thought, distinctly from Dr. Middleton," said Mr. Da "Thai Willoughby proposed to Laetitia for his cousin \ ■ . Dr. Middleton meant," said Miss Eleanor. Her sister followed: "Hence this really ridiculous mis- eption !- I indeed," she added, for balm to Mr. Dale. '• Willoughby was Vernon's proxy. His cousin, if not his first, is ever the second thought with him." '■ Mm can we continue? . . . ." '• Such a, discussion !" Mrs. Monntstnart gave them a judicial hearing. They were regarded in the county as the most indulgent of non- entities, and she as little as Lady Busshe was restrained I a the bnrning topic in their presence. She pronounced : '■ Each party is right and each is wrong." A cry : " 1 shall shriek !" came from Lady Busshe. " Cruel !" groaned Lady Culmer. "Mixed, you are all wrong. Disentangled, you are each of yon right. Sir Willoughby does think of his cousin Vernon ; he is anxious to establish him; he is the author of a proposal to thai effect." "We know it!" the Patterne ladies exclaimed. "And La t it ia rejected poor Vernon once more !" •' Who Bpoke of -Miss Dale's rejection of Mr. Whitford ?" " [s he not rejected ?" Lady Culmer inquired. " It is in debate, and at this moment being decided." " Oh ! do be seated, Mr. Dale," Lady Busshe implored him. rising to thrust him back to his chair if necessary. '• Any dislocation, and we are thrown out again ! We must hold together if this riddle is ever to be read. Then, dear M -. Monntstnart, we are to say that there is no truth in the other story ?" • Vim are to say nothing of the sort, dear Lady Busshe." '•Br mercifnl! ' And what of the fatality?" '• \> positive as the Pole to the needle." " Shi' has not refused him ?" isk your own sagacity." "Accepted?" "Wait." " And all the world's ahead of me! Now, Mrs. Mount- are oracle. Riddles, if you like, only speak. If we can't have corn, give us husks." A GENERAL ASSEMBLY. 459 Is any one of us able to anticipate events, Lady Busshe?" "Yes. I believe that yon are. I bow to yon. I do sin- cerely. So it's another person for Mr. Whitford ? You nod. And it is our Laatitia for Sir Willoughby ? You smile. You would not deceive me ? A very little, and I run about crazed and howl at your doors. And Dr. Middleton is made to play blind man in the midst ? And the other person is — now I see day ! An amicable rupture, and a smooth new arrange- ment ! She has money ; she was never the match for our hero ; never ; I saw it yesterday, and before, often : and so he hands her over — tuthe-rum-tum-tum,tuthe-rum-tum-tum." Lady Busshe struck a quick march on her knee : " Now isn't that clever guessing ? The shadow of a clue for me! And because I know human nature. One peep, and I see the combination in a minute. So he keeps the money in the family, becomes a benefactor to his cousin by getting rid of the girl, and succumbs to his fatality. Rather a pity he let it ebb and flow so long. Time counts the tides, you know. But it improves the story. I defy any other county in the kingdom to produce one fresh and living to equal it. Let me tell you I suspected Mr. Whitford, and I hinted it yes- terday." " Did you indeed !" said Mrs. Mountstuart, humouring her excessive acuteness. " 1 really did. There is that dear good man on his feet again. And looks agitated again." Mr. Dale had been compelled both by the lady's voice and his interest in the -subject, to listen. He had listened more than enough : he was exceedingly nervous. He held on by his chair, afraid to quit his moorings, and : " Manners !" he said to himself unconsciouslv aloud, as he cogitated on the libertine way with which these chartered great ladies of the district discussed his daughter. He was heard and unnoticed. The supposition, if any, would have been that he was admo- nishing himself. At this juncture Sir Willoughby entered the drawing- room by the garden- window, and simultaneously Dr. Mid- dleton by the door. 4G0 THK EGOIST. CHAPTER XLVI. THl • OF SIR WILLOUGHBY's GENERALSHIP. [I: . we may fear, will never know the qualities of ership inherent in Sir Willougbby Patterne to fit him f or mmander of an army, seeing that he avoided the ! heserviceand preferred the honours bestowed in hi try upon the quiet administrators of their own but his possession of particular gifts, which are military, and especially of the proleptic mind, which is the stamp and sign- warrant of the heaven-sent General, was dis- played on every urgent occasion when, in the midst of diffi- culties likely to have extinguished one less alert than he to I Ltening aspect of disaster, he had to manoeuvre himself. II ■ had received no intimation of Mr. Dale's presence in his house, nor of the arrival of the dreaded women Lady ho and Lady Culmer: his locked door was too great a terror to his domestics. Having finished with Vernon, after a tedious endeavour to bring the fellow to a sense of the •y of the step urged on him, he walked out on the lawn with the desire to behold the opening of an interview not proi ! " lead to much, and possibly to profit by its failure. (Mara had been prepared, according to his directions, by Mrs. atstuart JenMnson, as Vernon had been prepared by His wishes, candidly and kindly expressed both to on and Mrs. Mountstuart, were, that since the girl ap- nclined to make him a happy man, she would make one of his cousin Intimating to Mrs. Mountstuart that he would be happier without her, he alluded to the fit of the girl's money to poor old Vernon, the general tpe from a scandal if old Vernon could manage to catch her as she dropped, the harmonious arrangement it would be for all parties. And only on the condition of her taking ion, would he consent to give her up. This he said im- peratively: adding, that such was the meaning of the news v she had received relating to Lsetitia Dale. From what quarter had she received it? he asked. She shuffled in her ly, made a gesture to Bignify that it was in the air, nni- d fell upon the proposed arrangement. He would sir willoughby's generalship. 461 listen to none of Mrs. Mountstuart's woman-of-the-world instances of the folly of pressing it npon a girl who had shown herself a girl of spirit. She foretold the failure. He would not be advised: he said: "It is my scheme;" and perhaps the look of mad benevolence about it induced the lady to try whether there was a chance that it would hit the madness in our nature, and somehow succeed or lead to a pacification. Sir Willoughby condescended to arrange tilings thus for Clara's good; he would then proceed to realize his own. Such was the face he put upon it. We can wear what appearance we please before the world until we are found out, nor is the world's" praise knocking upon hollow- ness always hollow music ; but Mrs. Mountstuart's laudation of his kindness and simplicity disturbed him ; for though he had recovered from his rebuff enough to imagine that La?titia could not refuse him under reiterated pressure, he had let it be supposed that she was a submissive handmaiden throb- bing for her elevation ; and Mrs. Mounstuart's belief in it afflicted his recent bitter experience \ his footing was not perfectly secure. Besides, assuming it to be so, he con- sidered the sort of prize he had Avon ; and a spasm of down- right hatred of a world for which we make mighty sacrifices to be repaid in a worn, thin, comparatively valueless coin, troubled his counting of his gains. Laetitia, it was true, had not passed through other hands in coming to him, as Vernon would know it to be Clara's case: time only had worn her: but the comfort of the reflection was annoyed by the physical contrast of the two. Hence an unusual melancholy in his tone that Mrs. Mountstuart thought touching. It had the scenic effect on her which greatly contributes to delude the wits. She talked of him to Clara as being a man who had revealed an unsuspected depth. Vernon took the communication curiously. He seemed readier to be in love with his benevolent relative than with the lady. He was confused, undisguisedly moved, said the plan was impossible, out of the question, but thanked Wil- loughby for the best of intentions, thanked him warmly. After saying that the plan was impossible, the comical fellow allowed himself to be pushed forth on the lawn to see how Miss Middleton might have come out of her interview with Mrs. Mountstuart. Willoughby observed Mrs. Mount- stuart meet him, usher him to the place she had quitted Til 0I8T. and return to the open turf-spaces. Tie • will listen," Mrs. Mountstuart said: ''she li tfi h in. thinks he is a \n-y sincere friend, clever, ir, and a g 1 mountaineer; and thinks yon mean So much I have impressed on her, but I have much for .M r. Whil ford." a," said Willonghby, snatching at s the death-blow to his friend I torace. tits to listen, because yon have arranged it so r it Rhe declined she would be rather a savage." •• Y..U think it will have ao result?" 1 • None ; 1 1 all." " Her listening will do." ■ be sal isfied with it." "We Bhall Bei '■ • Anything for pence,' she says: and I don't sny that a an with a tongue would not have a chance. She ■ ■ you." ; Vernon has no tongue for women, poor fellow! You will have as 1"' spider or fly, and if a man can'l spin a v. eb, ;ill he can hope is do! to be caught in one. She knows bis history too, and thai won't be in his favour. How did she look when yon lefi I hem r" "No! so bright: like a bit of china that winds dusting. looked :i trifle gauche, it si ruck me; more like a country girl with the hoyden taming in her than the well-bred tare she is. J did Tint suspect her to have feeling. You mber, Sir Willonghby, that she has obeyed your done her atmost: I do think we may say she has me amends: and if she is to blame she repents, and will not insisl too far." H I do insist, id he. u B at, Inn a t •, pant !" " Well, well." He did aol dislike the character. Th ceived Dr. Middleton wandering over the lawn, and Willonghby went to him to put him on the wrong :: Mrs. Monntstuarl swept into the drawing-room. Willonghby quitted the Rev. doctor, and hung about the here he supposed his pair of dupes had by this time ( ermutnally:- or whal if they had found the • harmony P He could bear that, just bear it. H« BIR WILLOUGHBY'S GENERALSHIP. 463 rounded the shrubs, and behold, both had vanished. The trellis decorated emptiness. His idea was, that they had soon discovered their inability to be turtles : and desiring not to lose a moment Avhile Clara was fretted by the scene, he rushed to the drawing-room with the hope of lighting on her there, getting her to himself, and finally, urgently, passionately offering her the sole alternative of what she had immediately rejected. Why had he not used passion before, instead of limping crippled between temper and policy ? He was capable of it : as soon as imagination in him conceived his personal feelings unwounded and unim- perilled, the might of it inspired him with heroical con- fidence, and Clara grateful, Clara softly moved, led him to think of Clara melted. Thus anticipating her he burst into the room. One step there warned him that he was in the jaws of the world. We have the phrase, that a man is himself, under certain trying circumstances. There is no need to say it of Sir Willoughby : he was thrice himself when danger me- naced, himself inspired him. He could read at a single glance the Polyphemus eye in the general head of a com- pany. Lady Busshe, Lady Culmer, Mrs. Mountstuart, Mr. Dale, had a similarity in the variety of their expressions that made up one giant eye for him, perfectly, if awfully, legible. He discerned the fact that bis demon secret was abroad, universal. He ascribed it to fate. He was in tin.' jaws of the world, on the world's teeth. This time ho thought Lastitia must have betrayed him, and bowing to Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer, gallantly pressing their fingers and responding to their becks and archnesses, he ruminated on his defences before he should accost her father. He did not want to be alone with the man, and he considered how his presence might be made useful. " I am glad to see you, Mr. Dale. Pray, be seated. Is it nature asserting her strength ? or the efficacy of medicine ? I fancy it can"t be both. You have brought us back your daughter ?" Mr. Dale sank into a chair, unable to resist the hand forcing him. "No, Sir Willoughby, no. I have not; I have not seea her since she came home this morning from Patteinc." " Indeed ? She is unwell ?" 464 THE EGOIST. u " I cannot say. She secludes herself.' '• Has Locked herself in," said Lady Busshe. Willoughby threw her a smile. Ii made them intimate. This was an advantage againsl the world, but an exposure of liimself to the abominable woman. Dr. Middleton came up to Mr. Dale to apologize for not presenting his daughter Clara, whom he could lind neither in nor out of the house. ■• We have in Mr. Dale, as I suspected," he said to Wil- loughby, "• a stout ally." "If] may beg two minutes with you, Sir Willoughby," said Mr. Dale. " Tour visits are too rare for me to allow of your number- ing the minutes," Willoughby replied. ""We cannot let Mr. Dale escape us now that we have him. I think, Dr. Middleton." •" Not without ransom v " said the Rev. doctor. Mr. Dale shook his head. " My strength, Sir Willoughby, will not sustain me Ion-." " You are at home, Mr. Dale." " Xot far from home, in truth, but too far for an invalid beginning to grow sensible of weakness." '• Y"ii will regard Patterne as your home, Mr. Dale," Willoughby repeated for the world to hear. "Unconditionally?" Dr. Middleton inquired with a hu- morous aii' of dissenting. "Willoughby gave him a look that was coldly courteous, and then he looked at Lady Busshe. She nodded imper- ceptibly. Her eyebrows rose, and Willoughby returned a similar nod. Translated, the signs ran thus: ' — Pestered by "he Rev. Lrentleman: — I see you are. Is the story I have heard correct ? — Possibly it may err in a few details.' This was fettering himself in loose manacles. Bui Lady Busshe would not be satisfied with the com- pliment of the intimate looks and nods. She thought she might still be behind Mrs. Mountstuart; and she was a bold woman, and anxious about him, half-crazed by the riddle of the pot she was boiling in, and having very few minutes to snare. .Not extremely reticent by nature, privileged by static a. sir willoughby's generalship. 465 and made intimate with him by his covert looks, she stood up to him. "One word to an old friend. Which is the father of the fortunate creature ? I don't know how to behave to them." No time was afforded him to be disgusted with her vul- garity and audacity. He replied, feeling her rivet his gyves : " The house will be empty to-morrow." " I see. A decent withdrawal, and very well cloaked. We had a tale here of her running off to decline the honour, afraid, or on her dignity or something." How was it that the woman was ready to accept the altered posture of affairs in his house — if she had received a hint of them ? He forgot that he had prepared her in self- defence. " From whom did you have that ?" he asked. " Her father. And the lady aunts declare it was the cousin she refused !" Willoughby's brain turned over. He righted it for action, and crossed thy room to the ladies Eleanor and Isabel. His ears tingled. He and his whole story discussed in public ! Himself unroofed ! And the marvel that he of all men should be in such a tangle, naked and blown on, condemned to use his cunningest arts to unwind and cover himself, struck him as though the lord of his kind were running the gauntlet of a legion of imps. He felt their lashes. The ladies were talking to Mrs. Mountstuait and Lady Culmer of Vernon and the suitableness of La-titia to a scholar. He made sign to them, and both rose. " It is the hour for your drive. To the cottage ! Mr. Dale is ill. She must come. Her sick father ! No delay, going or returning. Bring her here at once." " Poor man !" they sighed: and " Willoughby," said one, and the other said : " There is a strange misconception you will do well to correct." They were about to murmur what it was. He swept his hand round, and excusing themselves to their guests, obedi- ently they retired. Lady Busshe at his entreaty remained, and took a seat beside Lady Culmer and Mrs. Mountstuart. She said to the latter: "You have tried scholars. What do von think r" 2h 466 THE EGOIST. " Excellent, but hard to mix," was llie reply. " I never make experiments," said Lady Culrncr. "Someone must!" Mrs. Mountstuart groaned over hef dull dinner-party. Lady Busshe consoled her. "At any rate, the loss of a scholar is no loss to the comity." " They are well enough in towns," Lady Culmer said. "And then I am sure you must have them by themselves." " We have nothing to regret." " My opinion." The voice of Dr. Middleton in colloquy with Mr. Dale swelled on a melodious thunder: " For whom else should I plead as the passionate advocate I proclaimed myself to yon, sir? There is but one man known to me who would move me to back him upon such an adventure. Willoughby, join me. I am informing Mr. Dale . . . ." Willoughby stretched his hands out to Mr. Dale to sup- port him on his legs, 'though he had shown no sign of a wish to rise. " You are feeling unwell, Mr. Dale." "Do I look very ill, Sir Willoughby ?" " It will pass. La?titia will be with us in twenty minutes." Mr. Dale struck his hands in a clasp. He looked alarm- ingly ill, and satisfactorily revealed to his host how he could be made to look so. " I was informing Mr. Dale that the petitioner enjoys our concurrent good wishes : and mine in no degree less than yours, Willoughby," observed Dr. Middleton, whose billows grew the bigger for a check. He supj used himself speaking confidentially. "Ladies have the trick; they have, I may say, the natural disposition for playing enigma now and again. Pressure is often a sovereign specific. Let it be tried upon her all round, from every radiating line of the circle. You she refuses. Then I venture to propose myself to appeal to her. My daughter has assuredly an esteem for the applicant that will animate a woman's tongue in such a case. The ladies of the house will not be backward. Lastly, if necessary, we trust the lady's father to add his instances. My prescript ion is, to fatigue her negatives; and where no rooted objection exists, I maintain it to bo the unfailing receipt for tin- conduct of a siege. No woman can say No for ever. The defence has not such resources against even sir willoughby's generalship. 4G7 a single assailant, and we shall have solved the problem of continuous motion before she will have learnt to deny in perpetuity. That I stand on." Willoughby glanced at Mrs. Mountstuart. " What is that ?" she said. " Treason to our sex, Dr. Middleton ?" " I think I heard, that no woman can say No for ever !" remarked Lady Busshe. ' To a loyal gentleman, ma'am : assuming the field of the recurring request to be not unholy ground ; consecrated to affirmatives rather." Dr. Middleton was attacked by three angry bees. They made him say Yes and ~No alternately so many times that he had to admit in men a shiftier yieldingness than women were charged with. Willoughby gesticulated as mute chorus on the side of the ladies ; and a little show of party spirit like that, coming upon their excitement under the topic, inclined them to him genially. He drew Mr. Dale away while the conflict subsided in sharp snaps of rifles and an interval rejoinder of a cannon. Mr. Dale had shown by signs that he was growing fretfully restive under his burden of doubt. " Sir Willoughby, I have a question. I beg you to lead me where I may ask it. I know my head is weak." " Mr. Dale, it is answered when I say that my house is your home, and that Lostitia will soon be with us." " Then this report is true !" " I know nothing of reports. You are answered." " Can my daughter be accused of any shadow of falseness, dishonourable dealing ?" " As little as I." Mr. Dale scanned his face. He saw no shadow. " For I should go to my grave bankrupt if that could be said of her ; and I have never yet felt poor, though you know the extent of a pensioner's income. Then this tale of a refusal ?" " Is nonsense." " She has accepted ?" ' There are situations, Mr. Dale, too delicate to be clothed iD positive definitions." " Ah, Sir Willoughby, but it becomes a father to see that 2 h 2 468 TT1K EGOIST. his daughter is n<>i forced into delicate situations. I hope all is well. T am confused. It may be my Lead. She puzzles me. You are not .... Can I ask it here p You are quite? .... Will you moderate my anxiety My infirmities must excuse me." Sir Willoughby conveyed by a shake of the head and a pressure of Mr. Dales hand, that he was not, and that he was quite. "Dr. Middleton?" said Me, Dale. " He leaves us to-morrow." " Really!" The invalid wore a look as if wine had been poured into him. He routed his host's calculations by calling to the Rev. doctor. " We are to lose you, sir ?" Willoughby attempted an interposition, but Dr. Middleton crashed through it like the lordly organ swallowing a tlnte. ■• Not before* I score my victory, Mr. Dale, and establish my friend upon his rightful throne." " You do not leave to-morrow, sir ?" " Have you heard, sir, thai I leave to-morrow?" Mr. Dale turned to Sir Willoughby. The latter said: "Clara named to-day. To-morrow, 1 thought preferal le." "" Ah?" Dr. Middleton towered on the swelling exclama- - tion, but with no dark light. He radiated splendidly. "Yes, then, to-morrow. That is, if we subdue the lady." He advanced to Willoughby, seized his hand, squeezed it, thanked him, praised him. He spoke under his breath, for a wonder; but: " We are in your debt lastingly, my friend," was heard, and he was impressive, he seemed subdued, and saying aloud: "Though I should wish to aid in the reduction of that fortress," he let it be seen that his mind was rid of a load. Dr. Middleton partly stupefied Willoughby by his way of taking it, but his conduct was too serviceable to allow of speculation on his readiness to break the match. Jt was the turning-point of the engagement. Lad;. Busshe made a stir. " I cannot keep my horses waiting any longer," she sai 1, and beckoned. Sir Willoughby was beside her immediately. "You are admirable! perfect! Don't ask me to hold my tongue. I retract,] recant. It is a fatality. I have resolved upon that view. You could stand the shot of beauty, act oi sir willoughby's generalship. 4G9 brains. That is our report. There ! And it's delicious to feel that the county wins you. No tea. I cannot possibly wait. And, oh ! here she is. I must have a look at her. My dear Lsetitia Dale !" Willoughby hurried to Mr. Dale. " You are not to be excited, sir : compose yourself. You will recover and be strong to-morrow : you are at home ; you are in your own house ; you are in Ltetitia's drawing-room. All wih be clear to-morrow. Till to-morrow we talk riddles by consent. Sit, I beg. You stay with us." He met Laatitia and rescued her from Lady Busshe, mur- muring, with the air of a lover who says, ' my love ! my sweet!' that she had done rightly to come and come at once. Her father had been thrown into the proper condition of clammy nervousness to create the impression. Laatitia's anxiety sat prettily on her long eyelashes as she bent over him in his chair. Hereupon Dr. Corney appeared ; and his name had a bracing effect on Mr. Dale. " Corney has come to drive me to the cottage," he said. " I am ashamed of this public exhibition of myself, my dear. Let us go. My head is a poor one. Dr. Corney had been intercepted. He broke from Sir "Willoughby with a dozen little nods of accurate understand- ing of him, even to beyond the mark of the communications. He touched his patiem's pulse lightly, briefly sighed with professional composure, and pronounced : "Rest. Must not be moved. No, no, nothing serious," he quieted Lcetitia's fears, " but rest, rest. A change of residence for a night will tone him. I will bring him a draught in the course of the evening. Yes, yes, I'll fetch everything wanted from the cottage for you and for him. Repose on Corney's fore- thought." " You are sure, Dr. Corney ?" said Lastitia, frightened on her father's account and on her own. " Which aspect will be the best for Mr. Dale's bedroom?" the hospitable ladies Eleanor and Isabel inquired. <; South-east, decidedly : let him have the morning-sun : a warm air, a vigorous air and a bright air, and the patient wakes and sings in his bed." Still doubtful whether she was in a trap, Laatitia whispered to her father of the privacy and comforts of his home. 470 THE EGOIST. He replied to her that lie thought he would rather be in his own home. Dr. Corney positively pronounced No to it. La'titia breathed again of home, but with the sigh of one overborne. The ladies Eleanor and Isabel took the word from TVil- loughby, and said: " But you are at home, my dear. This is your home. Your father will be at least as well attended hero as at the cottage." She raised her eyelids on them mournfully, and by chance diverted her look to Dr. Middleton, quite by chance. It spoke eloquently to the assembly of all that Willoughby desired to be imagined. " But there is Crossjay," she cried. " My cousin has gone, and the boy is left alone. I cannot have him left alone. If we, if, Dr. Corney, you are sure it is unsafe for papa to be moved to-day, Crossjay must .... he cannot be left." "Bring him with you, Corney," said Sir Willoughby : and the little doctor heartily promised that he would, in the event of his finding Crossjay at the cottage, which he thought a distant probability. " He gave me his word he would not go out till my return," said La'titia. "And if Crossjay gave you his word," the accents of a new voice vibrated close by, " be certain that he will not come back with Dr. Corney unless he has authority in your handwriting." Clara Middleton stepped gently to Loetitia, and with a manner that was an embrace, as much as kissed her for what she was doing on behalf of Crossjay. She put h>_r lips in a pouting form to simulate saying : " Press it." " Ife is to come," said La'titia. " Then, write him his permit." There was a chatter about Crossjay and the sentinel true to his post that he could be. during which La^titia distress- fully scribbled a line for Dr. Corney to deliver to him. Clara stood mar. She had rebuked herself for a want of reserve in the presence of Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer, and she was guilty of a slightly excessive containment when she next addres I Laetitia. It was, like Lretitia's look at Dr. Middleton, opportune: enough to make a man who watched as Willoughby did, a fatalist for life: the shadow SIR WILLOUGDEY'S GENKRALSniP. 471 of a difference in her bearing toward Laetitia sufficed to impute acting either to her present coolness or her previous warmth. Better still, when Dr. Middleton said: "So we leave to-morrow, my dear, and I hope yon have written to the Darletons," Clara flushed and beamed, and repressed her animation on a sudden, with one grave look, that might be thought regretful, to where Willou.gh.by stood. Chance works for us when we are good captains. Willoughby's pride was high, though he knew himself to be keeping it up like a fearfully dexterous juggler, and lor an empty reward : but he was in the toils of the world. " Have you written ? The post-bag leaves in half an hour," he addressed her. " We are expected, but I will write," she replied : and her not having yet written counted in his favour. She went to write the letter. Dr. Corney had departed on his mission to fetch Crossjay and medicine. Lady Busshe was impatient to be gone. " Corney," she said to Lady Culmer, " is a deadly gossip." " Inveterate," was the answer. " My poor horses !" " Not the young pair of bays ?" " Luckily, my dear. And don't let me hear of dining to- night !" Sir Willoughby was leading out Mr. Dale to a quiet room, contiguous to the invalid gentleman's bed-chamber. He resigned him to La?titia in the hall, that he might have the pleasure of conducting the ladies to their carriage. " As little agitation as possible. Corney will soon be back," he said, bitterly admiring the graceful subservience of Loetitia's figure to her father's weight on her aim. He had won a desperate battle, but what had he won ? What had the world given him in return for his efforts to gain it ? Just a shirt, it might be said : simple scanty clothing, no warmth. Lady Busshe was unbearable, she gabbled ; she was ill-bred, permitted herself to speak of Doctor Middleton as ineligible, no loss to the county. And Mrs. Mountstuart was hardly much above her, with her in- evitable stroke of caricature : — " You see Dr. Middleton's pulpit scampering after him with legs !" Perhaps the Rev. doctor did punish the world for his having forsaken hia pulpit, and might be conceived as haunted by it at his heels 472 THK EGOIST. but Willoughby was in the mood to abhor comio images : he hated the perpetrators of them and the grinners. Contempt dt' this laughing empty world, for which he had performed a monstrous immolation, led him to associate Dr. Middleton in his mind, and Clara too, with the desireable things he had diced — a shape of youth and health; a sparkling com- panion; a face of innumerable charms ; and his own veracity; his inner sense of his dignity ; and his temper, and the limpid Frankness of his air of scorn, that was to him a visage of candid happiness in the dim retrospect. Haply also he had sacrificed more ; he looked scientifically into the future: he might have sacrificed a nameless more. And for what ? he asked again. For the favourable looks and tongues of these women whose looks .and tongues he detested! " Dr. Middleton says he is indebted to me : I am deeply in his debt," he remarked. " It is we who are in your debt for a lovely romance, my dear Sir Willoughby," said Lady Busshe, incapable of taking a correction, so t horonghly had he imbued her with his fiction, or with the belief that she had a good story to circulate. Away she drove rattling her tongue to Lady Culmer. " A hat and horn, and she would be in the old figure of a post-boy on a hue-and-cry sheet," said Mrs. Mountstuart. Willoughby thanked the great lady for her services, and she complimented the polished gentleman on his noble self- possession. But she complained at the same time of being defrauded of her " charmer " Colonel De Craye since lun- cheon. An absence of warmth in her compliment caused Willoughby to shrink and think the wretched shirt he had got from the world no covering after all: a breath flapped it. " He comes to me, to-morrow, I believe," she said, reflecting on her superior knowledge of facts in comparison with Lady Busshe, who would presently be hearing of something novel, and exclaiming: "So, that ia why you patronized the colonel!" And it was nothing of the sort, for Mr*. Mountstuart could honestly say she was not the woman to make a business of her pleasure. " Horace is an enviable fellow," said Willoughby, wise in The Book, which bids us ever for an assuagement to fancy our friend's condition worse than our own, and recommends the deglutition of irony as the most balsamic for wounds in I whole moral pharmacopoeia. SIR WILDUGHEY AND HIS FRIEND. 473 " T don't know," she replied with, a marked accent of deli- beration. " The colonel is to have you to himself to-morrow !" " I can't be sure of what I shall have in the colonel !" " Your perpetual sparkler ?" Mrs. Mountstuart set her head in motion. She left the matter silent. " I'll come for him in the morning," she said, and her car- riage whirled her off. Either she had guessed it, or Clara had confided to her the treacherous passion of Horace De Craye ! However, the world was shut away from Patterne for the night. CHAPTER XLVIL SIR WILLOUGHBT AND HIS FRIEND HORACE DE CRATE. "Willoughbt shut himself up in his laboratory to brood awhile after the conflict. Sounding through himself, as it was habitual with him to do, for the plan most agreeable to bis taste, he came on a strange discovery among the lower circles of that microcosm. He was no longer guided in Ids choice by liking" and appetite : he had to put it on the edge of a sharp discrimination and try it by his acutest judgement before it was acceptable to his heart : and knowing well the direction of his desire, he was nevertheless unable to run two strides on a wish. He had learnt to read the world : his partial capacity for reading persons had fled. The mysteries of his own bosom were bare to him ; but he could compre- hend them only in their immediate relation to the world outside. This hateful world had caught him and transformed him to a machine. The discovery he made was, that in the gratification of the egoistic instinct we may so beset ourselves as to deal a slaughtering wound upon Self to whatsoever quarter we turn. Surely there is nothing stranger in mortal experience. The man was confounded. At the game of Chess it is the dis- honour of our adversary when we are stale-mated : but in life, combatting the world, such a winning of the game ques* tions our sentiments. 474 THE EGOIST. Willoughby's interpretation of his discovery was directed I ■ pity: he had no other strong emotion left in him. He pitied himself, and he reached t be conclusion that he suffered because he was active; he could not be quiescent. Had it not been for his devotion to his house and name, never would he have stood twice the victim of womankind. Had he been selfish, he would have been the happiest of mp-n ! He said it aloud. He schemed benevolently for his unborn young, and for the persons about him : hence he was in a position for- bidding a step under pain of injury to his feelings. He was generous : otherwise would he not in scorn of soul, at the outset, straight off, have pitched Clara Middleton to the wanton winds ? He was faithful in affection : Lastitia Dale was beneath his roof to prove it. Both these women were examples of his power of forgiveness, and now a tender word to Clara might fasten shame on him — such was her gratitude ! And if he did not marry Lrctitia, laughter would be devilish all around him — such was the world's ! Probably Vernon would not long be thankful for the chance which varied the monotony of his days. What of Horace ? Willoughby stripped to enter the ring with Horace: he cast away dis- guise. That man had been the first to divide him in the all but equal slices of his egoistic from his amatory self : murder of his individuality was the crime of Horace Ue Crave. And further, suspicion fixed on Horace (he knew not how, except that The Book bids us be suspicious of those we hate) as the man who had betrayed his recent dealings with La>titia. Willoughby walked the thoroughfares of the house to meet Clara and make certain of her either for himself or, if it must be, for Vernon, before he took another step with Latitia Dale. Clara could reunite him, turn him once more into a whole and an animated man ; and she might be wil- ling. Her willingness to listen to Vernon promised it. " A gentleman with a tongue w r ould have a chance," Mrs. Mount- stuarl had said. How much greater the chance of a lover! Tor he had not yet supplicated her: he had shown pride and temper. He could woo, he was a torrential wooer. And it would be glorious to swing round on Lady Busshe and the world, with Clara nestling under an arm, and protest asto- nishment at the erroneous and litterlyunfounded anticipations of any other development. Ami it would righteously punish Lactitia. SIR WILLOUGHCY AND HIS FRIEND. 475 Clara came downstairs, bearing her letter to Miss Dar- leton. " Must it be posted ? " Willougbby said, meeting her in the hall. " They expect us any day, but it will be more comfortable for papa," was her answer. She looked kindly in her new shyness. She did not seem to think he had treated her contempt- uously in flinging her to his cousin, which was odd! " You have seen Vernon ? " " It was your wish." " You had a talk ? " " We conversed." " A long one ? " " We walked some distance." " Clara, I tried to make the best arrangement I could." " Your intention was generous." ** He took no advantage of it ? " ** It could not be treated seriously." " It was meant seriously." " There I see the generosity." Willougbby thought this encomium, and her consent to speak on the subject, and her scarcely embarrassed air and richness of tone in speaking, very strange: and strange was her taking him quite in earnest. Apparently she had no feminine sensation of the unwontedness and the absurdity of the matter ! " But, Clara ! am I to understand that he did not speak out?" ' " We are excellent friends." " To miss it, though his chance were the smallest ! " " You forget that it may not wear that appearance to him." " He spoke not one word of himself ? " "No." " Ah ! the poor old fellow was taught to see it was hope- less — chilled. May I plead ? Will you step into the laboratory for a minute ? We are two sensible persons . . • ," " Pardon me, I must go to papa." "Vernon's personal history perhaps ....?" " I think it honourable to him." ** Honourable !— 'hem ! " 476 THE EGOIST. " By comparison." " ( lomparison with what ? " "With others." He drew up to relieve himself of a critical and condem* natory expiration of a certain length. This young lady knew too much. But how physically exquisite she was ! " Could you, Clara, could yon promise me — I hold to it. I must have it, I know his shy tricks — promise me to give him ultimately another chance ? Is the idea repulsive to you r " It is one not to be thought of." " Itris not repulsive ? " " Xothing could be repulsive in Mr. Whitford." " I have no wish to annoy you, Clara." "I feel bound to listen to you, Willoughby. "Whatever I can do to please you, I will. It is my life-long duly." "Could you, Clara, could yon conceive it, could you simply conceive it ; — give him your hand ? " " As a friend, Oh ! yes." " In marriage." She paused. She, so penetrative of him when he opposed her, was hoodwinked when he softened her feelings : for the heart, — though the clearest, is not the most constant in- structor of the head ; the heart, unlike the often obtuser head, works for itself and not for the commonwealth. •' You are so kind .... I would do much . . . ." she said. " Would you accept him — marry him ? He is poor." " I am not ambitious of wealth." " Would you marry him ? " " Marriage is not in my thoughts." " But could you marry him ? " Willoughby expected no. In his expectation of it he hung inflated. She said these words : " I could engage to marry no one else." His amazement breathed without a syllable. He flapped his arms, resembling for the moment those birds of enormous body which attempt a rise upon their wings and achieve a hop. " Would you engage it ? " he said, content to see himself stepped on as an insect if he could but feel the agony of his SIR WILLOUGIIBY AND HIS FRIEND. 477 false friend Horace — their common pretensions to win her were now of that comparative size. " Oh ! there can be no necessity. And an oath — no 1 " said Clara, inwardly shivering' at a recollection. " But you could ? " " My wish is to please you." "You could?" " I said so." It has been known of the patriotic mountaineer of a hoary pile of winters, with little life remaining" in him, but that little on fire for his country, that by the brink of the precipice he has flung himself on a young and lusty invader, dedicating himself exultingly to death if only he may score a point for his country by extinguishing in his country's enemy the stronger man. So likewise did Willouo-bby, in the blow that deprived him of hope, exult in the toppling over of Horace De Craye. They perished together, but which one sublimely relished the headlong descent ? And Vernon taken by Clara would be Vernon simply tolerated. And Clara taken by Vernon would be Clara previously touched, smirched. Altogether he could enjoy his fall. It was at least upon a comfortable bed, where his pride would be dressed daily and would never be disagreeably treated. He was henceforth Ltetitia's own. The bell telling of Ur. Corney's return was a welcome sound to Willoughby, and he said good-humouredly : " Wait, Clara, you will see your hero Cross jay." Crossjay and Dr. Corney tumbled into the hall. Wil- loughby caught Crossjay under the arms to give him a lift in the old fashion pleasing to Clara to see. The boy was heavy as lead. " I had work to hook him and worse to net him," said Dr. Corney. "I had to make him believe he was to nurse every soul in the house, you among them, Miss Middleton." Willoughby pulled the boy a?ide. Crossjay came back to Clara heavier in looks than his limbs had been. She dropped her letter in the hall-box, and took his hand to have a private hug nf him. When t^ey were alone, she said : " Crossjay, my dear, my dear ! You look unhappy." "Yes, and who wouldn't be, and you're not to marry Sir •1 , 3 THE KflOlST. Willoughby 1 " his voice threatened a cry. "I know you're ii it, for Dr. Corney says you are going to leave." "Did you so very much wish it, Crossjay ? " "I should have seen a lot of you, and I shan't see you at all, and I'm sure if I'd known I "wouldn't have , and ho has been and tipped me tins." Crossjay opened his fist in which lav three gold pieces. " Thai was very kind of him," said Clara. " Yes, but how can I keep it ? " " By handing it to Mr. "Whitford to keep for yon." "Yes. hut. Miss Middleton, oughtn't I to tell him? I mean Sir Willoughby." " What ? " " Why, that I," Crossjay got close to her, " why, that I, that I — yon know what you used to say. I wouldn't tell a lie, but oughtn't I, without his asking . . . .and this moneyl I don't mind being" turned out again." " Consult Mr. Whitford," said Clara. "I know what you think, though.'' " Perhaps you had better not say anything at present, dear boy." " But what am I to do with this money ? " Crossjay held the gold pieces ont as things that had not yet mingled with his ideas of possession. "I listened, and I told of him," he said. "I couldn't help listening, but I went and told; and I don't like being here, and his money, and he not knowing what I did. Haven't you heard ? I'm certain I know what you think, and so do I, and I must take my luck, I'm always in mischief, getting into a mess or getting out of it. I don't mind, I really don't Mi-s Middleton, I can sleep in a tree quite comfortably. If you're not going to be here, I'd just as soon be anywhere. I must try to earn my living sonic day. And why not a cabin- boy ? Sir Cloudesley Shovel was no better. And I don't mind his being wrecked at last, if you're drowned an admiral. So I shall go and ask him to take his money hack, and if he asks me I shall tell him, and there. You know what it is: I guessi d that from what Dr. Corney said. I'm sure I know you're thinking what's manly. Fancy mi keeping his money, and you not marrying him! I wouldn't mind driving a gh. I shouldn't make a bad gamekeeper. Of course I love boats best, but you can't have everything." SIR WILLOUGHBY AND HIS FKIEND. 479 " Speak to Mr. Whitford first," said Clara, too proud of the boy for growing as she had trained him, to advise a course of conduct opposed to his notions of manliness, though now that her battle was oyer she would gladly have acquiesced in little casuistic compromises for the sake of the general peace. Some time later Vernon and Dr. Corney were arguing npon the question. Corney was dead against the sentimental view of the morality of the case propounded by Vernon as coming from Miss Middleton and partly shared by him. "If it's on the boy's mind," Vernon said, " I can't prohibit his going to Willoughby and making a clean breast of it, espe- cially as it involves me, and sooner or later I should have to tell him myself." Dr. Corney said no at all points. " Now hear me," he said finally. " This is between ourselves, and no breach of confi- dence, which I'd not be guilty of for forty friends, though I'd give my hand from the wrist-joint for one — my left, that's to say. Sir Willoughby puts me one or two searching interro- gations on a point of interest to him, his house and name. Very well, and good night to that, and I wish Miss Dale had been ten years younger, or had passed the ten with no heart- risings and sinkings wearing to the tissues of the frame and the moral fibre to boot. She'll have a fairish health, with a little occasional doctoring; taking her rank and wealth in right earnest, and shying her pen back to Mother Goose. She'll do. And, by the way, I think it's to the credit of my sagacity that I fetched Mr. Dale here fully primed, ami roused the neighbourhood, which I did, and so fixed our gentleman, neat as a prodded eel on a pair of prongs — namely, the positive fact and the general knowledge of it. But mark me, my friend. We understand one another at a nod. This b°y> y° un g Squire Crossjay, is a good stiff hearty kind of a Saxon boy, out of whom you may cut as gallant a fellow as ever wore epaulettes. I like him, you like him, Miss Dale and Miss Middleton like him ; and Sir Willoughby Patterne of Patterne Hall and other places won't be indisposed to like him mightily in the event of the sun being seen to shine upon him with a particular determination to make him appear a prominent object, because a solitary, and a Patterne." Dr. Corney lifted his chest and his finger : " Now, mark me, and verbum sap : Crossjay must not offend Sir Willoughby. I 4S0 TDK I GOIST. say no more. Look ahead. Miracles happen, but it's be«t to reckon that they won't. Well, now, and -M i s Dale. She'll not he cruel." " It appears as if she -would," said Vernon, meditating' on the cloudy sketch Dr. Corner had drawn. "She can't, my friend. Her position's precarious; hoi father has little besides a pension. And her writing damages her health. She can't. And she likes the baronet. Oh. it's only a little fit of proud blood. She's the woman for him. She'll manage him — give him an idea that he has got a lot of ideas. It'd kill her fattier if she was obstinate. He talked to me, when I told him of the business, about his dream fulfilled, and if the dream turns to vapour, he'll be another example that we hang: more upon dreams than realities for nourishment, and medicine too. Last week 1 couldn't have got him out of his house with all my art and science. Oh, she'll come round. Her father prophesied this, and I'll pro- phesv that. She's fond of him." " She was." " She sees through him ? " "Without quite doing justice to him now," said Vernon. "He can be generous — in his way." " How ? " Corney inquired, and was informed that he should hear in time to come. Meanwhile Colonel De Craye, after hovering over the park and about the cottage for the opportunity of pouncing on Miss Middleton alone, had returned, crest-fallen for once, and plumped into Willoughby's hands. "My dear Horace," Willoughby said, " I've been looking for you all the afternoon. The fact is — 1 fancy you'll think yourself lured down here on false pretences: but the truth is, I am not so much to blame as the world will suppose. In point of fact, to be brief, Miss Dale and I .... 1 never consult other men how they would have acted. The fact of the matter is, Miss Middleton .... 1 fancy you have partly guessed it." " Partly," said De Crave. " Well, she has a liking that way, and if it should turn out strong enough, it's the besl arrangement I can think of." The lively play of the colonel's features fixed in a blank inquiry. " One can hack a good friend for making a good husband," SIR WILLOUGIIBY AND HIS FRIEND. 481 said Willoughby. "I could not break with her in the present stage of affairs without seeing to that. And I can speak of her highly, though she and I have seen in time that we do not suit one another. My wife must have brains." "I have always thought it," said Colonel De Crave, glistening and looking hungry as a wolf through his wonder- ment. " There will not be a word against her, you understand. You know my dislike of tattle and gossip. However, let it fall on me ; my shoulders are broad. I have done my utmost to persuade her, and there seems a likelihood of her consenting. She tells me her wish is to please me, and this will please me." " Certainly. Who's the gentleman ? " " My best friend, I tell you. I could hardly have proposed another. Allow this business to go on smoothly just now." There was an uproar within the colonel to blind his wits, and Willoughby looked so friendly that it was possible to suppose the man of projects had mentioned his best friend to Miss Middleton. And who was the best friend ? Not having accused himself of treachery, the quick-eyed colonel was duped. " Have you his name handy, Willoughby ? " " That would be unfair to him at present, Horace — ask yourself — and to her. Things are in a ticklish posture at present. Don't be hasty." " Certainly. I don't ask. Initials '11 do." "You have a remarkable aptitude for guessing, Horace, and this case offers you no tough problem — if ever you acknowledge toughness. I have a regard for her and for him — for both pretty equally ; you know I have, and I should be thoroughlv thankful to bring the matter about." " Lordly ! " said De Craye. " I don't see it. I call it sensible." "Oh! undoubtedly. The style, I mean. Tolerably antiqiie ? " " Novel, I should say, and not the worse for that. We want plain practical dealings between men aid women. Usually we go the wrong way to work. And I loathe senti- mental rubbish." De Craye hummed an air. " But the lady ? " said he. 2 I 4S2 THE EGOIST. " I told you, there seems a likelihood of her consenting." Willoughby's fish gave a perceptible little leap now that he had been taught to exercise bis aptitude for guessing. "Without any of the customary preliminaries on the side of the gentleman? " he said. " We must put him through his paces, friend Horace. He's a notorious blunderer with women; hasn't a word for them, never marked a conquest." De Craye crested his plumes under the agreeable banter. He presented a face humourously sceptical. " The lady is positively not indisposed to give the poor fellow a hearing? " " I have cause to think she is not," said Willoughby, glad of acting the indifference to her which could talk of her in- clinations. "Cause?" 11 Good cause." "Bless us!" " As good as one can have with a woman." " Ah ? " " I assure you." " Ah ! Does it seem like her, though ? " "Well, she wouldn't engage herself to accept him." "Well, that seems more like her." " But she said she could engage to marry no one else." The colonel sprang up, crying: " Clara Middleton said it?" He curbed himself. " That's a bit of wonderful com- pliancy." " She wishes to please me. We separate on those terms. And I wish her happiness. I've developed a heart lately and taken to think of others." " Nothing better. You appear to make cock sure of the other party — our friend ? " "You know him too well, Horace, to doubt his readiness." "Do you, Willoughby?" " She has money and good looks. Yes, I can say I do." "It wouldn't be much of a man who'd want hard pulling to that lighted altar! " " And it he requires persuasion, you and I, Horace, might bring him to his senses." "Kicking, 'twould be 1 " THE LOVERS. 483 u I like to see everybody happy about me," said Wil- loughby, naming tbe hour as time to dress for dinner. The sentiment he had delivered was De Craye's excuse for grasping his hand and complimenting him ; but the colonel betrayed himself by doing it with an extreme fervour almost tremulous. " When shall we hear more ? " he said. " Oh, probably to-morrow," said Willoughby. " Don't be in such a hurry." " I'm an infant asleep ! " the colonel replied, departing. He resembled one, to Willoughby's mind : or a traitor drugged. " There is a fellow I thought had some brains !" Who are not fools to be set spinning if we choose to whip them with their vanity ! It is the consolation of the great to watch them spin. But the pleasure is loftier, and may comfort our unmerited misfortune for a while, in making a false friend drunk. Willoughby, among his many preoccupations, had the satisfaction of seeing the effect of drunkenness on Horace De Craye when the latter was in Clara's presence. He could have laughed. Cut in keen epigram were the marginal notes added by him to that chapter of The Book which treats of friends and a woman : and had he not been profoundly pre- occupied, troubled by recent intelligence communicated by the ladies, his aunts, he would have played the two together for the royal amusement afforded him by his friend Horace. CHAPTER XLVIIL THE LOVERS. The hour was close upon eleven at night. Lretitia sat in the room adjoining her father's bed-cliamber. Her elbow was on the table beside her chair, and two fingers pressed her temples. The state between thinking and feeling, when 2i2 484 TIIK EGOIST. li ith are molten anil flow by us, is one of our nature's inter missions, coming after thought has quieted the fiery nerves, and can do no more. She seemed to be meditating. She was conscious only of a struggle past. She answered a tap at the door, and raised her eyes on Clara. Clara stepped softly. " Mr. Dale is asleep ? " " I hope so." "Ah! dear friend." La^titia let her hand be pressed. "'Have you had a pleasant evening ? " " ^lr. Whitford and papa have gone to the library." " Colonel De Craye has been singing ? " "Yes — with a voice! I thought of you upstairs, but could not ask him to sing piano." " He is probably exhilarated." " One would suppose it : he sang well." " You are not aware of any reason ? " " It cannot concern me." Clara was in rosy colour, but could meet a steady gaze. " And Cross jay has gone to bed ? " " Long since. He was at dessert. He would not touch anything." " He is a strange boy." " Not very strange, La?titia." " He did not come to me to wish me good night." " That is not strange." "It is his habit at the cottage and here; and he pro- fesses to like me." " Oh ! he does. I may have wakened his enthusiasm, but you he loves." " Why do you say it is not strange, Clara ? " " He fears } r ou a little." "And why should Cross jay fear me ? " " Dear, I will tell you. Last night — You will forgive him, for it was by accident : his own bed-room door was locked and he ran down to the drawing-room and curled himself up on the ottoman, and fell asleep, under that padded silken coverlet of the ladies — boots and all, I am afraid! " Laetitia profited by this absurd allusion, thanking Clara in her heart for the refuge. TIIE LOVERS. 485 *' He should have taken off his boots," she said. " He slept there, and woke up. Dear, he meant no harm. Next day he repeated what he had heard. You will blame him. He meant well in his poor boy's head. And now it is over the county. Ah ! do not frown." " That explains Lady Busshe ! " exclaimed Leetitia. " Dear, dear friend," said Clara. " Why — I presume on your tenderness for me ; but let me : to-morrow I go — why will you reject your happiness ? Those kind good ladies are deeply troubled. They say your resolution is inflexible ; you resist their entreaties and your father's. Can it be that you have any doubt of the strength of this attachment? I have none. I have never had a doubt that it was the strongest of his feelings. If before I go I could see you .... both happy, I should be relieved, I should rejoice." Laatitia said quietly : " Do you remember a walk we had one day together to the cottage ? " Clara put up her hands with the motion of intending to stop her ears. " Before I go ! " said she. " If I might know this was to be, which all desire, before I leave, I should not feel as I do now. I long to see you happy .... him, yes, him loo. Is it like asking you to pay my debt? Then, please! But, no ; I am not more than partly selfish on this occasion. He has won my gratitude. He can be really generous." " An Egoist ? " " Who is ? " "You have forgotten our conversation on the day of our walk to the cottage ? " " Help me to forget it — that day, and those days, and all those days ! I should be glad to think I passed a time beneath the earth, and have risen again. I was the Egoist. I am sure, if I had been buried, I should not have stood up seeing myself more vilely stained, soiled, disfigured — oh ! Help me to forget my conduct, Lastitia. He and I were nnsuited — and I remember I blamed myself then. You and he are not : and now I can perceive the pride that can be felt in him. The worst that can be said is, that he schemes too much." " Is there any fresh' scheme ? " said Lastitia. The rose came over Clara's face. " You have not heard ? It was impossible, but it waa 4^6 THE EGOIST. kindly intended. Judging by my own feeling at this mo. inriit, I can understand his. We love to see our friends established." Laetitia bowed. " My curiosity is piqued, of course." " Dear friend, to-morrow we shall be parted. 1 trust to be thought of by you as a little better in grain than I have appeared, and my reason for trusting it is, that 1 know 1 have been always honest — a boorish young woman in my .st njiid mad impatience; but not insincere. It is no lofty ambition to desire to be remembered in that character, but such is your Clara, she discovers. I will tell you. It is his wish .... his wish that I should promise to give my hand to Mr. WTiitford. You see the kindness." Lffititia's eyes widened and fixed : " You think it kindness ?" " The intention. He sent Mr. Whitford to me, and I was taught to expect him." " Was that quite kind to Mr. Whitford ? " " What an impression I must have made on you during that walk to the cottage, Laetitia! I do not wonder; I was in a fever." " You consented to listen ? " " I really did. It astonishes me now, but I thought I could not refuse." " My poor friend Vernon Whitford tried a love speech." "He? no: Oh! no." " You discouraged him ? " " I ? no." "Gently, I mean." " No." " Surely you did not dream of trifling ? He has a deep heart." " Has he ? " " You ask that : and you know something of him." " He did not expose it to me, dear; not even the surface of the mighty deep." Latitia knitted her brows. " Xo," said Clara, " not a coquette : she is not a coquette, I assure you." With a laugh, Laetitia replied : " You have still the 'dreadful power ' you made me feel that day." " I wish I could use it to good purpose ! " THE LOVERS. 487 " He did not speak ? " " Of Switzerland, Tyrol, the Iliad, Antigone." " That was all ? " " JSTo Political Economy. Our situation, yon will own, was unexampled : or mine was. Are you interested in me ? " " I should be, if 1 knew your sentiments." "I was grateful to ir Willoui^hby : grieved for Mi*. Whitford." " Real grief ? " " Because the task imposed on him of showing me politely that he did not enter into his cousin's ideas, was evidently very great, extremely burdensome." " You, so quick-eyed in some things, Clara ! " " He felt for me. I saw that, in his avoidance of ... . And he was, as he always is, pleasant. We rambled over the park for I know not how long, though it did not seem long." " Never touching that subject ? " " Not ever neighbouring it, dear. A gentleman should esteem the girl he would ask .... certain questions. I fancy he has a liking for me as a volatile friend." " If he had offered himself ? " " Despising me ? " "You can be childish, Clara. Probably you delight to tease. He had his time of it, and it is now my turn." " But he must despise me a little." " Are you blind ? " " Perhaps, dear, we both are, a little." The ladies looked deeper into one another. " Will you answer me ? " said Lretitia. " Your if ? If he had, it would have been an act of con- descension." " You are too slippery." " Stay, dear Lastitia. He was considerate in forbearing to pain me." " That is an answer. You allowed him to perceive that it would have pained you." '' Dearest, if I may convey to you what I w T as, in a similo for comparison: I think I was like a fisherman's float on the water, perfectly still, and ready to go down at any instant, or up. So much for my behaviour." " Similes have the merit of satisfying the finder of them. 4^8 TnK EGOIST. and cheating the hearer," said Latitia. "You admit that your I' would have been painful." "I was a fisherman's iloat : please, admire my simile: any way you like, this way or that, or so quiet as to tempt the - to go to sleep. And suddenly ] might have disappeared in the depths, or flown in the air. But no fish bit." "Well, then, to follow you, supposing the fish or tlio fisherman, for I don't know which is which .... Oh ! no, no: this is too serious for imagery. I am to understand that you thanked him at least for his reserve." " Yes." ""Without the slightest encouragement to him to break it?" " A fisherman's float, Laetitia ! " Baflled and sighing, Leetitia kept silence for a space. The simile chafed her wits with a suspicion of a meaning hidden in it. "If he had spoken ? " she said. " He is too truthful a man." " And the railings of men at pussy women who wind about and will not be brought to a mark, become intelligible to me." " Then, Lnetitia, if he had spoken, if, and one could have imagined him sincere . . . . "So truthful a man ? " "I am looking at myself. If! — why, then, I should have burnt to death with shame. Where have I read? — some story — of an inextinguishable spark. That would have been shot into my heart." " Shame, Clara ? You are free." "As much as remains of me." "I could imagine a ceitain shame, in such a position, where there was no feeling but pride." " I could not imagine it where there was no feeling but pride. Laetitia mused: "And you dwell on the kindness of a proposition so extraordinary ! ' ; Gaining some liyht, im« patiently she cried : " Vernon loves you." "Do not say it!" " I have seen it." " I have never had a sign of it." " There is the proof." THE LOVERS. 489 u When it might have been shown again and again ! " " The greater proof ! " " Why did he not speak when he was privileged ? — strangely, but privileged. " He feared." " Me ? " " Feared to wound you — and himself as well, possibly. Men may be pardoned for thinking of themselves in these cases." " But why should he fear ? " " That another was dearer to yon ? " "What cause had I given .... Ah! see! He could fear that ; suspect it ! See his opinion of me ! Can he care for such a girl? Abuse me, Lastitia. I should like a good round of abuse. I need purification by fire. What have I been in this house ? I have a sense of whirling through it like a madwoman. And to be loved, after it all ! — No ! we must be hearing a tale of an antiquary prizing a battered relic of the battle-field that no one else would look at. To be loved, I see, is to feel our littleness, hollowness — feel shane. We come out in all our spots. Never to have given me one sign, when a lover would have been so tempted ! Let me be incredulous, my own dear Laetitia. Because he is a man of honour, you would say ! But are you unconscious of the torture you inflict ? For if I am — you say it — loved by this gentleman, what) an object it is he loves' — that has gone clamouring about more immodestly than women will bear to hear of, and she herself to think of ! Oh ! I have seen my own heart. It is a frightful spectre. I have seen a weakness in me that would have carried me anywhere. And truly I shall be charitable to women — I have gained that. But, loved ! by Vernon Whit- ford ! The miserable little me to be taken up and loved after tearing myself to pieces ! Have you been simply speculating ? Tou have no positive knowledge of it ! Why do you kiss me ? " " Why do you tremble and blush so? " Clara looked at her as clearly as she could. She bowed her head. " It makes my conduct worse ! " She received a tenderer kiss for that. It was her avowal, and it was understood : to know that she had loved, or had been ready to love him, shadowed her in the retrospect. TITE EGOIST. Mi ! yon read me through and through," said Clara, fIiM her for r whole embr ' Then there never wat for him to fear?" La?titia whispered. 1 her head more out of sight. "Not that my . . . B d I have Been it ; and it is unworth him. Ami if, as I think now, I could hare been so rash, so ik, wicked, unpardonabh — Buch thoughts were in me! — ■ hear him speak, would make it necessary for me to »ver myself and tell him — incredible to you, yes! — that while . . . .yes, Laetitia, all this is true: and thinking of him as the noblest of men, 1 could have welcomed any help to cut my knot, go there," said Clara, issuing from her nest with winking eyelids, "you Bee the jiain 1 mentioned." • Why did you not explain it to me at once ? " " Dearest, I wanted a century to pass." " And you feel that it has passed ? " 'Yes; in Pnrgatory — with an angel by me. My report of the place will be favourable. Good angel, I have yet to say Bomel hing." "' Say it, and expiate." "I think I did fancy once or twice, very dimly, and es- pecially to-day .... properly I ought not "to have bad any idea: bui his coming to me, and his not doing as another would have done, seemed .... A ercntleman of real noble, ness dors not carry the common light for us to read him by. 1 wanted his voice ; but silence, I think, did tell me more : if a nature like mine could only have had faith without hear- ing the rattle of a tongue." A knock at the door caused the ladies to exchange looks. I. 'ina rose as Vernon entered. '• I am jnst going to my father for a few minutes," she Baid ■• And I have just come from yours," Vernon said to Clara. ■ <1 a very threatening expression in him. The sprite of contrariety monnted to her brain to indem- nify he]- for her recent self-abasement. Seeing the hed-room door shut on Lsetitia, she said: "And of course papa has gone to bed : " implying ' otherwise . . . .' • Tea, he has gone. Ee wished me well." ; ' His formula of good-night would embrace that wish." "And failing, it will be good night for g »od to me! " THE LOVERS. 491 Clara's breathing gave a little leap. "We leave early to-morrow." " 1 know. I have an appointment at Bre ,'enz for June." 44 So soon ? With papa H" " And from there we break into Tyrol, an 1 round away to the right, Southward." " To the Italian Alps ! And was it assumed that I should be of this expedition ?" " Your father speaks dubiously." " Tou have spoken of me, then ?" " I ventured to speak of you. I am not over-bold, as you know." Her lovely eyes troubled the lids to hide their softness. " Papa should not think of my presence with him, dubiously." " He leaves it to you to decide." " Yes, then : many times : all that can be uttered.** ** Do you consider what you are saying ?" u Mr. Whitford, I shut my eyes and say Yes." " Beware. I give you one warning. If you shut your eyes ....*' " Of course," she flew from him, " big mountains must be satisfied with my admiration at their feet." " That will do for a beginning." " They speak encouragingly." " One of them." Vernon's breast heaved high. " To be at your feet makes a mountain of you ?" said she. " With the heart of a mouse if that satisfies me !" "You tower too high; you are inaccessible." " I give you a second warning. You may be seized and lifted." " Some one would stoop, then." " To plant you like the flag on the conquered peak !" " You have indeed been talking to papa, Air. Whitford." Vernon changed his tone. " Shall I tell you what he said ?" " I know his language so well." " He said " ' " But you have acted on it.'* " Only partly. He said -** '* You will teach me nothing.** " He said ....'* 492 THE EGOIST. " Vernon, no! oh! not in this house I M That supplication coupled with his nrme confessed the end to which her quick vision perceived she was being led, whirr she would succumb. She revived the same shrinking in him from a breath of their great word jet: not here; somewhere in the shadow of the mountains. But he was sure of her. And their hands might join. The two hands thought so, or did not think, behaved like innocents. The spirit of Dr. Middleton, as Clara felt, had been blown into Vernon, rewarding him for forthright outspeaking. Over their books, Vernon had abruptly shut up a volume and related the tale of the house. " Has this man a spice of religion in him ?" the Rev. doctor asked midway. Vernon made out a fair general case for his cousin in that respect. 'The complements! dot on his i of a commonly civilized human creature!" said Dr. Middleton, looking at his watch ami ii ruling it too late to leave the house before morning. The risky communication was to come. Vernon was pro- ceeding with the narrative of "Willoughby's generous plan when Dr. .Middleton electrified him by calling out: "lie whom of all men living I should desire my daughter to espouse!" and Willoughby rose in the llev. doctor's esteem : he praised that sensibly minded gentleman, who could acquiesce in the turn of mood of a little maid, albeit For- tune had withheld from him a taste of the switch at school. The father of the little maid's appreciation of her volatility was exhibited in his exhortation to Vernon to be off to her at once with his authority to finish her moods and assure him of peace in the morning. Vernon hesitated. Dr. Mid- dleton remarked upon being not so sure that it was not he who had done the mischief. Thereupon Vernon, to prove his honesty, made his own story bare. " Go to her," said Dr. Middleton. Vernon proposed a meeting in Switzerland, to Avhieh Dr. Middleton assented, adding: " Go to her:" and as he appeared a total stranger to the decorum of the situa- tion, Vernon put his delicacy aside, and taking his heart up, oheyed. He too had pondered on Clara's consent to meet him after she knew of Willoughby's terms, and her grave sweet manner during the ramble over the park. Her father's breath had been blown into him ; so now, with L^TITIA AND SIR WILI.OUGHBY. 49.") nothing 1 but tlie faith lying in sensation to convince him of his happy fortune (and how unconvincing that may be until the mind has grasped and stamped it, we experience even then when we acknowledge that we are most blest), he held her hand. And if it was hard for him, for both, but hanlei for the man, to restrain their particular word from a flight to heaven when the cage stood open and nature beckoned, he was practised in self-mastery, and she loved him the more. Lretitia was a witness of their union of hands on her coming back to the room. They promised to visit her very early in the morning, neither of them conceiving that they left her to a night of storm and tears. She sat meditating on Clara's present appreciation of Sir Willoughby's generosity. CHAPTER XLIX. lj:titia and sir willoughby. We cannot be abettors of the tribes of imps whose revelry is in the frailties of our poor human constitution. They have their place and their service, and so long as we con- tinue to be what we are now, they will hang on to us, rest- lessly plucking at the garments which cover our nakedness, nor ever ceasing to twitch them and strain at them until they have fairly skipped us for one of their horrible Wal- purgis nights : when the laughter heard is of a character to render laughter frightful to the ears of men throughout the remainder of their days. But if in these festival hours under the beams of Hecate they are uncontrollable by the comic Muse, she will not flatter them with her presence during the course of their insane and impious hilai'ities, whereof a description would out-Brocken Brockens and make Graymalkin and Paddock too intimately our familiars. It shall suffice to say that from hour to hour of the mid- night to the grey-eyed morn, assisted at intervals by the ladies Eleanor and Isabel, and by Mr. Dale awakened and reawakened — hearing the vehemence of his petitioning out 404 TITE EGOIST. cry to soften her obduracy — Sir Willonghby pursued Lnrtitia with solicitations 1,0 espouse him, until the inveteracy of his wooing 1 wore the aspect of the life-long love he raved of aroused to a state of mania. Jle appeared, he departed, he returned ; and all the while his imps were about him and upon him, riding him, prompting, driving, inspiring him with outrageous pathos, an eloquence to move anyone but the dead, which its object seemed to be in her torpid atten- tion. He heard them, he talked to them, caressed them; he flung them off and ran from them, and stood vanquished for them to mount him again and swarm on him. There are men thus imp-haunted. Men who, setting their minds upon an object, must have it, breed imps. They are noted for their singularities, as their converse with the invisible and amazing distractions are called. Wil lough by became aware of them that night. He said to himself, upon one of his dashes into solitude : I believe I am possessed ! And if he did not actually believe it, but only suspected it, or framed speech to account for the transformation he had undergone into a desperately beseeching creature, having lost acquaintance with his habitual personality, the opera- tions of an impish host had undoubtedly smitten his con- sciousness. He had them in his brain : for while burning with an ardour for Lajtitia, that incited him to frantic excesses of language and comportment, he was aware of shouts of the names of Lady Busshe and Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, the which, freezing him as they did, were directly the cause of his hunying to a wilder extravagance and more headlong determination to subdue before break of day the woman he almost dreaded to behold by daylight, though he had now passionately persuaded himself of his love of her. He could not, he felt, stand in the daylight without her. Bhe was his morning. She was, he raved, his predestinated wife. He cried : " Darling !" both to her and to solitude. Every prescription of his ideal of demeanour as an example to his class and country, was abandoned by the enamoured gentleman. He had lost command of his countenance. He stooped so far as to kneel, and not gracefully. Nay, it is in the chronicles of the invisible host around him, that in a fit of supplication, upon a cry of "Lajtitia!" twice repeated, he whimpered. Let so much suffice. And indeed not without reason do L^TITIA AND SIR WILLOUGHBY. 495 the multitudes of the servants of the Muse in this land of social policy avoid scenes of an inordinate wantonness which detract from the dignity of our leaders and menace human nature with confusion. Sagacious are they who conduct the individual on broad lines, over familiar tracks, under w r ell- known characteristics. What men will do, and amorously minded men will do, is less the question than what it is politic that they should be shown to do. The night wore through. Lastitia was bent, but had not yielded. She had been obliged to say— and how many times, she could not bear to recollect : " I do not love you ; I have no love to give ;" and issuing from such a night to look again upon the face of day, she scarcely felt that she was alive. The contest was renewed by her father with the singing of the birds. Mr. Dale then produced the first serious impression she had received. He spoke of their circum- stances, of his being taken from her and leaving her to poverty, in weak health ; of the injury done to her health by writing for bread ; and of the oppressive weight he would be relieved of by her consenting. He no longer implored her ; he put the case on common ground. And he wound up : " Pray do not be ruthless, my girl." The practical statement, and this adjuration incongruously to conclude it, harmonized with her disordered understand- ing, her loss of all sentiment and her desire to be kind. She sighed to herself : " Happily, it is over!" Her father was too weak to rise. He fell asleep. She was bound down to the house for hours ; and she walked through her suite, here at the doors, there at the windows, thinking of Clara's remark ' of a century passing.' She had not wished it, but a light had come on her to show her what she would have supposed a century could not have effected : she saw the impossible of overnight a possible thing : not desireable, yet possible, wearing the features of the possible. Happily, she had resisted too firmly to be again besought. Those features of the possible once beheld allured the mind to reconsider them. Wealth gives us the power to do good on earth. Wealth enables us to see the world, the beautiful scenes of the earth. Laetitia had long thirsted both for a dowering money-bag at her girdle, and the wings to fly abroad over lands which had begun to seem fabulous -." - in h I '• .'• d Then, rnor'- ' - '- ment for t:. _ .an was gone. - a delr. - gone; acci: - _ - n would n I a woman the less helpful mate. T: - the mate he required : and he could be led. A - .^ntal attachment have been servie ss to him. N I - the woman i purely rational bond : and he wanted gui -:e had told him too much of her feeble health and her lovel be reduced to submit to another If in her room, arm: _ nr her de* \:>minu- - . ter her father brt: 1 and d the other r she had slept er from the foce her. The rings : '.. I - - very r mirror, and - said: " A sing " * 3 be r . for her band I kno - o damp dead I si : heeks to remind me of midni_ vigils, veil, "I yet I could sav I have not si I - in dream and pa: _ •. * : hoping ■ ~ -. ble before I go." . Ie. That is the word for me." " :hed the the nieh- a man: f est 6b lough': him, so - • the human nature without som ied: "I hope, i I nothine 1: I :or making you hard, matter-of- 5 Vi rnon. t - anxious for tia wer.: r father's room to :• him. nmd them both with - m for them, to ask the . " - s 1 ever" a " - poor fel he had into Cross- . up and talked to him, L^TI'JIA AND SIR WILLOUGHBY. 4f»7 and set the lad crying, and what with one thing and another Crossjay got a berry in his throat, as he calls it, and poured out everything he knew and all he had done. I needn't fell you the consequence. He has ruined himself here for goo J, so I must take him." Vernon glanced at Clara. " Tou must indeed," said she. " lie is my boy as well as yours. No chance of pardon r" " It's not likely." "LfFtitia!" " AVhat can I do ?" " Oh ! what can you not do ?" "I do not know." " Teach him to forgive !" Laatitia's brows were heavy and Clara forebore to torment her. She would not descend to the family breakfast-table. Clara would fain have stayed to drink tea with her in her own room, but a last act of conformity was demanded of the liberated young lady. She promised to run up the moment breakfast was over. Not unnaturally, therefore, Lsetitia supposed it to be she to whom she gave admission, half an hour later, with a glad cry of, " Come in, dear." The knock had sounded like Clara's. Sir Willoughby entered. He stepped forward. He seized her hands. "Dear!" he said. " You cannot withdraw that. You called me deai\ I am, T must be dear to you. The word is out, by accident or not, but, by heaven, I have it and I give it up to no one. And love me or not — marry me, and my love will bring it back to you. You have taught me I am not so strong. I must have you by my side. You have powers I did not credit you with." " You are mistaken in me, Sir Willoughby," La?titia said feebly, outworn as she was. " A woman who can resist me by declining to be my wife, through a whole night of entreaty, has the quality I need for my house, and I batter at her ears for months, with as little rest as I had last night, before I surrender my chance of her. But I told you last night I want you within the twelve hours. I have staked my pride on it. By noon you are mine : you are introduced to Mrs. Mountstuart as mine 2k 498 TI1E EGOIST. as the lady of my life and house. And to the world! 1 Bhall not let yoti go." " You will not detain me here, Sir "Willoughby ?" " I will detain you. I will use force and guile. I will spare nothing." I le raved for a term, as he had done overnight. On his growing rather breathless, Lcetitia said : " You do not ask me for love ?" "I do not. I pay you the higher compliment of asking for you, love or no love. My love shall be enough. Reward me or not. I am not used to be denied." " But do you know what you ask for? Do you remember what I told you of myself ? I am hard, materialistic ; I have lost faith in romance, the skeleton is present with me all over life. And my health is not good. I crave for money. I should marry to be rich. I should not worship you. I should be a burden, barely a living one, irresponsive and cold. Conceive such a wife, Sir "Wil- loughbv !" " It will be you !" She tried to recall how this would have sung in her ears long back. Her bosom rose and fell in absolute dejection. Her ammunition of arguments against him had been ex- pended overnight. " You are so unforgiving," she said. " Is it I who am r" " You do not know me." " But you are the woman of all the world who knows me, La?titia." " Can you think it better for 3011 to be known ?" He was about to say other words : he checked them. " I believe I do not know r myself. Anything you will, only give me your hand; give it; trust to me; you shall direct me. If I have faults, help me to obliterate them." " "Will you not expeefme to regard them as the virtues of meaner men ?" " You will be my wife !" Lastitia broke from him, crying: " Your wife, your critic ! Oh ! I cannot think it possible. Send for the ladies. Let them hear me." " They are at hand." taid Willoughby, opening the door LETITIA AND SIR W1LL0UGHBY. 499 They were in one of the npper rooms anxiously on the watch. " Dear ladies," Lsetitia said to them, as tiiey entered. " I am going to wound you, and I grieve to do it : but rather now than later, if I am to be your housemate. He asks me for a hand that cannot carry a heart, because mine is dead. I repeat it. I used to think the heart a woman's marriage portion for her husband. I see now that she may consent, and he accept her, without one. But it is right that you should know what I am when I consent. I was once a foolioh romantic girl ; now I am a sickly woman, all illu- sions vanished. Privation has made me what an abounding fortune usually makes of others — I am an Egoist. I am not deceiving you. That is my real character. My gild's view of him has entirely changed ; and I am almost indifferent to the change. I can endeavour to respect him, I cannot venerate." " Dear child !" the ladies gently remonstrated. Willoughby motioned to them. " If we are to live together, and I could very happily live with you," Lastitia continued to address them, " you must not be ignorant of me. And if you, as I imagine, worship him blindly, I do not know how we are to live together. And never shall you quit this house to make way for me. I have a hard detective eye. I see many faults." " Have we not all of us faults, dear child ?" " Not such as he has ; though the excuses of a gentleman nurtured in idolatry may be pleaded. But he should know that they are seen, and seen by her he asks to be his wife, that no misunderstanding may exist, and while it is yet time he mav consult his feelings. He worships himself." " Willoughby ?" "He is vindictive." " Our Willoughby ?" " That is not your opinion, ladies. It is firmly mine. Time has taught it me. So, if you and I are at such variance, how can we live together? It is an impossibility." They looked at Willoughby. He nodded imperiously. " We have never affirmed that our dear nephew is devoid of faults. If he is offended .... And supposing he claims to be foremost, is it not his rightful claim, made good bv 500 THE EGOIST. much generosity ? Reflect, dear Lretitia. We arc your friends too." She could not chastise the kind Ladies any further. " You have always been my good friends." " And you have no other charge against him ?" Lretitia was milder in saving; " He is unpardoning." " Name one instance, Lsetitia." " He has turned Crossjay out of his house, interdicting the poor boy ever to enter it again." " Crossjay," said Willoughby, "was guilty of a piece of infamous treachery." " Which is the cause of your persecuting me to become your wife !" There was a cry of " Persecuting !" " No.yonng fellow behaving so basely can come to good," said Willoughby, stained about the face with flecks of red- ness at the lashings he received. "Honestly," she retorted. "He told of himself: and he must have anticipated the punishment he would meet. He should have been studying with a master for his profession. He has been kept here in comparative idleness to be alter- nately petted and discarded: no one but Vernon Whit ford, a poor gentleman doomed to straggle for a livelihood by literature — I know something of that straggle — too much for me ! — no one but Mr. Whitford for his friend." " Crossjay is forgiven." said Willoughby. " You promise me that ?" " He shall be packed off to a crammer at once." " But my home must be Crossjay's home." "You are mistress of my house, Laditia." She hesitated. Her eyelashes grew moist. "You can be generous." " He is, dear child !" the ladies cried. " He is. Forget his errors in his generosity, as we do." " There is that wretched man Flitch." " That sot has gone about the county for years to get me a bad character," said Willoughby. "It would have been generous in you to have offered him another chance. He has children." " Nine. And I am responsible for them ?' " I speak of being generous." " Dictate." Willoughby spread out his arms. THE CURTAIN FALLS. 501 " Surely now you should be satisfied, Lostitia ? said the ladies. " is he r "Willoughby perceived Mrs. Mountstuart's carriage coming down the avenue. " To the full." He presented his hand. She raised hers with the fingers catching back before she ceased to speak and dropped it ; — " Ladies, you are witnesses that there is no concealment, there has been no reserve, on my part. May heaven grant me kinder eyes than I have now. I would not have you change your opinion of him ; only that you should see how I read him. For the rest, I vow to do my duty by him. Whatever is of worth in me is at his service. I am very tired. 1 feel I must yield or break. This is his wish, and I submit." " And I salute my wife," said Willoughby, making her hand his own, and warming to his possession as he per- formed the act. Mrs. Mounstuart's indecent hurry to be at the Hall before the departure of Dr. Middleton and his daughter, aiilicted him with visions of the physical contrast which would be sharply perceptible to her this morning of his Lsetitia beside Clara. But he had the lady with brains ! He had : and he was to learn the nature of that possession in the woman who is our wife. CHAPTER L. UPON WHICH THE CURTAIN FALLS. " Plain sense upon the marriage question is my demand upon man and woman, for the stopping of many a tragedy." These were Dr. Middleton's words in reply to Willough- by 's brief explanation. He did not say that he had shown it parentally while the tragedy was threatening, or at least there was danger of a 502 THE EOOIST. precipitate descent from the levels of comedy. The parents of hymeneal men and women he was indisposed to consider as dramatis personae. Nor did he mention certain sym- pathetic regrets he entertained in contemplation of "the health of Mr. Dale, for whom, poor gentleman, the proffer of a bottle of the Patterne Port would be an egregious mockery. He paced about, anxious for his departure, and seeming better pleased with the society of Colonel De Crave than with that of any of the others. Colonel De Craye assiduously courted him, was anecdotal, deferential, charm- ingly vivacious, the very man the Rev. doctor liked for com- pany when plunged in the bustle of the preliminaries to a journey. ' You would be a cheerful travelling comrade, sir," he remarked, and spoke of his doom to lead his daughter over the Alps and Alpine lakes for the Summer months. Strange to tell, the Alps for the Summer months, was a settled project of the colonel's. And thence Dr. Middleton was to be hauled along to the habitable quarters of North Italy in high Summer-tide. That also had been traced for a route on the map of Colonel De Craye. ' We are started in June, I am informed," said Dr. Mid- dleton. June, by miracle, was the month the colonel had fixed upon. " I trust we shall meet, sir," said he. " I would gladly reckon it in my catalogue of pleasures," the Rev. doctor responded : " for in good sooth it is conjcc- tureable that I shall be left very much alone." ' Paris, Strasburg, Basle ?" the colonel inquired. " The Lake of Constance, I am told," said Dr. Middleton. Colonel De Craye spied eagerly for an opportunity of ex- changing a pair of syllables with the third and fairest party of this glorious expedition to come. Willoughby met him, and rewarded the colonel's frankness in stating that he was on the look-out for Miss Middleton to take his leave of her, by furnishing him the occasion. He conducted his friend Horace to the Blue Room, where Clara and Loetitia were seated circling a half embrace with a brook of chatter, and contrived an excuse for leading Laetitia forth. Some minutes later Mrs. Mountstuart called aloud for the THE CURTAIN FALLS. 503 colonel, to drive him away. Willoughby, whose good offices were unabated by the services he performed to each in rota- tion, ushered her into the Blue Room, hearing her say, as she stood at the entrance : " Is the man coming to spend a day with me with a face like that ?" She was met and detained by Clara. De Craye came out. " What are you thinking of ?" said Willoughby. " I was thinking," said the colonel, " of developing a heart, like you, and taking to think of others." "At last!' " Ay, you're a true friend, Willoughby, a true friend. And a cousin to boot !" " What ! has Clara been communicative ?" " The itinerary of a voyage Miss Middleton is going to make." " Do you join them ?" " Why, it would be delightful, Willonghby, but it happens I've got a lot of powder I want to let off, and so I've an idea of shouldering my gun along the sea-coast and shooting gulls : which '11 be a harmless form of committing parricide and matricide and fratricide — for there's my family, and I come of it ! — the gull ! And I've to talk lively to Mrs. Mountstuart for something like a matter of twelve hours, calculating that she goes to bed at midnight : and I wouldn't bet on it ; such is the energy of ladies of that age !" Willoughby scorned the man who could not conceal a blow, even though he joked over his discomfiture. " Gull !" he muttered. " A bird that's easy to be had, and better for stuffing than for eating," said De Craye. " You'll miss your cousin." " I have," replied Willoughby, " one fully equal to sup- plying his place." There was confusion in the hall for a time, and an assembly of the household to witness the departure of Dr. Middleton and his daughter. Vernon had been driven off by Dr. Corney, who further recommended rest for Mr. Dale, and promised to keep an eye for Crossjay along the road. " I think you will find him at the station, and if you do, command him to come straight back here," Laetitia said to Clara. The answer was an affectionate squeeze, and Clara's hand 504 TTTE EGOIST. was extended to Willoughby, who bowed over it with perfecJ courtesy, bidding her adieu. So the knot was cut. And the next carriage to Dr. Mid- dleton's was Mrs. Mountstuart's, conveying the great lady and Colonel De Craye. " I beg you not to wear that face with me," she said to him. " I have had to dissemble, which I hate, and I have quite enough to endure, and I must be amused, or I shall run away from you and enlist that little countryman of yours, and him and I can count on to be professionally restorative. Who can fathom the heart of a girl ! Here is Lady Busshe right once more! And I was wrong. She must be a gambler by nature. I never should have risked such a guess as that. Colonel De Craye, you lengthen your face preternatural ly, you distort it purposely." "Ma'am," returned De Craye, "the boast of our army is never to know when we are beaten, and that tells of a great- hearted soldiery. But there's a field where the Briton must own liis defeat, whether smiling or crying, and I'm not so sure that a short howl doesn't do him honour." " She was, I am certain, in love with Vernon Wkitford all along, Colonel De Craye !" " Ah !" the colonel drank it in. " I have learnt that it was not the gentleman in whom I am chiefly interested. So it was not so hard for the lady to vow to friend Willoughby she would marry no one else !" " Now would you, could you have judged from her physiog- nomy that she was a girl to fall in love with a man like Mr. Whitford ?" " Going by the Mythology, ma'am, I should have suspected the God xMars." "Girls are unfathomable! And Lady Busshe — I know she did not go by character — shot one of her random guesses, and triumphs. We shall never hear the last of it. And I had all the opportunities. I'm bound to confess I had." "Did you by chance, ma'am," De Craye said with a twinkle, "drop a hint to AVilloughby of her turn for Vernon Whit- ford P" "No," said Mrs. Mountstuait, "I'm not a nrschief-nrak. r; and the policy of the county is to keep him in love with h Mi- self, or Fatterne will be likely to be as dull as it was without THE CURTAIN FALLS. 505 a lady enthroned. When his pride is at ease he is a prince. I can read men. Now, Colonel De Craye, pray, be lively." "I should have been livelier, I'm afraid, if you had dropped a bit of a hint to Willoughby. But you're the magnanimous person, ma'am, and revenge for a stroke in the game of love shows us unworthy to win." Mrs. Mountstuart menaced him with her parasol. " I for- bid sentiments, Colonel De Craye. They are always followed by sighs." " Grant me five minutes of inward retirement, and I'll come out formed for your commands, ma'am," said he. Before the termination of that space De Craye was en- chanting Mrs. Mountstuart, and she in consequence was restored to her natural wit. So, and much so universally, the world of his dread and his unconscious worship wagged over Sir Willoughby Pat- terne and his change of brides, until the preparations for the festivities of the marriage flushed him in his county's eyes to something of the splendid glow he had worn on the great. day of his majority. That was upon the season when two lovers met between the Swiss and Tyrol Alps over the Lake of Constance. Sitting beside them the comic Muse is grave and sisterly. But taking a glance at the others of her late company of actors, she comprtsdes her lips. THE END. .,„,. or CALIF. 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