CHAPTER XIX
COLONEL DE CRAYE AND CLARA MIDDLETON
MISS MIDDLETON finished her stroll with Crossjay by winding her trailerof ivy in a wreath round his hat and sticking her bunch of grasses inthe wreath. She then commanded him to sit on the ground beside a bigrhododendron, there to await her return. Crossjay had informed her of adesign he entertained to be off with a horde of boys nesting in hightrees, and marking spots where wasps and hornets were to be attacked inAutumn: she thought it a dangerous business, and as the boy'sdinner-bell had very little restraint over him when he was in the flushof a scheme of this description, she wished to make tolerably sure ofhim through the charm she not unreadily believed she could fling onlads of his age. "Promise me you will not move from here until I comeback, and when I come I will give you a kiss." Crossjay promised. Sheleft him and forgot him.
Seeing by her watch fifteen minutes to the ringing of the bell, asudden resolve that she would speak to her father without anotherminute's delay had prompted her like a superstitious impulse to abandonher aimless course and be direct. She knew what was good for her; sheknew it now more clearly than in the morning. To be taken awayinstantly! was her cry. There could be no further doubt. Had there beenany before? But she would not in the morning have suspected herself ofa capacity for evil, and of a pressing need to be saved from herself.She was not pure of nature: it may be that we breed saintly souls whichare: she was pure of will: fire rather than ice. And in beginning tosee the elements she was made of she did not shuffle them to a heapwith her sweet looks to front her. She put to her account somestrength, much weakness; she almost dared to gaze unblinking at aperilous evil tendency. The glimpse of it drove her to her father.
"He must take me away at once; to-morrow!"
She wished to spare her father. So unsparing of herself was she, that,in her hesitation to speak to him of her change of feeling for SirWilloughby, she would not suffer it to be attributed in her own mind toa daughter's anxious consideration about her father's loneliness; anidea she had indulged formerly. Acknowledging that it was imperativeshe should speak, she understood that she had refrained, even to theinflicting upon herself of such humiliation as to run dilating on herwoes to others, because of the silliest of human desires to preserveher reputation for consistency. She had heard women abused forshallowness and flightiness: she had heard her father denounce them asveering weather-vanes, and his oft-repeated quid femina possit: for hersex's sake, and also to appear an exception to her sex, this reasoningcreature desired to be thought consistent.
Just on the instant of her addressing him, saying: "Father," a note ofseriousness in his ear, it struck her that the occasion for saying allhad not yet arrived, and she quickly interposed: "Papa"; and helpedhim to look lighter. The petition to be taken away was uttered.
"To London?" said Dr. Middleton. "I don't know who'll take us in."
"To France, papa?"
"That means hotel-life."
"Only for two or three weeks."
"Weeks! I am under an engagement to dine with Mrs Mountstuart Jenkinsonfive days hence: that is, on Thursday."
"Could we not find an excuse?"
"Break an engagement? No, my dear, not even to escape drinking awidow's wine."
"Does a word bind us?"
"Why, what else should?"
"I think I am not very well."
"We'll call in that man we met at dinner here: Corney: a capitaldoctor; an old-fashioned anecdotal doctor. How is it you are not well,my love? You look well. I cannot conceive your not being well."
"It is only that I want change of air, papa."
"There we are--a change! semper eadem! Women will be wanting a changeof air in Paradise; a change of angels too, I might surmise. A changefrom quarters like these to a French hotel would be a descent!--'thisthe seat, this mournful gloom for that celestial light.' I amperfectly at home in the library here. That excellent fellow Whitfordand I have real days: and I like him for showing fight to his elder andbetter."
"He is going to leave."
"I know nothing of it, and I shall append no credit to the tale until Ido know. He is headstrong, 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 suggested to Dr.Middleton shuddering visions of the Channel passage on board a steamer.
"Corney shall see you: he is a sparkling draught in person; probablyilliterate, if I may judge from one interruption of my discourse whenhe sat opposite me, but lettered enough to respect Learning and writeout his prescription: I do not ask more of men or of physicians." Dr.Middleton said this rising, glancing at the clock and at the back ofhis hands. "'Quod autem secundum litteras difficillimum esseartificium?' But what after letters is the more difficult practice?'Ego puto medicum.' The medicus next to the scholar: though I have notto my recollection required him next me, nor ever expected child ofmine to be crying for that milk. Daughter she is--of the unexplainedsex: we will send a messenger for Corney. Change, my dear, you willspeedily have, to satisfy the most craving of women, if Willoughby, asI suppose, is in the neoteric fashion of spending a honeymoon on arailway: apt image, exposition and perpetuation of the state of maniaconducting to the institution! In my time we lay by to brood onhappiness; we had no thought of chasing it over a continent, mistakinghurly-burly clothed in dust for the divinity we sought. A smallergeneration sacrifices to excitement. Dust and hurly-burly must perforcebe the issue. And that is your modern world. Now, my dear, let us goand wash our hands. Midday-bells expect immediate attention. They knowof no anteroom of assembly."
Clara stood gathered up, despairing at opportunity lost. He had noticedher contracted shape and her eyes, and had talked magisterially tosmother and overbear the something disagreeable prefigured in herappearance.
"You do not despise your girl, father?"
"I do not; I could not; I love her; I love my girl. But you need notsing to me like a gnat to propound that question, my dear."
"Then, father, tell Willoughby to-day we have to leave tomorrow. Youshall return in time for Mrs. Mountstuart's dinner. Friends will takeus in, the Darletons, the Erpinghams. We can go to Oxford, where youare sure of welcome. A little will recover me. Do not mention doctors.But you see I am nervous. I am quite ashamed of it; I am well enough tolaugh at it, only I cannot overcome it; and I feel that a day or twowill restore me. Say you will. Say it in First-Lesson-Book language;anything above a primer splits my foolish head to-day."
Dr Middleton shrugged, spreading out his arms.
"The office of ambassador from you to Willoughby, Clara? You decree meto the part of ball between two bats. The Play being assured, theprologue is a bladder of wind. I seem to be instructed in one of themysteries of erotic esotery, yet on my word I am no wiser. IfWilloughby is to hear anything from you, he will hear it from yourlips."
"Yes, father, yes. We have differences. I am not fit for contests atpresent; my head is giddy. I wish to avoid an illness. He and I . . . Iaccuse myself."
"There is the bell!" ejaculated Dr. Middleton. "I'll debate on it withWilloughby."
"This afternoon?"
"Somewhen, before the dinner-bell. I cannot tie myself to theminute-hand of the clock, my dear child. And let me direct you, for thenext occasion when you shall bring the vowels I and A, in verballydetached letters, into collision, that you do not fill the hiatus withso pronounced a Y. It is the vulgarization of our tongue of which Iaccuse you. I do not like my girl to be guilty of it."
He smiled to moderate the severity of the correction, and kissed herforehead.
She declared her inability to sit and eat; she went to her room, afterbegging him very earnestly to send her the assurance that he hadspoken. She had not shed a tear, and she rejoiced in her self-control;it whispered to her of true courage when she had given herself suchevidence of the reverse.
Shower and sunshine alternated through the half-hours of the afternoon,like a procession of dar
k and fair holding hands and passing. Theshadow came, and she was chill; the light yellow in moisture, and sheburied her face not to be caught up by cheerfulness. Believing that herhead ached, she afflicted herself with all the heavy symptoms, andoppressed her mind so thoroughly that its occupation was to speculateon Laetitia Dale's modest enthusiasm for rural pleasures, for thisplace especially, with its rich foliage and peeps of scenic peace. Theprospect of an escape from it inspired thoughts of a loveable round oflife where the sun was not a naked ball of fire, but a friend clothedin woodland; where park and meadow swept to well-known features Eastand West; and distantly circling hills, and the hearts of poorcottagers too--sympathy with whom assured her of goodness--werefamiliar, homely to the dweller in the place, morning and night. Andshe had the love of wild flowers, the watchful happiness in theseasons; poets thrilled her, books absorbed. She dwelt strongly on thatsincerity of feeling; it gave her root in our earth; she needed it asshe pressed a hand on her eyeballs, conscious of acting the invalid,though the reasons she had for languishing under headache were soconvincing that her brain refused to disbelieve in it and went some wayto produce positive throbs. Otherwise she had no excuse for shuttingherself in her room. Vernon Whitford would be sceptical. Headache ornone, Colonel De Craye must be thinking strangely of her; she had notshown him any sign of illness. His laughter and his talk sung about herand dispersed the fiction; he was the very sea-wind for bracingunstrung nerves. Her ideas reverted to Sir Willoughby, and at once theyhad no more cohesion than the foam on a torrent-water.
But soon she was undergoing a variation of sentiment. Her maid Barclaybrought her this pencilled line from her father:
"Factum est; laetus est; amantium irae, etc."
That it was done, that Willoughby had put on an air of gladacquiescence, and that her father assumed the existence of a lovers'quarrel, was wonderful to her at first sight, simple the succeedingminute. Willoughby indeed must be tired of her, glad of her going. Hewould know that it was not to return. She was grateful to him forperhaps hinting at the amantium irae, though she rejected the folly ofthe verse. And she gazed over dear homely country through her windowsnow. Happy the lady of the place, if happy she can be in her choice!Clara Middleton envied her the double-blossom wild cherry-tree, nothingelse. One sprig of it, if it had not faded and gone to dust-colour likecrusty Alpine snow in the lower hollows, and then she could depart,bearing away a memory of the best here! Her fiction of the headachepained her no longer. She changed her muslin dress for silk; she wascontented with the first bonnet Barclay presented. Amicable towardevery one in the house, Willoughby included, she threw up her window,breathed, blessed mankind; and she thought: "If Willoughby would openhis heart to nature, he would be relieved of his wretched opinion ofthe world." Nature was then sparkling refreshed in the last drops of asweeping rain-curtain, favourably disposed for a background to herjoyful optimism. A little nibble of hunger within, real hunger, unknownto her of late, added to this healthy view, without precipitating herto appease it; she was more inclined to foster it, for the sake of thesinewy activity of mind and limb it gave her; and in the style of youngladies very light of heart, she went downstairs like a cascade, andlike the meteor observed in its vanishing trace she alighted close toColonel De Craye and entered one of the rooms off the hall.
He cocked an eye at the half-shut door.
Now you have only to be reminded that it is the habit of the sportivegentleman of easy life, bewildered as he would otherwise be by thetricks, twists, and windings of the hunted sex, to parcel out fairwomen into classes; and some are flyers and some are runners; thesebirds are wild on the wing, those exposed their bosoms to the shot. Forhim there is no individual woman. He grants her a characteristic onlyto enroll her in a class. He is our immortal dunce at learning todistinguish her as a personal variety, of a separate growth.
Colonel De Craye's cock of the eye at the door said that he had seen arageing coquette go behind it. He had his excuse for forming thejudgement. She had spoken strangely of the fall of his wedding-present,strangely of Willoughby; or there was a sound of strangeness in anallusion to her appointed husband: and she had treated Willoughbystrangely when they met. Above all, her word about Flitch was curious.And then that look of hers! And subsequently she transferred her politeattentions to Willoughby's friend. After a charming colloquy, thesweetest give and take rattle he had ever enjoyed with a girl, shedeveloped headache to avoid him; and next she developed blindness, forthe same purpose.
He was feeling hurt, but considered it preferable to feel challenged.
Miss Middleton came out of another door. She had seen him when she hadpassed him and when it was too late to convey her recognition; and nowshe addressed him with an air of having bowed as she went by.
"No one?" she said. "Am I alone in the house?"
"There is a figure naught," said he, "but it's as good as annihilated,and no figure at all, if you put yourself on the wrong side of it, andwish to be alone in the house."
"Where is Willoughby?"
"Away on business."
"Riding?"
"Achmet is the horse, and pray don't let him be sold, Miss Middleton. Iam deputed to attend on you."
"I should like a stroll."
"Are you perfectly restored?"
"Perfectly."
"Strong?"
"I was never better."
"It was the answer of the ghost of the wicked old man's wife when shecame to persuade him he had one chance remaining. Then, says he, I'llbelieve in heaven if ye'll stop that bottle, and hurls it; and thebottle broke and he committed suicide, not without suspicion of herlaying a trap for him. These showers curling away and leaving sweetscents are divine, Miss Middleton. I have the privilege of theChristian name on the nuptial-day. This park of Willoughby's is one ofthe best things in England. There's a glimpse over the lake that smokesof a corner of Killarney; tempts the eye to dream, I mean." De Crayewound his finger spirally upward, like a smoke-wreath. "Are you forIrish scenery?"
"Irish, English, Scottish."
"All's one so long as it's beautiful: yes, you speak for me.Cosmopolitanism of races is a different affair. I beg leave to doubtthe true union of some; Irish and Saxon, for example, let Cupid bemaster of the ceremonies and the dwelling-place of the happy couple atthe mouth of a Cornucopia. Yet I have seen a flower of Erin worn by aSaxon gentleman proudly; and the Hibernian courting a Rowena! So we'llundo what I said, and consider it cancelled."
"Are you of the rebel party, Colonel De Craye?"
"I am Protestant and Conservative, Miss Middleton."
"I have not a head for politics."
"The political heads I have seen would tempt me to that opinion."
"Did Willoughby say when he would be back?"
"He named no particular time. Doctor Middleton and Mr. Whitford are inthe library upon a battle of the books."
"Happy battle!"
"You are accustomed to scholars. They are rather intolerant of us poorfellows."
"Of ignorance perhaps; not of persons."
"Your father educated you himself, I presume?"
"He gave me as much Latin as I could take. The fault is mine that it islittle."
"Greek?"
"A little Greek."
"Ah! And you carry it like a feather."
"Because it is so light."
"Miss Middleton, I could sit down to be instructed, old as I am. Whenwomen beat us, I verily believe we are the most beaten dogs inexistence. 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 and I; sufficientfor a two-act piece. THE IRISHMAN IN SPAIN would do." He bent to touchthe grass as she stepped on it. "The lawn is wet."
She signified that she had no dread of wet, and said: "English womenafraid of the weather might
as well be shut up."
De Craye proceeded: "Patrick O'Neill passes over from Hibernia toIberia, a disinherited son of a father in the claws of the lawyers,with a letter of introduction to Don Beltran d'Arragon, a Grandee ofthe First Class, who has a daughter Dona Seraphina (Miss Middleton),the proudest beauty of her day, in the custody of a duenna (Miss Dale),and plighted to Don Fernan, of the Guzman family (Mr. Whitford). Thereyou have our dramatis personae."
"You are Patrick?"
"Patrick himself. And I lose my letter, and I stand on the Prado ofMadrid with the last portrait of Britannia in the palm of my hand, andcrying in the purest brogue of my native land: 'It's all throughdropping a letter I'm here in Iberia instead of Hibernia, worse luck tothe 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, sothat it wouldn't count for more than a ghost of one; and everythinggoes on the stage, since it's only the laugh we want on the brink ofthe action. Besides you are to suppose the performance before a Londonaudience, who have a native opposite to the aspirate and wouldn't bearto hear him spoil a joke, as if he were a lord or a constable. It's aninstinct of the English democracy. So with my bit of coin turning overand over in an undecided way, whether it shall commit suicide to supplyme a supper, I behold a pair of Spanish eyes like violet lightning inthe black heavens of that favoured clime. Won't you have violet?"
"Violet forbids my impersonation."
"But the lustre on black is dark violet blue."
"You remind me that I have no pretension to black."
Colonel De Craye permitted himself to take a flitting gaze at MissMiddleton's eyes. "Chestnut," he said. "Well, and Spain is the land ofchestnuts."
"Then it follows that I am a daughter of Spain."
"Clearly."
"Logically?"
"By positive deduction."
"And do I behold Patrick?"
"As one looks upon a beast of burden."
"Oh!"
Miss Middleton's exclamation was louder than the matter of the dialogueseemed to require. She caught her hands up.
In the line of the outer extremity of the rhododendron, screened fromthe house windows, young Crossjay lay at his length, with his headresting on a doubled arm, and his ivy-wreathed hat on his cheek, justwhere she had left him, commanding him to stay. Half-way toward him upthe lawn, she saw the poor boy, and the spur of that pitiful sight sether gliding swiftly. Colonel De Craye followed, pulling an end of hismoustache.
Crossjay jumped to his feet.
"My dear, dear Crossjay!" she addressed him and reproached him. "Andhow hungry you must be! And you must be drenched! This is really toohad."
"You told me to wait here," said Crossjay, in shy self-defence.
"I did, and you should not have done it, foolish boy! I told him towait for me here before luncheon, Colonel De Craye, and the foolish,foolish boy!--he has had nothing to eat, and he must have been wetthrough two or three times:--because I did not come to him!"
"Quite right. And the lava might overflow him and take the mould ofhim, like the sentinel at Pompeii, if he's of the true stuff."
"He may have caught cold, he may have a fever."
"He was under your orders to stay."
"I know, and I cannot forgive myself. Run in, Crossjay, and change yourclothes. Oh, run, run to Mrs. Montague, and get her to give you a warmbath, and tell her from me to prepare some dinner for you. And changeevery garment you have. This is unpardonable of me. I said--'not forpolitics!'--I begin to think I have not a head for anything. But couldit be imagined that Crossjay would not move for the dinner-bell!through all that rain! I forgot you, Crossjay. I am so sorry; so sorry!You shall make me pay any forfeit you like. Remember, I am deep, deepin your debt. And now let me see you run fast. You shall come in todessert this evening."
Crossjay did not run. He touched her hand.
"You said something?"
"What did I say, Crossjay?"
"You promised."
"What did I promise?"
"Something."
"Name it, my 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 conventionalnote 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 afaithful soldier and stick to his post, if he receives promise of sucha solde. He is a great favourite with you."
"He is. You will do him a service by persuading Willoughby to send himto 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-tablethat Crossjay may come in to dessert?"
"Certainly," said he, wondering.
"And will you look after him while you are here? See that no one spoilshim. If you could get him away before you leave, it would be much tohis advantage. He is born for the navy and should be preparing to enterit now."
"Certainly, certainly," said De Craye, wondering more.
"I thank you in advance."
"Shall I not be usurping . . ."
"No, we leave to-morrow."
"For a day?"
"For longer."
"Two?"
"It will be longer."
"A week? I shall not see you again?"
"I fear not."
Colonel De Craye controlled his astonishment; he smothered a sensationof veritable pain, and amiably said: "I feel a blow, but I am sure youwould not willingly strike. We are all involved in the regrets."
Miss Middleton spoke of having to see Mrs. Montague, the housekeeper,with reference to the bath for Crossjay, and stepped off the grass. Hebowed, watched her a moment, and for parallel reasons, running closeenough to hit one mark, he commiserated his friend Willoughby. Thewinning or the losing of that young lady struck him as equallylamentable for Willoughby.