CHAPTER XL
MIDNIGHT: SIR WILLOUGHBY AND LAETITIA: WITH YOUNG CROSSJAY UNDER ACOVERLET
Young Crossjay was a glutton at holidays and never thought of home tillit was dark. The close of the day saw him several miles away from theHall, dubious whether he would not round his numerous adventures bysleeping at an inn; for he had lots of money, and the idea of jumpingup in the morning in a strange place was thrilling. Besides, when hewas shaken out of sleep by Sir Willoughby, he had been told that he wasto go, and not to show his face at Patterne again. On the other hand,Miss Middleton had bidden him come back. There was little question withhim which person 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 him hisroad. He reached the Hall very late, ready to be in love with thehorrible pleasure of a night's rest under the stars, if necessary. Buta candle burned at one of the back windows. He knocked, and akitchen-maid let him in. She had a bowl of hot soup prepared for him.Crossjay tried a mouthful to please her. His head dropped over it. Sheroused him to his feet, and he pitched against her shoulder. The dryair of the kitchen department had proved too much for the tiredyoungster. 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 noiselesslyto bed. He understood his position in the house, and though he couldhave gone fast to sleep on the stairs, he took a steady aim at his roomand gained the door cat-like. The door resisted. He was appalled andunstrung in a minute. The door was locked. Crossjay felt as if he werein the presence of Sir Willoughby. He fled on ricketty legs, and had afall and bumps down half a dozen stairs. A door opened above. He rushedacross the hall to the drawing-room, invitingly open, and therestaggered in darkness to the ottoman and rolled himself in somethingsleek and warm, soft as hands of ladies, and redolent of them; sodelicious that he hugged the folds about his head and heels. While hewas endeavouring to think where he was, his legs curled, his eyelidsshut, and he was in the thick of the day's adventures, doing yet morewonderful things.
He heard his own name: that was quite certain. He knew that he heard itwith his ears, as he pursued the fleetest dreams ever accorded tomortal. It did not mix: it was outside him, and like the danger-pole inthe ice, which the skater shooting hither and yonder comes on again, itrecurred; and now it marked a point in his career, how it caused him torelax his pace; he began to circle, and whirled closer round it, until,as at a blow, his heart knocked, he tightened himself, thought ofbolting, and lay dead-still to throb and hearken.
"Oh! Sir Willoughby," a voice had said.
The accents were sharp with alarm.
"My friend! my dearest!" was the answer.
"I came to speak of Crossjay."
"Will you sit here on the ottoman?"
"No, I cannot wait. I hoped I had heard Crossjay return. I would rathernot sit down. May I entreat you to pardon him when he comes home?"
"You, and you only, may do so. I permit none else. Of Crossjayto-morrow."
"He may be lying in the fields. We are anxious."
"The rascal can take pretty good care of himself."
"Crossjay is perpetually meeting accidents."
"He shall be indemnified if he has had excess of punishment."
"I think I will say good-night, Sir Willoughby."
"When freely and unreservedly you have given me your hand."
There was hesitation.
"To say good-night?"
"I ask you for your hand."
"Good-night, Sir Willoughby."
"You do not give it. You are in doubt? Still? What language must I useto convince you? And yet you know me. Who knows me but you? You havealways known me. You are my home and my temple. Have you forgotten yourverses of the day of my majority?
'The dawn-star has arisen In plenitude of light . . .'"
"Do not repeat them, pray!" cried Laetitia, with a gasp.
"I have repeated them to myself a thousand times: in India, America,Japan: they were like our English skylark, carolling to me.
'My heart, now burst thy prison With proud aerial flight!'"
"Oh, I beg you will not force me to listen to nonsense that I wrotewhen I was a child. No more of those most foolish lines! If you knewwhat it is to write and despise one's writing, you would not distressme. And since you will not speak of Crossjay to-night, allow me toretire."
"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--hold them sacred. They are somethingreligious to me, not mere poetry. Perhaps the third verse is myfavourite . . ."
"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. Wiseat 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 havealways loved! Freely and unreservedly, 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 youis disengaged. It is offered to the lady I respect above all others. Ihave made the discovery that I cannot love without respecting; and as Iwill not marry without loving, it ensues that I am free--I am yours. Atlast?--your lips move: tell me the words. Have always loved, I said.You carry in your bosom the magnet of constancy, and I, in spite ofapparent deviations, declare to you that I have never ceased to besensible of the attraction. And now there is not an impediment. We twoagainst the world! we are one. Let me confess to an oldfoible--perfectly youthful, and you will ascribe it to youth: once Idesired to absorb. 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, Laetitia, definitely cures me of that insanepassion--call it an insatiable hunger. I recognize it as a folly ofyouth. I have, as it were, gone the tour, to come home to you--atlast?--and live our manly life of comparative equals. At last, then!But remember that in the younger man you would have had adespot--perhaps a jealous despot. Young men, I assure you, areorientally inclined in their ideas of love. Love gets a bad name fromthem. We, my Laetitia, do not regard love as a selfishness. If it is,it is the essence of life. At least it is our selfishness renderedbeautiful. I talk to you like a man who has found a compatriot in aforeign land. It seems to me that I have not opened my mouth for anage. I certainly have not unlocked my heart. Those who sing for joy arenot unintelligible to me. If I had not something in me worth saying Ithink I should sing. In every sense you reconcile me to men and theworld, Laetitia. Why press you to speak? I will be the speaker. Assurely as you know me, I know you: and . . ."
Laetitia burst forth with: "No!"
"I do not know you?" said he, searchingly mellifluous.
"Hardly."
"How not?"
"I am changed."
"In what way?"
"Deeply."
"Sedater?"
"Materially."
"Colour will come back: have no fear; I promise it. If you imagine youwant renewing, I have the specific, I, my love, I!"
"Forgive me--will you tell me, Sir Willoughby, whether you have brokenwith Miss Middleton?"
"Rest satisfied, my dear Laetitia. She is as free as I am. I can do nomore than a man of honour should do. She releases me. To-morrow ornext day she departs. We, Laetitia, you and I, my love, are home birds.It does not do for the home bird to couple with the migratory. Thel
ittle imperceptible change you allude to, is nothing. Italy willrestore you. I am ready to stake my own health--never yet shaken by adoctor of medicine:--I say medicine advisedly, for there are doctors ofdivinity who would shake giants:--that an Italian trip will send youback--that I shall bring you home from Italy a blooming bride. Youshake your head--despondently? My love, I guarantee it. Cannot I giveyou colour? Behold! Come to the light, look in the glass."
"I may redden," said Laetitia. "I suppose that is due to the action ofthe heart. I am changed. Heart, for any other purpose, I have not. I amlike 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 Laetitia. Look to me, I am the tonic. It is notcommon 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 pledge for the remainder. We end as we began: myrequest 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, Laetitia? I propose in the plainest terms I canemploy, 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:--butanswer me; you loved me once?"
"I was an exceedingly foolish, romantic girl."
"You evade my question: I am serious. Oh!" he walked away from herbooming a sound of utter repudiation of her present imbecility, andhurrying to her side, said: "But it was manifest to the whole world! Itwas a legend. To love like Laetitia Dale, was a current phrase. Youwere an example, a light to women: no one was your match for devotion.You were a precious cameo, still gazing! And I was the object. Youloved me. You loved me, you belonged to me, you were mine, mypossession, my jewel; I was prouder of your constancy than of anythingelse that I had on earth. It was a part of the order of the universe tome. A doubt of it would have disturbed my creed. Why, good heaven!where are we? Is nothing solid on earth? You loved me!"
"I was childish, indeed."
"You loved me passionately!"
"Do you insist on shaming me through and through, Sir Willoughby? Ihave been exposed enough."
"You cannot blot out the past: it is written, it is recorded. You lovedme devotedly, silence is no escape. You loved me."
"I did."
"You never loved me, you shallow woman! 'I did!' As if there could be acessation of a love! What are we to reckon on as ours? We prize awoman's love; we guard it jealously, we trust to it, dream of it; thereis our wealth; there is our talisman! And when we open the casket ithas flown!--barren vacuity!--we are poorer than dogs. As well think ofkeeping 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 anyhand! It's a fiction, an imposture--they cannot love. They are theshadows of men. Compared with men, they have as much heart in them asthe shadow beside the body. Laetitia!"
"Sir Willoughby."
"You refuse my offer?"
"I must."
"You refuse to take me for your husband?"
"I cannot be your wife."
"You have changed? . . . you have set your heart? . . . you couldmarry? . . . there is a man? . . . you could marry one! I will have ananswer, I am sick of evasions. What was in the mind of Heaven whenwomen were created, will be the riddle to the end of the world! Everygood man in turn has made the inquiry. I have a right to know who robsme--We may try as we like to solve it.--Satan is painted laughing!--Isay I have a right to know who robs me. Answer me."
"I shall not marry."
"That is not an answer."
"I love no one."
"You loved me.--You are silent?--but you confessed it. Then you confessit was a love that could die! Are you unable to perceive how thatredounds to my discredit? You loved me, you have ceased to love me. Inother words you charge me with incapacity to sustain a woman's love.You accuse me of inspiring a miserable passion that cannot last alifetime! You let the world see that I am a man to be aimed at for atemporary mark! And simply because I happen to be in your neighbourhoodat an age when a young woman is impressionable! You make a publicexample of me as a for whom women may have a caprice, but that is all;he cannot enchain them; he fascinates passingly; they fall off. Is itjust, for me to be taken up and cast down at your will? Reflect on thatscandal! 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 towerabove 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 enterinto relations with women. But will you be so good as to account for itin your defence of them? Oh! were the relations dishonourable, itwould be quite another matter. Then they . . . I could recount . . . Idisdain to chronicle such victories. Quite another matter. But they areflies, and I am something more stable. They are flies. I look beyondthe day; I owe a duty to my line. They are flies. I foresee it, I shallbe crossed in my fate so long as I fail to shun them--flies! Not merelyborn 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 bitterexperience. Consider this, that it is on your head if my ideal of womenis wrecked. It rests with you to restore it. I love you. I discoverthat you are the one woman I have always loved. I come to you, I sueyou, and suddenly--you have changed! 'I have changed: I am not thesame.' What can it mean? 'I cannot marry: I love no one.' And you sayyou do not know what love is--avowing in the same breath that you didlove me! Am I the empty dream? My hand, heart, fortune, name, areyours, at your feet; you kick them hence. I am here--you reject me. Butwhy, for what mortal reason am I here other than my faith in your love?You drew me to you, to repel me, and have a wretched revenge."
"You know it is not that, Sir Willoughby."
"Have you any possible suspicion that I am still entangled, not, as Iassure you I am, perfectly free in fact and in honour?"
"It is not that."
"Name it; for you see your power. Would you have me kneel to you,madam?"
"Oh, no; it would complete my grief."
"You feel grief? Then you believe in my affection, and you hurl itaway. I have no doubt that as a poetess you would say, love is eternal.And you have loved me. And you tell me you love me no more. You are notvery logical, Laetitia Dale."
"Poetesses rarely are: if I am one, which I little pretend to be forwriting silly verses. I have passed out of that delusion, with therest."
"You shall not wrong those dear old days, Laetitia. I see them now;when I rode by your cottage and you were at your window, pen in hand,your hair straying over your forehead. Romantic, yes; not foolish. Whywere you foolish in thinking of me? Some day I will commission anartist to paint me that portrait of you from my description. And Iremember when we first whispered . . . I remember your trembling. Youhave forgotten--I remember. I remember our meeting in the park on thepath to church. I remember the heavenly morning of my return from mytravels, and the same Laetitia meeting me, stedfast and unchangeable.Could I ever forget? Those are ineradicable scenes; pictures of myyouth, interwound with me. I may say, that as I recede from them, Idwell on them the more. Tell me, Laetitia, was there not a certainprophecy of your father's concerning us two? I fancy I heard of one.There was one."
"He was an invalid. Elderly people nurse illusi
ons."
"Ask yourself Laetitia, who is the obstacle to the fulfilment of hisprediction?--truth, if ever a truth was foreseen on earth. You havenot changed so far that you would feel no pleasure in gratifying him? Igo to him to-morrow morning with the first light."
"You will compel me to follow, and undeceive him."
"Do so, and I denounce an unworthy affection you are ashamed to avow."
"That would be idle, though it would be base."
"Proof of love, then! For no one but you should it be done, and no onebut you dare accuse me of a baseness."
"Sir Willoughby, you will let my father die in peace."
"He and I together will contrive to persuade you."
"You tempt me to imagine that you want a wife at any cost."
"You, Laetitia, you."
"I am tired," she said. "It is late, I would rather not hear more. Iam sorry if I have caused you pain. I suppose you to have spoken withcandour. I defend neither my sex nor myself. I can only say I am awoman as good as dead: happy to be made happy in my way, but so littlealive that I cannot realize any other way. As for love, I am thankfulto have broken a spell. You have a younger woman in your mind; I am anold one: I have no ambition and no warmth. My utmost prayer is to floaton the stream--a purely physical desire of life: I have no strength toswim. Such a woman is not the wife for you, Sir Willoughby. Good night."
"One final word. Weigh it. Express no conventional regrets. Resolutelyyou refuse?"
"Resolutely I do."
"You refuse?"
"Yes."
"I have sacrificed my pride for nothing! You refuse?"
"Yes."
"Humbled myself! And this is the answer! You do refuse?"
"I do."
"Good night, Laetitia Dale."
He gave her passage.
"Good night, Sir Willoughby."
"I am in your power," he said, in a voice between supplication andmenace that laid a claw on her, and she turned and replied:
"You will not be betrayed."
"I can trust you . . . ?"
"I go home to-morrow before breakfast."
"Permit me to escort you upstairs."
"If you please: but I see no one here either to-night or tomorrow."
"It is for the privilege of seeing the last of you."
They withdrew.
Young Crossjay listened to the drumming of his head. Somewhere in orover the cavity a drummer rattled tremendously.
Sir Willoughby's laboratory door shut with a slam.
Crossjay tumbled himself off the ottoman. He stole up to the uncloseddrawing-room door, and peeped. Never was a boy more thoroughlyawakened. His object was to get out of the house and go through thenight avoiding everything human, for he was big with information of acharacter that he knew to be of the nature of gunpowder, and he fearedto explode. He crossed the hall. In the passage to the scullery he ranagainst Colonel De Craye.
"So there you are," said the colonel, "I've been hunting you."
Crossjay related that his bedroom door was locked and the key gone, andSir Willoughby sitting up in the laboratory.
Colonel De Craye took the boy to his own room, where Crossjay lay on asofa, comfortably covered over and snug in a swelling pillow; but hewas restless; he wanted to speak, to bellow, to cry; and he bouncedround to his left side, and bounced to his right, not knowing what tothink, except that there was treason to his adored Miss Middleton.
"Why, my lad, you're not half a campaigner," the colonel called out tohim; attributing his uneasiness to the material discomfort of the sofa:and Crossjay had to swallow the taunt, bitter though it was. A dimsentiment of impropriety in unburdening his overcharged mind on thesubject of Miss Middleton to Colonel De Craye restrained him fromdefending himself; and so he heaved and tossed about till daybreak. Atan early hour, while his hospitable friend, who looked very handsome inprofile half breast and head above the sheets, continued to slumber,Crossjay was on his legs and away. "He says I'm not half a campaigner,and a couple of hours of bed are enough for me," the boy thoughtproudly, and snuffed the springing air of the young sun on the fields.A glance back at Patterne Hall dismayed him, for he knew not how toact, and he was immoderately combustible, too full of knowledge forself-containment; much too zealously excited on behalf of his dear MissMiddleton to keep silent for many hours of the day.