CHAPTER XLVII
SIR WILLOUGHBY AND HIS FRIEND HORACE DE CRAYE
Willoughby shut himself up in his laboratory to brood awhile after theconflict. Sounding through himself, as it was habitual with him to do,for the plan most agreeable to his taste, he came on a strangediscovery among the lower circles of that microcosm. He was no longerguided in his choice by liking and appetite: he had to put it on theedge of a sharp discrimination, and try it by his acutest judgementbefore it was acceptable to his heart: and knowing well the directionof his desire, he was nevertheless unable to run two strides on a wish.He had learned to read the world: his partial capacity for readingpersons had fled. The mysteries of his own bosom were bare to him; buthe could comprehend them only in their immediate relation to the worldoutside. This hateful world had caught him and transformed him to amachine. The discovery he made was, that in the gratification of theegoistic instinct we may so beset ourselves as to deal a slaughteringwound upon Self to whatsoever quarter we turn.
Surely there is nothing stranger in mortal experience. The man wasconfounded. At the game of Chess it is the dishonour of our adversarywhen we are stale-mated: but in life, combatting the world, such awinning of the game questions our sentiments.
Willoughby's interpretation of his discovery was directed by pity: hehad no other strong emotion left in him. He pitied himself, and hereached the conclusion that he suffered because he was active; he couldnot be quiescent. Had it not been for his devotion to his house andname, never would he have stood twice the victim of womankind. Had hebeen selfish, he would have been the happiest of men! He said it aloud.He schemed benevolently for his unborn young, and for the persons abouthim: hence he was in a position forbidding a step under pain of injuryto his feelings. He was generous: otherwise would he not in scorn ofsoul, at the outset, straight off have pitched Clara Middleton to thewanton winds? He was faithful in his affection: Laetitia Dale wasbeneath his roof to prove it. Both these women were examples of hispower of forgiveness, and now a tender word to Clara might fasten shameon him--such was her gratitude! And if he did not marry Laetitia,laughter would be devilish all around him--such was the world's!Probably Vernon would not long be thankful for the chance which variedthe monotony of his days. What of Horace? Willoughby stripped to enterthe ring with Horace: he cast away disguise. That man had been thefirst to divide him in the all but equal slices of his egoistic fromhis amatory self: murder of his individuality was the crime of HoraceDe Craye. And further, suspicion fixed on Horace (he knew not how,except that The Book bids us be suspicious of those we hate) as the manwho had betrayed his recent dealings with Laetitia.
Willoughby walked the thoroughfares of the house to meet Clara and makecertain of her either for himself, or, if it must be, for Vernon,before he took another step with Laetitia Dale. Clara could reunitehim, turn him once more into a whole and an animated man; and she mightbe willing. Her willingness to listen to Vernon promised it. "Agentleman with a tongue would have a chance", Mrs. Mountstuart hadsaid. How much greater the chance of a lover! For he had not yetsupplicated her: he had shown pride and temper. He could woo, he was atorrential wooer. And it would be glorious to swing round on LadyBusshe and the world, with Clara nestling under an arm, and protestastonishment at the erroneous and utterly unfounded anticipations ofany other development. And it would righteously punish Laetitia.
Clara came downstairs, bearing her letter to Miss Darleton.
"Must it be posted?" Willoughby said, meeting her in the hall.
"They expect us any day, but it will be more comfortable for papa," washer answer. She looked kindly in her new shyness.
She did not seem to think he had treated her contemptuously in flingingher 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."
Willoughby thought this encomium, and her consent to speak on thesubject, and her scarcely embarrassed air and richness of tone inspeaking, very strange: and strange was her taking him quite inearnest. Apparently she had no feminine sensation of the unwontednessand 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 hopeless--chilled.May I plead? Will you step into the laboratory for a minute? We are twosensible persons . . ."
"Pardon me, I must go to papa."
"Vernon's personal history, perhaps . . ."
"I think it honourable to him."
"Honourable!--'hem!"
"By comparison."
"Comparison with what?"
"With others."
He drew up to relieve himself of a critical and condemnatory expirationof a certain length. This young lady knew too much. But how physicallyexquisite she was!
"Could you, Clara, could you promise me--I hold to it. I must have it,I know his shy tricks--promise me to give him ultimately anotherchance? Is the idea repulsive to you?"
"It is one not to be thought of."
"It is not repulsive?"
"Nothing 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 pleaseyou, I will. It is my life-long duty."
"Could you, Clara, could you conceive it, could you simply conceiveit--give him your hand?"
"As a friend. Oh, yes."
"In marriage."
She paused. She, so penetrative of him when he opposed her, washoodwinked when he softened her feelings: for the heart, though theclearest, is not the most constant instructor of the head; the heart,unlike the often obtuser head, works for itself and not for thecommonwealth.
"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." Hisamazement breathed without a syllable.
He flapped his arms, resembling for the moment those birds of enormousbody which attempt a rise upon their wings and achieve a hop.
"Would you engage it?" he said, content to see himself stepped on as aninsect if he could but feel the agony of his false friend Horace--theircommon pretensions to win her were now of that comparative size.
"Oh! there can be no necessity. And an oath--no!" said Clara, inwardlyshivering at a recollection.
"But you could?"
"My wish is to please you."
"You could?"
"I said so."
It has been known to the patriotic mountaineer of a hoary pile ofwinters, with little life remaining in him, but that little on fire forhis country, that by the brink of the precipice he has flung himself ona young and lusty invader, dedicating himself exultingly to death ifonly he may score a point for his country by extinguishing in hiscountry's enemy the stronger man. So likewise did Willoughby, in theblow that deprived him of hope, exult in the toppling over of Horace DeCraye. They perished together, but which one sublimely relished theheadlong descent? And Vernon taken by Clara would be Vernon simplytolerated. And Clara taken by Vernon would be Clara previ
ously touched,smirched. Altogether he could enjoy his fall.
It was at least upon a comfortable bed, where his pride would bedressed daily and would never be disagreeably treated.
He was henceforth Laetitia's own. The bell telling of Dr. Corney'sreturn was a welcome sound to Willoughby, and he said good-humouredly:"Wait, Clara, you will see your hero Crossjay."
Crossjay and Dr. Corney tumbled into the hall. Willoughby caughtCrossjay under the arms to give him a lift in the old fashion pleasingto Clara to see. The boy was heavy as lead.
"I had work to hook him and worse to net him," said Dr. Corney. "I hadto make him believe he was to nurse every soul in the house, you amongthem, Miss Middleton."
Willoughby pulled the boy aside.
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 aprivate hug of him. When they were alone, she said: "Crossjay, mydear, my dear! you look unhappy."
"Yes, and who wouldn't be, and you're not to marry Sir Willoughby!" hisvoice threatened a cry. "I know you're not, for Dr. Corney says you aregoing to leave."
"Did you so very much wish it, Crossjay?"
"I should have seen a lot of you, and I sha'n't see you at all, and I'msure if I'd known I wouldn't have--And he has been and tipped me this."
Crossjay opened his fist in which lay three gold pieces.
"That was very kind of him," said Clara.
"Yes, but how can I keep it?"
"By handing it to Mr. Whitford to keep for you."
"Yes, but, Miss Middleton, oughtn't I to tell him? I mean SirWilloughby."
"What?"
"Why, that I"--Crossjay got close to her--"why, that I, that I--youknow what you used to say. I wouldn't tell a lie, but oughtn't I,without his asking . . . and this money! I don't mind being turned outagain."
"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 out as things that had not yet mingledwith 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 henot knowing what I did. Haven't you heard? I'm certain I know what youthink, 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,Miss Middleton, I can sleep in a tree quite comfortably. If you're notgoing to be here, I'd just as soon be anywhere. I must try to earn myliving some day. And why not a cabin-boy? Sir Cloudesley Shovel was nobetter. And I don't mind his being wrecked at last, if you're drownedan admiral. So I shall go and ask him to take his money back, and if heasks me I shall tell him, and there. You know what it is: I guessedthat from what Dr. Corney said. I'm sure I know you're thinking what'smanly. Fancy me keeping his money, and you not marrying him! I wouldn'tmind driving a plough. I shouldn't make a bad gamekeeper. Of course Ilove boats best, but you can't have everything."
"Speak to Mr. Whitford first," said Clara, too proud of the boy forgrowing as she had trained him, to advise a course of conduct opposedto his notions of manliness, though now that her battle was over shewould gladly have acquiesced in little casuistic compromises for thesake of the general peace.
Some time later Vernon and Dr. Corney were arguing upon the question.Corney was dead against the sentimental view of the morality of thecase propounded by Vernon as coming from Miss Middleton and partlyshared by him. "If it's on the boy's mind," Vernon said, "I can'tprohibit his going to Willoughby and making a clean breast of it,especially as it involves me, and sooner or later I should have to tellhim myself."
Dr. Corney said no at all points. "Now hear me," he said, finally."This is between ourselves, and no breach of confidence, which I'd notbe guilty of for forty friends, though I'd give my hand from thewrist-joint for one--my left, that's to say. Sir Willoughby puts me oneor two searching interrogations on a point of interest to him, hishouse and name. Very well, and good night to that, and I wish Miss Dalehad been ten years younger, or had passed the ten with no heartrisingsand sinkings wearing to the tissues of the frame and the moral fibre toboot. She'll have a fairish health, with a little occasional doctoring;taking her rank and wealth in right earnest, and shying her pen back toMother Goose. She'll do. And, by the way, I think it's to the creditof my sagacity that I fetched Mr. Dale here fully primed, and rousedthe neighbourhood, which I did, and so fixed our gentleman, neat as aprodded eel on a pair of prongs--namely, the positive fact and thegeneral knowledge of it. But, mark me, my friend. We understand oneanother at a nod. This boy, young Squire Crossjay, is a good stiffhearty kind of a Saxon boy, out of whom you may cut as gallant a fellowas ever wore epaulettes. I like him, you like him, Miss Dale and MissMiddleton like him; and Sir Willoughby Patterne, of Patterne Hall andother places, won't be indisposed to like him mightily in the event ofthe sun being seen to shine upon him with a particular determination tomake him appear a prominent object, because a solitary, and aPatterne." Dr. Corney lifted his chest and his finger: "Now mark me,and verbum sap: Crossjay must not offend Sir Willoughby. I say nomore. Look ahead. Miracles happen, but it's best to reckon that theywon't. Well, now, and Miss Dale. She'll not be cruel."
"It appears as if she would," said Vernon, meditating on the cloudysketch Dr. Corney had drawn.
"She can't, my friend. Her position's precarious; her father has littlebesides a pension. And her writing damages her health. She can't. Andshe likes the baronet. Oh, it's only a little fit of proud blood. She'sthe woman for him. She'll manage him--give him an idea he's got a lotof ideas. It'd kill her father if she were obstinate. He talked to me,when I told him of the business, about his dream fulfilled, and if thedream turns to vapour, he'll be another example that we hang more upondreams than realities for nourishment, and medicine too. Last week Icouldn'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 prophesy that.She's fond of him."
"She was."
"She sees through him?"
"Without quite doing justice to him now," said Vernon. "He can begenerous--in his way."
"How?" Corney inquired, and was informed that he should hear in time tocome.
Meanwhile Colonel De Craye, after hovering over the park and about thecottage for the opportunity of pouncing on Miss Middleton alone, hadreturned crest-fallen for once, and plumped into Willoughby's hands.
"My dear Horace," Willoughby said, "I've been looking for you all theafternoon. The fact is--I fancy you'll think yourself lured down hereon false pretences: but the truth is, I am not so much to blame as theworld will suppose. In point of fact, to be brief, Miss Dale and I. . . I never consult other men how they would have acted. The fact ofthe matter is, Miss Middleton . . . I fancy you have partly guessed it."
"Partly," said De Craye.
"Well, she has a liking that way, and if it should turn out strongenough, it's the best arrangement I can think of," The lively play ofthe colonel's features fixed in a blank inquiry.
"One can back a good friend for making a good husband," saidWilloughby. "I could not break with her in the present stage of affairswithout seeing to that. And I can speak of her highly, though she and Ihave seen in time that we do not suit one another. My wife must havebrains."
"I have always thought it," said Colonel De Craye, glistening, andlooking hungry as a wolf through his wonderment.
"There will not be a word against her, you understand. You know mydislike of tattle and gossip. However, let it fall on me; my shouldersare broad. I have done my utmost to persuade her, and there seems alikelihood 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 no
w." There was an uproarwithin the colonel to blind his wits, and Willoughby looked so friendlythat it was possible to suppose the man of projects had mentioned hisbest friend to Miss Middleton.
And who was the best friend?
Not having accused himself of treachery, the quick-eyed colonel wasduped.
"Have you his name handy, Willoughby?"
"That would be unfair to him at present, Horace--ask yourself--and toher. Things are in a ticklish posture at present. Don't be hasty."
"Certainly. I don't ask. Initials'll do."
"You have a remarkable aptitude for guessing, Horace, and this caseoffers you no tough problem--if ever you acknowledged toughness. I havea regard for her and for him--for both pretty equally; you know I have,and I should be thoroughly 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 antique?"
"Novel, I should say, and not the worse for that. We want plainpractical dealings between men and women. Usually we go the wrong wayto work. And I loathe sentimental rubbish."
De Craye hummed an air. "But the lady?" said he.
"I told you, there seems a likelihood of her consenting."
Willoughby's fish gave a perceptible little leap now that he had beentaught to exercise his aptitude for guessing.
"Without any of the customary preliminaries on the side of thegentleman?" he said.
"We must put him through his paces, friend Horace. He's a notoriousblunderer with women; hasn't a word for them, never marked a conquest."
De Craye crested his plumes under the agreeable banter. He presented aface humourously sceptical.
"The lady is positively not indisposed to give the poor fellow ahearing?"
"I have cause to think she is not," said Willoughby, glad of acting theindifference to her which could talk of her inclinations.
"Cause?"
"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 curbedhimself "That's a bit of wonderful compliancy."
"She wishes to please me. We separate on those terms. And I wish herhappiness. I've developed a heart lately and taken to think of others."
"Nothing better. You appear to make cock sure of the other party--ourfriend?"
"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 lightedaltar!"
"And if he requires persuasion, you and I, Horace, might bring him tohis senses."
"Kicking, 't would be!"
"I like to see everybody happy about me," said Willoughby, naming thehour as time to dress for dinner.
The sentiment he had delivered was De Craye's excuse for grasping hishand and complimenting him; but the colonel betrayed himself by doingit 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 beset spinning if we choose to whip them withtheir vanity! it is the consolation of the great to watch them spin.But the pleasure is loftier, and may comfort our unmerited misfortunefor a while, in making a false friend drunk.
Willoughby, among his many preoccupations, had the satisfaction ofseeing the effect of drunkenness on Horace De Craye when the latter wasin Clara's presence. He could have laughed. Cut in keen epigram werethe marginal notes added by him to that chapter of The Book whichtreats of friends and a woman; and had he not been profoundlypreoccupied, troubled by recent intelligence communicated by theladies, his aunts, he would have played the two together for the royalamusement afforded him by his friend Horace.