CHAPTER XLVIII
THE LOVERS
The hour was close upon eleven at night. Laetitia sat in the roomadjoining her father's bedchamber. Her elbow was on the table besideher chair, and two fingers pressed her temples. The state betweenthinking and feeling, when both are molten and flow by us, is one ofour natures coming after thought has quieted the fiery nerves, and cando no more. She seemed to be meditating. She was conscious only of astruggle past.
She answered a tap at the door, and raised her eyes on Clara. Clarastepped softly. "Mr. Dale is asleep?"
"I hope so."
"Ah! dear friend."
Laetitia let her hand be pressed.
"Have you had a pleasant evening?"
"Mr. 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 tosing 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 Crossjay has gone to bed?"
"Long since. He was at dessert. He would not touch anything."
"He is a strange boy."
"Not very strange, Laetitia."
"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 professes 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 you a little."
"And why should Crossjay fear me?"
"Dear, I will tell you. Last night--You will forgive him, for it was byaccident: his own bed-room door was locked and he ran down to thedrawing-room and curled himself up on the ottoman, and fell asleep,under that padded silken coverlet of the ladies--boots and all, I amafraid!"
Laetitia profited by this absurd allusion, thanking Clara in her heartfor the refuge.
"He should have taken off his boots," she said.
"He slept there, and woke up. Dear, he meant no harm. Next day herepeated what he had heard. You will blame him. He meant well in hispoor boy's head. And now it is over the county. Ah! do not frown."
"That explains Lady Busshe!" exclaimed Laetitia.
"Dear, dear friend," said Clara. "Why--I presume on your tenderness forme; but let me: to-morrow I go--why will you reject your happiness?Those kind good ladies are deeply troubled. They say your resolutionis inflexible; you resist their entreaties and your father's. Can it bethat you have any doubt of the strength of this attachment? I havenone. I have never had a doubt that it was the strongest of hisfeelings. If before I go I could see you . . . both happy, I should berelieved, I should rejoice."
Laetitia said, quietly: "Do you remember a walk we had one day togetherto 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 alldesire, before I leave, I should not feel as I do now. I long to seeyou happy . . . him, yes, him too. Is it like asking you to pay mydebt? Then, please! But, no; I am not more than partly selfish on thisoccasion. 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 thecottage?"
"Help me to forget it--that day, and those days, and all those days! Ishould be glad to think I passed a time beneath the earth, and haverisen again. I was the Egoist. I am sure, if I had been buried, Ishould not have stood up seeing myself more vilely stained, soiled,disfigured--oh! Help me to forget my conduct, Laetitia. He and I wereunsuited--and I remember I blamed myself then. You and he are not: andnow I can perceive the pride that can be felt in him. The worst thatcan be said is that he schemes too much."
"Is there any fresh scheme?" said Laetitia.
The rose came over Clara's face.
"You have not heard? It was impossible, but it was kindly intended.Judging by my own feeling at this moment, I can understand his. We loveto see our friends established."
Laetitia bowed. "My curiosity is piqued, of course."
"Dear friend, to-morrow we shall be parted. I trust to be thought of byyou as a little better in grain than I have appeared, and my reason fortrusting it is that I know I have been always honest--a boorish youngwoman in my stupid mad impatience: but not insincere. It is no loftyambition to desire to be remembered in that character, but such is yourClara, she discovers. I will tell you. It is his wish . . . his wishthat I should promise to give my hand to Mr. Whitford. You see thekindness."
Laetitia's eyes widened and fixed:
"You think it kindness?"
"The intention. He sent Mr. Whitford to me, and I was taught to expecthim."
"Was that quite kind to Mr. Whitford?"
"What an impression I must have made on you during that walk to thecottage, 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 mightydeep."
Laetitia knitted her brows.
"No," said Clara, "not a coquette: she is not a coquette, I assureyou."
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!"
"He did not speak?"
"Of Switzerland, Tyrol, the Iliad, Antigone."
"That was all?"
"No, Political Economy. Our situation, you will own, was unexampled: ormine was. Are you interested in me?"
"I should be if I knew your sentiments."
"I was grateful to Sir Willoughby: grieved for Mr. Whitford."
"Real grief?"
"Because the task unposed on him of showing me politely that he did notenter into his cousin's ideas was evidently very great, extremelyburdensome."
"You, so quick-eyed in some things, Clara!"
"He felt for me. I saw that in his avoidance of. . . And he was, as healways 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 hewould ask . . . certain questions. I fancy he has a liking for me as avolatile friend."
"If he had offered himself?"
"Despising me?"
"You can be childish, Clara. Probably you delight to tease. He had histime 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 Laetitia.
"Your if? If he had, it would have been an act of condescension."
"You are too slippery."
"Stay, dear Laetitia. He was considerate in forbearing to pain me."
"That is an answer. You allowed him to perceive that it would havepained you."
"Dearest, if I may convey to you what I was, in a simile forcomparison: 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 muchfor my behaviour."
"Similes have the merit of satisfying the finder of them, and cheatingthe hearer," said Laetitia. "You admit that your feelings
would havebeen painful."
"I was a fisherman's float: please admire my simile; any way you like,this way or that, or so quiet as to tempt the eyes to go to sleep. Andsuddenly I might have disappeared in the depths, or flown in the air.But no fish bit."
"Well, then, to follow you, supposing the fish or the fisherman, for Idon't know which is which . . . Oh! no, no: this is too serious forimagery. I am to understand that you thanked him at least for hisreserve."
"Yes."
"Without the slightest encouragement to him to break it?"
"A fisherman's float, Laetitia!"
Baffled and sighing, Laetitia kept silence for a space. The similechafed 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 bebrought to a mark, become intelligible to me."
"Then Laetitia, if he had spoken, if, and one could have imagined himsincere . . ."
"So truthful a man?"
"I am looking at myself If!--why, then, I should have burnt to deathwith shame. Where have I read?--some story--of an inextinguishablespark. That would have been shot into my heart."
"Shame, Clara? You are free."
"As much as remains of me."
"I could imagine a certain shame, in such a position, where there wasno 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 soextraordinary!" Gaining some light, impatiently she cried: "Vernonloves you."
"Do not say it!"
"I have seen it."
"I have never had a sign of it."
"There is the proof."
"When it might have been shown again and again!"
"The greater proof!"
"Why did he not speak when he was privileged?--strangely, butprivileged."
"He feared."
"Me?"
"Feared to wound you--and himself as well, possibly. Men may bepardoned for thinking of themselves in these cases."
"But why should he fear?"
"That another was dearer to you?"
"What cause had I given . . . Ah I see! He could fear that; suspect it!See his opinion of me! Can he care for such a girl? Abuse me, Laetitia.I should like a good round of abuse. I need purification by fire. Whathave I been in this house? I have a sense of whirling through it like amadwoman. And to be loved, after it all!--No! we must be hearing a taleof an antiquary prizing a battered relic of the battle-field that noone else would look at. To be loved, I see, is to feel our littleness,hollowness--feel shame. We come out in all our spots. Never to havegiven me one sign, when a lover would have been so tempted! Let me beincredulous, my own dear Laetitia. Because he is a man of honour, youwould say! But are you unconscious of the torture you inflict? For if Iam--you say it--loved by this gentleman, what an object it is heloves--that has gone clamouring about more immodestly than women willbear to hear of, and she herself to think of! Oh, I have seen my ownheart. It is a frightful spectre. I have seen a weakness in me thatwould have carried me anywhere. And truly I shall be charitable towomen--I have gained that. But loved! by Vernon Whitford! The miserablelittle me to be taken up and loved after tearing myself to pieces! Haveyou been simply speculating? You have no positive knowledge of it! Whydo you kiss me?"
"Why do you tremble and blush so?"
Clara looked at her as clearly as she could. She bowed her head. "Itmakes my conduct worse!"
She received a tenderer kiss for that. It was her avowal, and it wasunderstood: to know that she had loved or had been ready to love him,shadowed her in the retrospect.
"Ah! you read me through and through," said Clara, sliding to her for awhole embrace.
"Then there never was cause for him to fear?" Laetitia whispered.
Clara slid her head more out of sight. "Not that my heart . . . But Isaid I have seen it; and it is unworthy of him. And if, as I think now,I could have been so rash, so weak, wicked, unpardonable--suchthoughts were in me!--then to hear him speak would make it necessaryfor me to uncover myself and tell him--incredible to you, yes!--thatwhile . . . yes, Laetitia, all this is true: and thinking of him as thenoblest of men, I could have welcomed any help to cut my knot. Sothere," said Clara, issuing from her nest with winking eyelids, "yousee the pain I 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 Purgatory--with an angel by me. My report of the place will befavourable. Good angel, I have yet to say something."
"Say it, and expiate."
"I think I did fancy once or twice, very dimly, and especially to-day. . . properly I ought not to have had any idea: but his coming to me,and his not doing as another would have done, seemed . . . A gentlemanof real nobleness does not carry the common light for us to read himby. I wanted his voice; but silence, I think, did tell me more: if anature like mine could only have had faith without bearing the rattleof a tongue."
A knock at the door caused the ladies to exchange looks. Laetitia roseas Vernon entered.
"I am just going to my father for a few minutes," she said.
"And I have just come from yours." Vernon said to Clara. She observed avery threatening expression in him. The sprite of contrariety mountedto her brain to indemnify her for her recent self-abasement. Seeing thebedroom door shut on Laetitia, she said: "And of course papa has goneto bed"; implying, "otherwise . . ."
"Yes, he has gone. He wished me well."
"His formula of good-night would embrace that wish."
"And failing, it will be good-night for good to me!"
Clara's breathing gave a little leap. "We leave early tomorrow."
"I know. I have an appointment at Bregenz for June."
"So soon? With papa?"
"And from there we break into Tyrol, and round away to the right,Southward."
"To the Italian Alps! And was it assumed that I should be of thisexpedition?"
"Your father speaks dubiously."
"You 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?"
"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 withmy 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, Mr. 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 . . ."
"Vernon, no! oh! not in this house!"
That supplication coupled with his name confessed the end to which herquick vision perceived she was being led, where she would succumb.
She revived the same shrinking in him from a breath of their great wordyet: not here; somewhere in the sh
adow of the mountains.
But he was sure of her. And their hands might join. The two handsthought 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 hadabruptly shut up a volume and related the tale of the house. "Has thisman a spice of religion in him?" the Rev. Doctor asked midway. Vernonmade out a fair general case for his cousin in that respect. "Thecomplemental dot on his i of a commonly civilized human creature!" saidDr. Middleton, looking at his watch and finding it too late to leavethe house before morning. The risky communication was to come. Vernonwas proceeding with the narrative of Willoughby's generous plan whenDr. Middleton electrified him by calling out: "He whom of all menliving I should desire my daughter to espouse!" and Willoughby rose inthe Rev. Doctor's esteem: he praised that sensibly minded gentleman,who could acquiesce in the turn of mood of a little maid, albeitFortune had withheld from him a taste of the switch at school. Thefather of the little maid's appreciation of her volatility wasexhibited in his exhortation to Vernon to be off to her at once withhis authority to finish her moods and assure him of peace in themorning. Vernon hesitated. Dr. Middleton remarked upon being not sosure that it was not he who had done the mischief. Thereupon Vernon, toprove his honesty, made his own story bare. "Go to her," said Dr.Middleton. Vernon proposed a meeting in Switzerland, to which Dr.Middleton assented, adding: "Go to her": and as he appeared a totalstranger to the decorum of the situation, Vernon put his delicacyaside, and taking his heart up, obeyed. He too had pondered on Clara'sconsent to meet him after she knew of Willoughby's terms, and her gravesweet manner during the ramble over the park. Her father's breath hadbeen blown into him; so now, with nothing but the faith lying insensation to convince him of his happy fortune (and how unconvincingthat may be until the mind has grasped and stamped it, we experienceeven then when we acknowledge that we are most blessed), he held herhand. And if it was hard for him, for both, but harder for the man, torestrain their particular word from a flight to heaven when the cagestood open and nature beckoned, he was practised in self-mastery, andshe loved him the more.
Laetitia was a witness of their union of hands on her coming back tothe room.
They promised to visit her very early in the morning, neither of themconceiving that they left her to a night of storm and tears.
She sat meditating on Clara's present appreciation of Sir Willoughby'sgenerosity.