CHAPTER VI
HIS COURTSHIP
The world was the principal topic of dissension between these lovers.His opinion of the world affected her like a creature threatened with adeprivation of air. He explained to his darling that lovers ofnecessity do loathe the world. They live in the world, they accept itsbenefits, and assist it as well as they can. In their hearts they mustdespise it, shut it out, that their love for one another may pour in aclear channel, and with all the force they have. They cannot enjoy thesense of security for their love unless they fence away the world. Itis, you will allow, gross; it is a beast. Formally we thank it for thegood we get of it; only we two have an inner temple where the worshipwe conduct is actually, if you would but see it, an excommunication ofthe world. We abhor that beast to adore that divinity. This gives usour oneness, our isolation, our happiness. This is to love with thesoul. Do you see, darling?
She shook her head; she could not see it. She would admit none of thenotorious errors, of the world; its backbiting, selfishness,coarseness, intrusiveness, infectiousness. She was young. She might,Willoughby thought, have let herself be led; she was not docile. Shemust be up in arms as a champion of the world; and one saw she washugging her dream of a romantic world, nothing else. She spoilt thesecret bower-song he delighted to tell over to her. And how, Powers ofLove! is love-making to be pursued if we may not kick the world out ofour bower and wash our hands of it? Love that does not spurn the worldwhen lovers curtain themselves is a love--is it not so?--that seems tothe unwhipped, scoffing world to go slinking into basiation'sobscurity, instead of on a glorious march behind the screen. Our herohad a strong sentiment as to the policy of scorning the world for thesake of defending his personal pride and (to his honour, be it said)his lady's delicacy.
The act of seeming put them both above the world, said retro Sathanas!So much, as a piece of tactics: he was highly civilized: in the secondinstance, he knew it to be the world which must furnish the dry sticksfor the bonfire of a woman's worship. He knew, too, that he wasprescribing poetry to his betrothed, practicable poetry. She had aliking for poetry, and sometimes quoted the stuff in defiance of hispursed mouth and pained murmur: "I am no poet;" but his poetry of theenclosed and fortified bower, without nonsensical rhymes to catch theears of women, appeared incomprehensible to her, if not adverse. Shewould not burn the world for him; she would not, though a purer poetryis little imaginable, reduce herself to ashes, or incense, or essence,in honour of him, and so, by love's transmutation, literally be the manshe was to marry. She preferred to be herself, with the egoism ofwomen. She said it: she said: "I must be myself to be of any value toyou, Willoughby." He was indefatigable in his lectures on theaesthetics of love. Frequently, for an indemnification to her (he hadno desire that she should be a loser by ceasing to admire the world),he dwelt on his own youthful ideas; and his original fancies about theworld were presented to her as a substitute for the theme.
Miss Middleton bore it well, for she was sure that he meant well.Bearing so well what was distasteful to her, she became less well ableto bear what she had merely noted in observation before; his view ofscholarship; his manner toward Mr. Vernon Whitford, of whom her fatherspoke warmly; the rumour concerning his treatment of a Miss Dale. Andthe country tale of Constantia Durham sang itself to her in a new key.He had no contempt for the world's praises. Mr. Whitford wrote theletters to the county paper which gained him applause at various greathouses, and he accepted it, and betrayed a tingling fright lest heshould be the victim of a sneer of the world he contemned. Recollectinghis remarks, her mind was afflicted by the "something illogical" in himthat we readily discover when our natures are no longer running free,and then at once we yearn for a disputation. She resolved that shewould one day, one distant day, provoke it--upon what? The specialpoint eluded her. The world is too huge a client, and too pervious, toospotty, for a girl to defend against a man. That "something illogical"had stirred her feelings more than her intellect to revolt. She couldnot constitute herself the advocate of Mr. Whitford. Still she markedthe disputation for an event to come.
Meditating on it, she fell to picturing Sir Willoughby's face at thefirst accents of his bride's decided disagreement with him. Thepicture once conjured up would not be laid. He was handsome; socorrectly handsome, that a slight unfriendly touch precipitated himinto caricature. His habitual air of happy pride, of indignantcontentment rather, could easily be overdone. Surprise, when he threwemphasis on it, stretched him with the tall eyebrows of amask--limitless under the spell of caricature; and in time, whenevershe was not pleased by her thoughts, she had that, and not hislikeness, for the vision of him. And it was unjust, contrary to herdeeper feelings; she rebuked herself, and as much as her naughty spiritpermitted, she tried to look on him as the world did; an effortinducing reflections upon the blessings of ignorance. She seemed toherself beset by a circle of imps, hardly responsible for her thoughts.
He outshone Mr. Whitford in his behaviour to young Crossjay. She hadseen him with the boy, and he was amused, indulgent, almost frolicsome,in contradistinction to Mr. Whitford's tutorly sharpness. He had theEnglish father's tone of a liberal allowance for boys' tastes andpranks, and he ministered to the partiality of the genus forpocket-money. He did not play the schoolmaster, like bookworms who getpoor little lads in their grasp.
Mr. Whitford avoided her very much. He came to Upton Park on a visit toher father, and she was not particularly sorry that she saw him only attable. He treated her by fits to a level scrutiny of deep-set eyesunpleasantly penetrating. She had liked his eyes. They becameunbearable; they dwelt in the memory as if they had left aphosphorescent line. She had been taken by playmate boys in her infancyto peep into hedge-leaves, where the mother-bird brooded on the nest;and the eyes of the bird in that marvellous dark thickset home, hadsent her away with worlds of fancy. Mr. Whitford's gaze revived hersusceptibility, but not the old happy wondering. She was glad of hisabsence, after a certain hour that she passed with Willoughby, awretched hour to remember. Mr. Whitford had left, and Willoughby came,bringing bad news of his mother's health. Lady Patterne was fastfailing. Her son spoke of the loss she would be to him; he spoke of thedreadfulness 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 you lose me, my love!"
"Willoughby!"
"Oh, the bitter pang of leaving you!"
"Dear Willoughby, you are distressed; your mother may recover; let ushope she will; I will help to nurse her; I have offered, you know; I amready, most anxious. I believe I am a good nurse."
"It is this belief--that one does not die with death!"
"That is our comfort."
"When we love?"
"Does it not promise that we meet again?"
"To walk the world and see you perhaps--with another!"
"See me?--Where? Here?"
"Wedded . . . to another. You! my bride; whom I call mine; and you are!You would be still--in that horror! But all things are possible; womenare women; they swim in infidelity, from wave to wave! I know them."
"Willoughby, do not torment yourself and me, I beg you."
He meditated profoundly, and asked her: "Could you be such a saintamong women?"
"I think I am a more than usually childish girl."
"Not to forget me?"
"Oh! no."
"Still to be mine?"
"I am yours."
"To plight yourself?"
"It is done."
"Be mine beyond death?"
"Married is married, I think."
"Clara! to dedicate yo
ur life to our love! Never one touch; not onewhisper! not a thought, not a dream! Could you--it agonizes me toimagine . . . be inviolate? mine above?--mine before all men, though Iam gone:--true to my dust? Tell me. Give me that assurance. True to myname!--Oh, I hear them. 'His relict!' Buzzings about Lady Patterne.'The widow.' If you knew their talk of widows! Shut your ears, myangel! But if she holds them off and keeps her path, they are forced torespect her. The dead husband is not the dishonoured wretch theyfancied him, because he was out of their way. He lives in the heart ofhis wife. Clara! my Clara! as I live in yours, whether here or away;whether you are a wife or widow, there is no distinction for love--I amyour husband--say it--eternally. I must have peace; I cannot endure thepain. Depressed, yes; I have cause to be. But it has haunted me eversince we joined hands. To have you--to lose you!"
"Is it not possible that I may be the first to die?" said MissMiddleton.
"And lose you, with the thought that you, lovely as you are, and thedogs of the world barking round you, might . . . Is it any wonder thatI have my feeling for the world? This hand!--the thought is horrible.You would be surrounded; men are brutes; the scent of unfaithfulnessexcites them, overjoys them. And I helpless! The thought is maddening.I see a ring of monkeys grinning. There is your beauty, and man'sdelight in desecrating. You would be worried night and day to quit myname, 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 thoughtupon me I see a ring of monkey faces grinning at me; they haunt me. Butyou do swear it! Once, and I will never trouble you on the subjectagain. My weakness! if you like. You will learn that it is love, aman's love, stronger than death."
"An oath?" she said, and moved her lips to recall what she might havesaid 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."
"To me! me!"
"It will be to you."
"To my soul. No heaven can be for me--I see none, only torture, unlessI have your word, Clara. I trust it. I will trust it implicitly. Myconfidence in you is absolute."
"Then you need not be troubled."
"It is for you, my love; that you may be armed and strong when I am notby to protect you."
"Our views of the world are opposed, Willoughby."
"Consent; gratify me; swear it. Say: 'Beyond death.' Whisper it. I askfor nothing more. Women think the husband's grave breaks the bond, cutsthe tie, sets them loose. They wed the flesh--pah! What I call on youfor is nobility; the transcendent nobility of faithfulness beyonddeath. 'His widow!' let them say; a saint in widowhood."
"My vows at the altar must suffice."
"You will not? Clara!"
"I am plighted to you."
"Not a word?--a simple promise? But you love me?"
"I have given you the best proof of it that I can."
"Consider how utterly I place confidence in you."
"I hope it is well placed."
"I could kneel to you, to worship you, if you would, Clara!"
"Kneel to Heaven, not to me, Willoughby. I am--I wish I were able totell what I am. I may be inconstant; I do not know myself. Think;question yourself whether I am really the person you should marry. Yourwife should have great qualities of mind and soul. I will consent tohear that I do not possess them, and abide by the verdict."
"You do; you do possess them!" Willoughby cried. "When you know betterwhat the world is, you will understand my anxiety. Alive, I am strongto shield you from it; dead, helpless--that is all. You would be cladin mail, steel-proof, inviolable, if you would . . . But try to enterinto my mind; think with me, feel with me. When you have oncecomprehended the intensity of the love of a man like me, you will notrequire asking. It is the difference of the elect and the vulgar; ofthe ideal of love from the coupling of the herds. We will let it drop.At least, I have your hand. As long as I live I have your hand. Ought Inot to be satisfied? I am; only I see further than most men, and feelmore deeply. And now I must ride to my mother's bedside. She dies LadyPatterne! It might have been that she . . . But she is a woman ofwomen! With a father-in-law! Just heaven! Could I have stood by herthen with the same feelings of reverence? A very little, my love, andeverything gained for us by civilization crumbles; we fall back to thefirst mortar-bowl we were bruised and stirred in. My thoughts, when Itake my stand to watch by her, come to this conclusion, that,especially in women, distinction is the thing to be aimed at. Otherwisewe are a weltering human mass. Women must teach us to venerate them, orwe may as well be bleating and barking and bellowing. So, now enough.You have but to think a little. I must be off. It may have happenedduring my absence. I will write. I shall hear from you? Come and see memount Black Norman. My respects to your father. I have no time to paythem in person. One!"
He took the one--love's mystical number--from which commonly springmultitudes; but, on the present occasion, it was a single one, andcold. She watched him riding away on his gallant horse, as handsome acavalier as the world could show, and the contrast of his recentlanguage and his fine figure was a riddle that froze her blood. Speechso foreign to her ears, unnatural in tone, unmanlike even for a lover(who is allowed a softer dialect), set her vainly sounding for thesource and drift of it. She was glad of not having to encounter eyeslike Mr. Vernon Whitford's.
On behalf of Sir Willoughby, it is to be said that his mother, withoutinfringing on the degree of respect for his decisions and sentimentsexacted by him, had talked to him of Miss Middleton, suggesting avolatility of temperament in the young lady that struck him asconsentaneous with Mrs Mountstuart's "rogue in porcelain", andalarmed him as the independent observations of two world-wise women.Nor was it incumbent upon him personally to credit the volatility inorder, 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 inhim; his mother had merely tolled a warning bell that he had put inmotion before. Clara was not a Constantia. But she was a woman, and hehad been deceived by women, as a man fostering his high ideal of themwill surely be. The strain he adopted was quite natural to his passionand his theme. The language of the primitive sentiments of men is ofthe same expression at all times, minus the primitive colours when amodern gentleman addresses his lady.
Lady Patterne died in the winter season of the new year. In April DrMiddleton had to quit Upton Park, and he had not found a place ofresidence, nor did he quite know what to do with himself in theprospect of his daughter's marriage and desertion of him. SirWilloughby proposed to find him a house within a circuit of theneighbourhood of Patterne. Moreover, he invited the Rev. Doctor and hisdaughter to come to Patterne from Upton for a month, and makeacquaintance with his aunts, the ladies Eleanor and Isabel Patterne, sothat it might not be so strange to Clara to have them as her housematesafter her marriage. Dr. Middleton omitted to consult his daughterbefore accepting the invitation, and it appeared, when he did speak toher, that it should have been done. But she said, mildly, "Very well,papa."
Sir Willoughby had to visit the metropolis and an estate in anothercounty, whence he wrote to his betrothed daily. He returned to Patternein time to arrange for the welcome of his guests; too late, however, toride over to them; and, meanwhile, during his absence, Miss Middletonhad bethought herself that she ought to have given her last days offreedom to her friends. After the weeks to be passed at Patterne, veryfew weeks were left to her, and she had a wish to run to Switzerland orTyrol and see the Alps; a quaint idea, her father thought. She repeatedit seriously, and Dr. Middleton perceived a feminine shuttle ofindecision at work in her head, frightful to him, considering that theysignified hesitation between the excellent library and capitalwine-cellar of Patterne Hall, together with the society of thatpromising young scholar, Mr. Vernon Whitford, on the one side, and acareer of hotels--equivalent to being rammed into monst
er artillerywith a crowd every night, and shot off on a day's journey through spaceevery morning--on the other.
"You will have your travelling and your Alps after the ceremony," hesaid.
"I think I would rather stay at home," said she.
Dr Middleton rejoined: "I would."
"But I am not married yet papa."
"As good, my dear."
"A little change of scene, I thought . . ."
"We have accepted Willoughby's invitation. And he helps me to a housenear you."
"You wish to be near me, papa?"
"Proximate--at a remove: communicable."
"Why should we separate?"
"For the reason, my dear, that you exchange a father for a husband."
"If I do not want to exchange?"
"To purchase, you must pay, my child. Husbands are not given fornothing."
"No. But I should have you, papa!"
"Should?"
"They have not yet parted us, dear papa."
"What does that mean?" he asked, fussily. He was in a gentle stewalready, apprehensive of a disturbance of the serenity precious toscholars by postponements of the ceremony and a prolongation of afather'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 ofcomposure, glad to be appeased on any terms; for mutability is butanother name for the sex, and it is the enemy of the scholar.
She suggested that two weeks of Patterne would offer plenty of time toinspect the empty houses of the district, and should be sufficient,considering the claims of friends, and the necessity of going the roundof London shops.
"Two or three weeks," he agreed, hurriedly, by way of compromise withthat fearful prospect.