CHAPTER XVII

THE PORCELAIN VASE

During the term of Clara's walk with Laetitia, Sir Willoughby's

shrunken self-esteem, like a garment hung to the fire after exposure to

tempestuous weather, recovered some of the sleekness of its velvet pile

in the society of Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, who represented to him

the world he feared and tried to keep sunny for himself by all the arts

he could exercise. She expected him to be the gay Sir Willoughby, and

her look being as good as an incantation summons, he produced the

accustomed sprite, giving her sally for sally. Queens govern the

polite. Popularity with men, serviceable as it is for winning

favouritism with women, is of poor value to a sensitive gentleman,

anxious even to prognostic apprehension on behalf of his pride, his

comfort and his prevalence. And men are grossly purchasable; good wines

have them, good cigars, a goodfellow air: they are never quite worth

their salt even then; you can make head against their ill looks. But

the looks of women will at one blow work on you the downright

difference which is between the cock of lordly plume and the moulting.

Happily they may be gained: a clever tongue will gain them, a leg. They

are with you to a certainty if Nature is with you; if you are elegant

and discreet: if the sun is on you, and they see you shining in it; or

if they have seen you well-stationed and handsome in the sun. And once

gained they are your mirrors for life, and far more constant than the

glass. That tale of their caprice is absurd. Hit their imaginations

once, they are your slaves, only demanding common courtier service of

you. They will deny that you are ageing, they will cover you from

scandal, they will refuse to see you ridiculous. Sir Willoughby's

instinct, or skin, or outfloating feelers, told him of these mysteries

of the influence of the sex; he had as little need to study them as a

lady breathed on.

He had some need to know them in fact; and with him the need of a

protection for himself called it forth; he was intuitively a conjurer

in self-defence, long-sighted, wanting no directions to the herb he was

to suck at when fighting a serpent. His dulness of vision into the

heart of his enemy was compensated by the agile sensitiveness obscuring

but rendering him miraculously active, and, without supposing his need

immediate, he deemed it politic to fascinate Mrs. Mountstuart and

anticipate ghastly possibilities in the future by dropping a hint; not

of Clara's fickleness, you may be sure; of his own, rather; or, more

justly, of an altered view of Clara's character. He touched on the

rogue in porcelain.

Set gently laughing by his relishing humour. "I get nearer to it," he

said.

"Remember I'm in love with her," said Mrs. Mountstuart.

"That is our penalty."

"A pleasant one for you."

He assented. "Is the 'rogue' to be eliminated?"

"Ask when she's a mother, my dear Sir Willoughby."

"This is how I read you:--"

"I shall accept any interpretation that is complimentary."

"Not one will satisfy me of being sufficiently so, and so I leave it to

the character to fill out the epigram."

"Do. What hurry is there? And don't be misled by your objection to

rogue; which would be reasonable if you had not secured her."

The door of a hollow chamber of horrible reverberation was opened

within him by this remark.

He tried to say in jest, that it was not always a passionate admiration

that held the rogue fast; but he muddled it in the thick of his

conscious thunder, and Mrs. Mountstuart smiled to see him shot from the

smooth-flowing dialogue into the cataracts by one simple reminder to

the lover of his luck. Necessarily, after a fall, the pitch of their

conversation relaxed.

"Miss Dale is looking well," he said.

"Fairly: she ought to marry," said Mrs. Mountstuart.

He shook his head. "Persuade her."

She nodded. "Example may have some effect."

He looked extremely abstracted. "Yes, it is time. Where is the man you

could recommend for her complement? She has now what was missing

before, a ripe intelligence in addition to her happy

disposition--romantic, you would say. I can't think women the worse for

that."

"A dash of it."

"She calls it 'leafage'."

"Very pretty. And have you relented about your horse Achmet?"

"I don't sell him under four hundred."

"Poor Johnny Busshe! You forget that his wife doles him out his money.

You're a hard bargainer, Sir Willoughby."

"I mean the price to be prohibitive."

"Very well; and 'leafage' is good for hide-and-seek; especially when

there is no rogue in ambush. And that's the worst I can say of Laetitia

Dale. An exaggerated devotion is the scandal of our sex. They say

you're the hardest man of business in the county too, and I can believe

it; for at home and abroad your aim is to get the best of everybody.

You see I've no leafage, I am perfectly matter-of-fact, bald."

"Nevertheless, my dear Mrs. Mountstuart, I can assure you that

conversing with you has much the same exhilarating effect on me as

conversing with Miss Dale."

"But, leafage! leafage! You hard bargainers have no compassion for

devoted spinsters."

"I tell you my sentiments absolutely."

"And you have mine moderately expressed."

She recollected the purpose of her morning's visit, which was to engage

Dr. Middleton to dine with her, and Sir Willoughby conducted her to the

library-door. "Insist," he said.

Awaiting her reappearance, the refreshment of the talk he had

sustained, not without point, assisted him to distinguish in its

complete abhorrent orb the offence committed against him by his bride.

And this he did through projecting it more and more away from him, so

that in the outer distance it involved his personal emotions less,

while observation was enabled to compass its vastness, and, as it were,

perceive the whole spherical mass of the wretched girl's guilt

impudently turning on its axis.

Thus to detach an injury done to us, and plant it in space, for

mathematical measurement of its weight and bulk, is an art; it may also

be an instinct of self-preservation; otherwise, as when mountains

crumble adjacent villages are crushed, men of feeling may at any moment

be killed outright by the iniquitous and the callous. But, as an art,

it should be known to those who are for practising an art so

beneficent, that circumstances must lend their aid. Sir Willoughby's

instinct even had sat dull and crushed before his conversation with

Mrs. Mountstuart. She lifted him to one of his ideals of himself. Among

gentlemen he was the English gentleman; with ladies his aim was the

Gallican courtier of any period from Louis Treize to Louis Quinze. He

could doat on those who led him to talk in that character--backed by

English solidity, you understand. Roast beef stood eminent behind the

souffle and champagne. An English squire excelling his fellows at

hazardous leaps in public, he was additionally a polished whisperer, a

lively dialoguer, one for witty bouts, with something in him--capacity

for a drive and dig or two--beyond mere wit, as they soon learned who

called up his reserves, and had a bosom for pinking. So much for his

ideal of himself. Now, Clara not only never evoked, never responded to

it, she repelled it; there was no flourishing of it near her. He

considerately overlooked these facts in his ordinary calculations; he

was a man of honour and she was a girl of beauty; but the accidental

blooming of his ideal, with Mrs. Mountstuart, on the very heels of

Clara's offence, restored him to full command of his art of detachment,

and he thrust her out, quite apart from himself, to contemplate her

disgraceful revolutions.

Deeply read in the Book of Egoism that he was, he knew the wisdom of

the sentence: An injured pride that strikes not out will strike home.

What was he to strike with? Ten years younger, Laetitia might have been

the instrument. To think of her now was preposterous. Beside Clara she

had the hue of Winter under the springing bough. He tossed her away,

vexed to the very soul by an ostentatious decay that shrank from

comparison with the blooming creature he had to scourge in

self-defence, by some agency or other.

Mrs. Mountstuart was on the step of her carriage when the silken

parasols of the young ladies were descried on a slope of the park,

where the yellow green of May-clothed beeches flowed over the brown

ground of last year's leaves.

"Who's the cavalier?" she inquired.

A gentleman escorted them.

"Vernon? No! he's pegging at Crossjay," quoth Willoughby.

Vernon and Crossjay came out for the boy's half-hour's run before his

dinner. Crossjay spied Miss Middleton and was off to meet her at a

bound. Vernon followed him leisurely.

"The rogue has no cousin, has she?" said Mrs. Mountstuart.

"It's a family of one son or one daughter for generations," replied

Willoughby.

"And Letty Dale?"

"Cousin!" he exclaimed, as if wealth had been imputed to Miss Dale;

adding: "No male cousin."

A railway station fly drove out of the avenue on the circle to the

hall-entrance. Flitch was driver. He had no right to be there, he was

doing wrong, but he was doing it under cover of an office, to support

his wife and young ones, and his deprecating touches of the hat spoke

of these apologies to his former master with dog-like pathos.

Sir Willoughby beckoned to him to approach.

"So you are here," he said. "You have luggage."

Flitch jumped from the box and read one of the labels aloud:

"Lieutenant-Colonel H. De Craye."

"And the colonel met the ladies? Overtook them?"

Here seemed to come dismal matter for Flitch to relate.

He began upon the abstract origin of it: he had lost his place in Sir

Willoughby's establishment, and was obliged to look about for work

where it was to be got, and though he knew he had no right to be where

he was, he hoped to be forgiven because of the mouths he had to feed as

a flyman attached to the railway station, where this gentleman, the

colonel, hired him, and he believed Sir Willoughby would excuse him for

driving a friend, which the colonel was, he recollected well, and the

colonel recollected him, and he said, not noticing how he was rigged:

"What! Flitch! back in your old place? Am I expected?" and he told the

colonel his unfortunate situation. "Not back, colonel; no such luck for

me" and Colonel De Craye was a very kind-hearted gentleman, as he

always had been, and asked kindly after his family. And it might be

that such poor work as he was doing now he might be deprived of, such

is misfortune when it once harpoons a man; you may dive, and you may

fly, but it sticks in you, once do a foolish thing. "May I humbly beg

of you, if you'll be so good, Sir Willoughby," said Flitch, passing to

evidence of the sad mishap. He opened the door of the fly, displaying

fragments of broken porcelain.

"But, what, what! what's the story of this?" cried Sir Willoughby.

"What is it?" said Mrs. Mountstuart, pricking up her ears.

"It was a vaws," Flitch replied in elegy.

"A porcelain vase!" interpreted Sir Willoughby.

"China!" Mrs. Mountstuart faintly shrieked.

One of the pieces was handed to her inspection.

She held it close, she held it distant. She sighed horribly.

"The man had better have hanged himself," said she.

Flitch bestirred his misfortune-sodden features and members for a

continuation of the doleful narrative.

"How did this occur?" Sir Willoughby peremptorily asked him.

Flitch appealed to his former master for testimony that he was a good

and a careful driver.

Sir Willoughby thundered: "I tell you to tell me how this occurred."

"Not a drop, my lady! not since my supper last night, if there's any

truth in me!" Flitch implored succour of Mrs Mountstuart.

"Drive straight," she said, and braced him.

His narrative was then direct.

Near Piper's mill, where the Wicker brook crossed the Rebdon road, one

of Hoppner's wagons, overloaded as usual, was forcing the horses

uphill, when Flitch drove down at an easy pace, and saw himself between

Hoppner's cart come to a stand and a young lady advancing: and just

then the carter smacks his whip, the horses pull half mad. The young

lady starts behind the cart, and up jumps the colonel, and, to save the

young lady, Flitch dashed ahead and did save her, he thanked Heaven for

it, and more when he came to see who the young lady was.

"She was alone?" said Sir Willoughby in tragic amazement, staring at

Flitch.

"Very well, you saved her, and you upset the fly," Mountstuart jogged

him on.

"Bardett, our old head-keeper, was a witness, my lady, had to drive

half up the bank, and it's true--over the fly did go; and the vaws it

shoots out against the twelfth mile-stone, just as though there was the

chance for it! for nobody else was injured, and knocked against

anything else, it never would have flown all to pieces, so that it took

Bardett and me ten minutes to collect every one, down to the smallest

piece there was; and he said, and I can't help thinking myself, there

was a Providence in it, for we all come together so as you might say we

was made to do as we did."

"So then Horace adopted the prudent course of walking on with the

ladies instead of trusting his limbs again to this capsizing fly," Sir

Willoughby said to Mrs. Mountstuart; and she rejoined: "Lucky that no

one was hurt."

Both of them eyed the nose of poor Flitch, and simultaneously they

delivered a verdict in "Humph!"

Mrs. Mountstuart handed the wretch a half-crown from her purse. Sir

Willoughby directed the footman in attendance to unload the fly and

gather up the fragments of porcelain carefully, bidding Flitch be quick

in his departing.

"The colonel's wedding-present! I shall call to-morrow." Mrs.

Mountstuart waved her adieu.

"Come every day!--Yes, I suppose we may guess the destination of the

vase." He bowed her off, and she cried:

"Well, now, the gift can be shared, if you're either of you for a

division." In the crash of the carriage-wheels he heard, "At any rate

there was a rogue in that porcelain."

These are the slaps we get from a heedless world.

As for the vase, it was Horace De Craye's loss. Wedding-present he

would have to produce, and decidedly not in chips. It had the look of a

costly vase, but that was no question for the moment:--What was meant

by Clara being seen walking on the high-road alone?--What snare,

traceable ad inferas, had ever induced Willoughby Patterne to make her

the repository and fortress of his honour!