CHAPTER XXX

TREATING OF THE DINNER-PARTY AT MRS. MOUNTSTUART JENKINSON'S

Vernon and young Crossjay had tolerably steady work together for a

couple of hours, varied by the arrival of a plate of meat on a tray for

the master, and some interrogations put to him from time to time by the

boy in reference to Miss Middleton. Crossjay made the discovery that if

he abstained from alluding to Miss Middleton's beauty he might water

his dusty path with her name nearly as much as he liked. Mention of her

beauty incurred a reprimand. On the first occasion his master was

wistful. "Isn't she glorious!" Crossjay fancied he had started a

sovereign receipt for blessed deviations. He tried it again, but

paedagogue-thunder broke over his head.

"Yes, only I can't understand what she means, Mr. Whitford," he excused

himself "First I was not to tell; I know I wasn't, because she said so;

she quite as good as said so. Her last words were: 'Mind, Crossjay,

you know nothing about me', when I stuck to that beast of a tramp,

who's a 'walking moral,' and gets money out of people by snuffling it."

"Attend to your lesson, or you'll be one," said Vernon.

"Yes, but, Mr. Whitford, now I am to tell. I'm to answer straight out

to every question."

"Miss Middleton is anxious that you should be truthful."

"Yes; but in the morning she told me not to tell."

"She was in a hurry. She has it on her conscience that you may have

misunderstood her, and she wishes you never to be guilty of an untruth,

least of all on her account."

Crossjay committed an unspoken resolution to the air in a violent sigh:

"Ah!" and said: "If I were sure!"

"Do as she bids you, my boy."

"But I don't know what it is she wants."

"Hold to her last words to you."

"So I do. If she told me to run till I dropped, on I'd go."

"She told you to study your lessons; do that."

Crossjay buckled to his book, invigorated by an imagination of his

liege lady on the page.

After a studious interval, until the impression of his lady had

subsided, he resumed: "She's so funny. She's just like a girl, and then

she's a lady, too. She's my idea of a princess. And Colonel De Craye!

Wasn't he taught dancing! When he says something funny he ducks and

seems to be setting to his partner. I should like to be as clever as

her father. That is a clever man. I dare say Colonel De Craye will

dance with her tonight. I wish I was there."

"It's a dinner-party, not a dance," Vernon forced himself to say, to

dispel that ugly vision.

"Isn't it, sir? I thought they danced after dinner-parties, Mr.

Whitford, have you ever seen her run?"

Vernon pointed him to his task.

They were silent for a lengthened period.

"But does Miss Middleton mean me to speak out if Sir Willoughby asks

me?" said Crossjay.

"Certainly. You needn't make much of it. All's plain and simple."

"But I'm positive, Mr. Whitford, he wasn't to hear of her going to the

post-office with me before breakfast. And how did Colonel De Craye find

her and bring her back, with that old Flitch? He's a man and can go

where he pleases, and I'd have found her, too, give me the chance. You

know. I'm fond of Miss Dale, but she--I'm very fond of her--but you

can't think she's a girl as well. And about Miss Dale, when she says a

thing, there it is, clear. But Miss Middleton has a lot of meanings.

Never mind; I go by what's inside, and I'm pretty sure to please her."

"Take your chin off your hand and your elbow off the book, and fix

yourself," said Vernon, wrestling with the seduction of Crossjay's

idolatry, for Miss Middleton's appearance had been preternaturally

sweet on her departure, and the next pleasure to seeing her was hearing

of her from the lips of this passionate young poet.

"Remember that you please her by speaking truth," Vernon added, and

laid himself open to questions upon the truth, by which he learnt, with

a perplexed sense of envy and sympathy, that the boy's idea of truth

strongly approximated to his conception of what should be agreeable to

Miss Middleton.

He was lonely, bereft of the bard, when he had tucked Crossjay up in

his bed and left him. Books he could not read; thoughts were

disturbing. A seat in the library and a stupid stare helped to pass the

hours, and but for the spot of sadness moving meditation in spite of

his effort to stun himself, he would have borne a happy resemblance to

an idiot in the sun. He had verily no command of his reason. She was

too beautiful! Whatever she did was best. That was the refrain of the

fountain-song in him; the burden being her whims, variations,

inconsistencies, wiles; her tremblings between good and naughty, that

might be stamped to noble or to terrible; her sincereness, her

duplicity, her courage, cowardice, possibilities for heroism and for

treachery. By dint of dwelling on the theme, he magnified the young

lady to extraordinary stature. And he had sense enough to own that her

character was yet liquid in the mould, and that she was a creature of

only naturally youthful wildness provoked to freakishness by the ordeal

of a situation shrewd as any that can happen to her sex in civilized

life. But he was compelled to think of her extravagantly, and he leaned

a little to the discrediting of her, because her actual image ummanned

him and was unbearable; and to say at the end of it: "She is too

beautiful! whatever she does is best," smoothed away the wrong he did

her. Had it been in his power he would have thought of her in the

abstract--the stage contiguous to that which he adopted: but the

attempt was luckless; the Stagyrite would have faded in it. What

philosopher could have set down that face of sun and breeze and nymph

in shadow as a point in a problem?

The library door was opened at midnight by Miss Dale. She dosed it

quietly. "You are not working, Mr. Whitford? I fancied you would wish

to hear of the evening. Professor Crooklyn arrived after all! Mrs.

Mountstuart is bewildered: she says she expected you, and that you did

not excuse yourself to her, and she cannot comprehend, et caetera. That

is to say, she chooses bewilderment to indulge in the exclamatory. She

must be very much annoyed. The professor did come by the train she

drove to meet!"

"I thought it probable," said Vernon.

"He had to remain a couple of hours at the Railway Inn; no conveyance

was to be found for him. He thinks he has caught a cold, and cannot

stifle his fretfulness about it. He may be as learned as Doctor

Middleton; he has not the same happy constitution. Nothing more

unfortunate could have occurred; he spoilt the party. Mrs. Mountstuart

tried petting him, which drew attention to him, and put us all in his

key for several awkward minutes, more than once. She lost her head; she

was unlike herself I may be presumptuous in criticizing her, but should

not the president of a dinner-table treat it like a battlefield, and

let the guest that sinks descend, and not allow the voice of a

discordant, however illustrious, to rule it? Of course, it is when I

see failures that I fancy I could manage so well: comparison is

prudently reserved in the other cases. I am a daring critic, no doubt,

because I know I shall never be tried by experiment. I have no ambition

to be tried."

She did not notice a smile of Vernon's, and continued: "Mrs Mountstuart

gave him the lead upon any subject he chose. I thought the professor

never would have ceased talking of a young lady who had been at the inn

before him drinking hot brandy and water with a gentleman!"

"How did he hear of that?" cried Vernon, roused by the malignity of the

Fates.

"From the landlady, trying to comfort him. And a story of her lending

shoes and stockings while those of the young lady were drying. He has

the dreadful snappish humourous way of recounting which impresses it;

the table took up the subject of this remarkable young lady, and

whether she was a lady of the neighbourhood, and who she could be that

went abroad on foot in heavy rain. It was painful to me; I knew enough

to be sure of who she was."

"Did she betray it?"

"No."

"Did Willoughby look at her?"

"Without suspicion then."

"Then?"

"Colonel De Craye was diverting us, and he was very amusing. Mrs.

Mountstuart told him afterward that he ought to be paid salvage for

saving the wreck of her party. Sir Willoughby was a little too cynical;

he talked well; what he said was good, but it was not good-humoured; he

has not the reckless indifference of Colonel De Craye to uttering

nonsense that amusement may come of it. And in the drawing-room he lost

such gaiety as he had. I was close to Mrs. Mountstuart when Professor

Crooklyn approached her and spoke in my hearing of that gentleman and

that young lady. They were, you could see by his nods, Colonel De

Craye and Miss Middleton."

"And she at once mentioned it to Willoughby?"

"Colonel De Craye gave her no chance, if she sought it. He courted her

profusely. Behind his rattle he must have brains. It ran in all

directions to entertain her and her circle."

"Willoughby knows nothing?"

"I cannot judge. He stood with Mrs. Mountstuart a minute as we were

taking leave. She looked strange. I heard her say: 'The rogue!' He

laughed. She lifted her shoulders. He scarcely opened his mouth on the

way home."

"The thing must run its course," Vernon said, with the philosophical

air which is desperation rendered decorous. "Willoughby deserves it. A

man of full growth ought to know that nothing on earth tempts

Providence so much as the binding of a young woman against her will.

Those two are mutually attracted: they're both . . . They meet, and

the mischief's done: both are bright. He can persuade with a word.

Another might discourse like an angel and it would be useless. I said

everything I could think of, to no purpose. And so it is: there are

those attractions!--just as, with her, Willoughby is the reverse, he

repels. I'm in about the same predicament--or should be if she were

plighted to me. That is, for the length of five minutes; about the

space of time I should require for the formality of handing her back

her freedom. How a sane man can imagine a girl like that . . . ! But if

she has changed, she has changed! You can't conciliate a withered

affection. This detaining her, and tricking, and not listening, only

increases her aversion; she learns the art in turn. Here she is,

detained by fresh plots to keep Dr. Middleton at the Hall. That's

true, is it not?" He saw that it was. "No, she's not to blame! She has

told him her mind; he won't listen. The question then is, whether she

keeps to her word, or breaks it. It's a dispute between a conventional

idea of obligation and an injury to her nature. Which is the more

dishonourable thing to do? Why, you and I see in a moment that her

feelings guide her best. It's one of the few cases in which nature may

be consulted like an oracle."

"Is she so sure of her nature?" said Miss Dale.

"You may doubt it; I do not. I am surprised at her coming back. De

Craye is a man of the world, and advised it, I suppose. He--well, I

never had the persuasive tongue, and my failing doesn't count for

much."

"But the suddenness of the intimacy!"

"The disaster is rather famous 'at first sight'. He came in a fortunate

hour . . . for him. A pigmy's a giant if he can manage to arrive in

season. Did you not notice that there was danger, at their second or

third glance? You counselled me to hang on here, where the amount of

good I do in proportion to what I have to endure is microscopic."

"It was against your wishes, I know," said Laetitia, and when the words

were out she feared that they were tentative. Her delicacy shrank from

even seeming to sound him in relation to a situation so delicate as

Miss Middleton's.

The same sentiment guarded him from betraying himself, and he said:

"Partly against. We both foresaw the possible--because, like most

prophets, we knew a little more of circumstances enabling us to see the

fatal. A pigmy would have served, but De Craye is a handsome,

intelligent, pleasant fellow."

"Sir Willoughby's friend!"

"Well, in these affairs! A great deal must be charged on the goddess."

"That is really Pagan fatalism!"

"Our modern word for it is Nature. Science condescends to speak of

natural selection. Look at these! They are both graceful and winning

and witty, bright to mind and eye, made for one another, as country

people say. I can't blame him. Besides, we don't know that he's guilty.

We're quite in the dark, except that we're certain how it must end. If

the chance should occur to you of giving Willoughby a word of

counsel--it may--you might, without irritating him as my knowledge of

his plight does, hint at your eyes being open. His insane dread of a

detective world makes him artificially blind. As soon as he fancies

himself seen, he sets to work spinning a web, and he discerns nothing

else. It's generally a clever kind of web; but if it's a tangle to

others it's the same to him, and a veil as well. He is preparing the

catastrophe, he forces the issue. Tell him of her extreme desire to

depart. Treat her as mad, to soothe him. Otherwise one morning he will

wake a second time . . . ! It is perfectly certain. And the second time

it will be entirely his own fault. Inspire him with some philosophy."

"I have none."

"I if I thought so, I would say you have better. There are two kinds of

philosophy, mine and yours. Mine comes of coldness, yours of devotion."

"He is unlikely to choose me for his confidante."

Vernon meditated. "One can never quite guess what he will do, from

never knowing the heat of the centre in him which precipitates his

actions: he has a great art of concealment. As to me, as you perceive,

my views are too philosophical to let me be of use to any of them. I

blame only the one who holds to the bond. The sooner I am gone!--in

fact, I cannot stay on. So Dr. Middleton and the Professor did not

strike fire together?"

"Doctor Middleton was ready, and pursued him, but Professor Crooklyn

insisted on shivering. His line of blank verse, 'A Railway platform and

a Railway inn!' became pathetic in repetition. He must have suffered."

"Somebody has to!"

"Why the innocent?"

"He arrives a propos. But remember that Fridolin sometimes contrives to

escape and have the guilty scorched. The Professor would not have

suffered if he had missed his train, as he appears to be in the habit

of doing. Thus his unaccustomed good-fortune was the cause of his bad."

"You saw him on the platform?"

"I am unacquainted with the professor. I had to get Mrs Mountstuart out

of the way."

"She says she described him to you. 'Complexion of a sweetbread,

consistency of a quenelle, grey, and like a Saint without his dish

behind the head.'"

"Her descriptions are strikingly accurate, but she forgot to sketch his

back, and all that I saw was a narrow sloping back and a broad hat

resting the brim on it. My report to her spoke of an old gentleman of

dark complexion, as the only traveller on the platform. She has faith

in the efficiency of her descriptive powers, and so she was willing to

drive off immediately. The intention was a start to London. Colonel De

Craye came up and effected in five minutes what I could not compass in

thirty."

"But you saw Colonel De Craye pass you?"

"My work was done; I should have been an intruder. Besides I was acting

wet jacket with Mrs. Mountstuart to get her to drive off fast, or she

might have jumped out in search of her Professor herself."

"She says you were lean as a fork, with the wind whistling through the

prongs."

"You see how easy it is to deceive one who is an artist in phrases.

Avoid them, Miss Dale; they dazzle the penetration of the composer.

That is why people of ability like Mrs Mountstuart see so little; they

are so bent on describing brilliantly. However, she is kind and

charitable at heart. I have been considering to-night that, to cut this

knot as it is now, Miss Middleton might do worse than speak straight

out to Mrs. Mountstuart. No one else would have such influence with

Willoughby. The simple fact of Mrs. Mountstuart's knowing of it would

be almost enough. But courage would be required for that. Good-night,

Miss Dale."

"Good-night, Mr. Whitford. You pardon me for disturbing you?"

Vernon pressed her hand reassuringly. He had but to look at her and

review her history to think his cousin Willoughby punished by just

retribution. Indeed, for any maltreatment of the dear boy Love by man

or by woman, coming under your cognizance, you, if you be of common

soundness, shall behold the retributive blow struck in your time.

Miss Dale retired thinking how like she and Vernon were to one another

in the toneless condition they had achieved through sorrow. He

succeeded in masking himself from her, owing to her awe of the

circumstances. She reproached herself for not having the same devotion

to the cold idea of duty as he had; and though it provoked inquiry, she

would not stop to ask why he had left Miss Middleton a prey to the

sparkling colonel. It seemed a proof of the philosophy he preached.

As she was passing by young Crossjay's bedroom door a face appeared.

Sir Willoughby slowly emerged and presented himself in his full length,

beseeching her to banish alarm.

He said it in a hushed voice, with a face qualified to create

sentiment.

"Are you tired? sleepy?" said he.

She protested that she was not: she intended to read for an hour.

He begged to have the hour dedicated to him. "I shall be relieved by

conversing with a friend."

No subterfuge crossed her mind; she thought his midnight visit to the

boy's bedside a pretty feature in him; she was full of pity, too; she

yielded to the strange request, feeling that it did not become "an old

woman" to attach importance even to the public discovery of midnight

interviews involving herself as one, and feeling also that she was

being treated as an old friend in the form of a very old woman. Her

mind was bent on arresting any recurrence to the project she had so

frequently outlined in the tongue of innuendo, of which, because of her

repeated tremblings under it, she thought him a master.

He conducted her along the corridor to the private sitting-room of the

ladies Eleanor and Isabel.

"Deceit!" he said, while lighting the candles on the mantelpiece.

She was earnestly compassionate, and a word that could not relate to

her personal destinies refreshed her by displacing her apprehensive

antagonism and giving pity free play.