'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 with their vanity! it is the consolation of the great to watch them spin. But the pleasure is loftier, and may comfort our unmerited misfortune for a while, in making a false friend drunk.
Willoughby, among his many preoccupations, had the satisfaction of seeing the effect of drunkenness on Horace De Craye when the latter was in Clara's presence. He could have laughed. Cut in keen epigram were the marginal notes added by him to that chapter of The Book which treats of friends and a woman; and had he not been profoundly preoccupied, troubled by recent intelligence communicated by the ladies, his aunts, he would have played the two together for the royal amusement afforded him by his friend Horace.
Chapter XLVIII
The Lovers
The hour was close upon eleven at night. L?titia sat in the room adjoining her father's bedchamber. Her elbow was on the table beside her chair, and two fingers pressed her temples. The state between thinking and feeling, when both are molten and flow by us, is one of our natures coming after thought has quieted the fiery nerves, and can do no more. She seemed to be meditating. She was conscious only of a struggle past.
She answered a tap at the door, and raised her eyes on Clara. Clara stepped softly. 'Mr. Dale is asleep?'
'I hope so.'
'Ah! dear friend.'
L?titia 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 to sing 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, L?titia.'
'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 by accident: his own bed-room door was locked and he ran down to the drawing-room and curled himself up on the ottoman, and fell asleep, under that padded silken coverlet of the ladies — boots and all, I am afraid!'
L?titia profited by this absurd allusion, thanking Clara in her heart for the refuge.
'He should have taken off his boots,' she said.
'He slept there, and woke up. Dear, he meant no harm. Next day he repeated what he had heard. You will blame him. He meant well in his poor boy's head. And now it is over the county. Ah! do not frown.'
'That explains Lady Busshe!' exclaimed L?titia.
'Dear, dear friend,' said Clara. 'Why — I presume on your tenderness for me; but let me: to-morrow I go — why will you reject your happiness? Those kind good ladies are deeply troubled. They say your resolution is inflexible; you resist their entreaties and your father's. Can it be that you have any doubt of the strength of this attachment? I have none. I have never had a doubt that it was the strongest of his feelings. If before I go I could see you… both happy, I should be relieved, I should rejoice.'
L?titia said, quietly: 'Do you remember a walk we had one day together to 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 all desire, before I leave, I should not feel as I do now. I long to see you happy… him, yes, him too. Is it like asking you to pay my debt? Then, please! But, no; I am not more than partly selfish on this occasion. 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 the cottage?'
'Help me to forget it — that day, and those days, and all those days! I should be glad to think I passed a time beneath the earth, and have risen again. I was the Egoist. I am sure, if I had been buried, I should not have stood up seeing myself more vilely stained, soiled, disfigured — oh! Help me to forget my conduct, L?titia. He and I were unsuited — and I remember I blamed myself then. You and he are not: and now I can perceive the pride that can be felt in him. The worst that can be said is that he schemes too much.'
'Is there any fresh scheme?' said L?titia.
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 love to see our friends established.'
L?titia bowed. 'My curiosity is piqued, of course.'
'Dear friend, to-morrow we shall be parted. I trust to be thought of by you as a little better in grain than I have appeared, and my reason for trusting it is that I know I have been always honest — a boorish young woman in my stupid mad impatience: but not insincere. It is no lofty ambition to desire to be remembered in that character, but such is your Clara, she discovers. I will tell you. It is his wish… his wish that I should promise to give my hand to Mr. Whitford. You see the kindness.'
L?titia's eyes widened and fixed:
'You think it kindness?'
'The intention. He sent Mr. Whitford to me, and I was taught to expect him.'
'Was that quite kind to Mr. Whitford?'
'What an impression I must have made on you during that walk to the cottage, L?titia! 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?'
