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 L?titia 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, L?titia 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
