it. You do, sir.'
'Still my good friend, still! It is a charge; it is a possession, but part in trusteeship. Though we cannot declare it an entailed estate, our consciences are in some sort pledged that it shall be a succession not too considerably diminished.'
'You will not object to drink it, sir, to the health of your grandchildren. And may you live to toast them in it on their marriage-day!'
'You colour the idea of a prolonged existence in seductive hues. Ha! It is a wine for Tithonus. This wine would speed him to the rosy Morning — aha!'
'I will undertake to sit you through it up to morning,' said Sir Willoughby, innocent of the Bacchic nuptiality of the allusion.
Dr Middleton eyed the decanter. There is a grief in gladness, for a premonition of our mortal state. The amount of wine in the decanter did not promise to sustain the starry roof of night and greet the dawn. 'Old wine, my friend, denies us the full bottle!'
'Another bottle is to follow.'
'No!'
'It is ordered.'
'I protest.'
'It is uncorked.'
'I entreat.'
'It is decanted.'
'I submit. But, mark, it must be honest partnership. You are my worthy host, sir, on that stipulation. Note the superiority of wine over Venus! — I may say, the magnanimity of wine; our jealousy turns on him that will not share! But the corks, Willoughby. The corks excite my amazement.'
'The corking is examined at regular intervals. I remember the occurrence in my father's time. I have seen to it once.'
'It must be perilous as an operation for tracheotomy; which I should assume it to resemble in surgical skill and firmness of hand, not to mention the imminent gasp of the patient.'
A fresh decanter was placed before the doctor.
He said: 'I have but a girl to give!' He was melted.
Sir Willoughby replied: 'I take her for the highest prize this world affords.'
'I have beaten some small stock of Latin into her head, and a note of Greek. She contains a savour of the classics. I hoped once… But she is a girl. The nymph of the woods is in her. Still she will bring you her flower-cup of Hippocrene. She has that aristocracy — the noblest. She is fair; a Beauty, some have said, who judge not by lines. Fair to me, Willoughby! She is my sky. There were applicants. In Italy she was besought of me. She has no history. You are the first heading of the chapter. With you she will have her one tale, as it should be. 'Mulier tum bene olet', you know. Most fragrant she that smells of naught. She goes to you from me, from me alone, from her father to her husband. 'Ut flos in septis secretus nascitur hortis. ' He murmured on the lines to, ''Sic virgo, dum… I shall feel the parting. She goes to one who will have my pride in her, and more. I will add, who will be envied. Mr. Whitford must write you a Carmen Nuptiale.'
The heart of the unfortunate gentleman listening to Dr. Middleton set in for irregular leaps. His offended temper broke away from the image of Clara, revealing her as he had seen her in the morning beside Horace De Craye, distressingly sweet; sweet with the breezy radiance of an English soft-breathing day; sweet with sharpness of young sap. Her eyes, her lips, her fluttering dress that played happy mother across her bosom, giving peeps of the veiled twins; and her laughter, her slim figure, peerless carriage, all her terrible sweetness touched his wound to the smarting quick.
Her wish to be free of him was his anguish. In his pain he thought sincerely. When the pain was easier he muffled himself in the idea of her jealousy of L?titia Dale, and deemed the wish a fiction. But she had expressed it. That was the wound he sought to comfort; for the double reason, that he could love her better after punishing her, and that to meditate on doing so masked the fear of losing her — the dread abyss she had succeeded in forcing his nature to shudder at as a giddy edge possibly near, in spite of his arts of self-defence.
'What I shall do to-morrow evening!' he exclaimed. 'I do not care to fling a bottle to Colonel De Craye and Vernon. I cannot open one for myself. To sit with the ladies will be sitting in the cold for me. When do you bring me back my bride, sir?'
'My dear Willoughby!' The Rev. Doctor puffed, composed himself, and sipped. 'The expedition is an absurdity. I am unable to see the aim of it. She had a headache, vapours. They are over, and she will show a return of good sense. I have ever maintained that nonsense is not to be encouraged in girls. I can put my foot on it. My arrangements are for staying here a further ten days, in the terms of your hospitable invitation. And I stay.'
'I applaud your resolution, sir. Will you prove firm?'
'I am never false to my engagement, Willoughby.'
'Not under pressure?'
'Under no pressure.'
'Persuasion, I should have said.'
'Certainly not. The weakness is in the yielding, either to persuasion or to pressure. The latter brings weight to bear on us; the former blows at our want of it.'
'You gratify me, Doctor Middleton, and relieve me.'
'I cordially dislike a breach in good habits, Willoughby. But I do remember — was I wrong? — informing Clara that you appeared light-hearted in regard to a departure, or gap in a visit, that was not, I must confess, to my liking.'
'Simply, my dear doctor, your pleasure was my pleasure; but make my pleasure yours, and you remain to crack many a bottle with your son-in-law.'
'Excellently said. You have a courtly speech, Willoughby. I can imagine you to conduct a lovers' quarrel with a politeness to read a lesson to well-bred damsels. Aha?'
'Spare me the futility of the quarrel.'
'All's well?'
'Clara,' replied Sir Willoughby, in dramatic epigram, 'is perfection.'
'I rejoice,' the Rev. Doctor responded; taught thus to understand that the lovers' quarrel between his daughter and his host was at an end.
He left the table a little after eleven o'clock. A short dialogue ensued upon the subject of the ladies. They must have gone to bed? Why, yes; of course they must. It is good that they should go to bed early to preserve their complexions for us. Ladies are creation's glory, but they are anti-climax, following a wine of a century old. They are anti-climax, recoil, cross-current; morally, they are repentance, penance; imagerially, the frozen North on the young brown buds bursting to green. What know they of a critic in the palate, and a frame all revelry! And mark you, revelry in sobriety, containment in exultation; classic revelry. Can they, dear though they be to us, light up candelabras in the brain, to illuminate all history and solve the secret of the destiny of man? They cannot; they cannot sympathize with them that can. So therefore this division is between us; yet are we not turbaned Orientals, nor are they inmates of the harem. We are not Moslem. Be assured of it in the contemplation of the table's decanter.
Dr Middleton said: 'Then I go straight to bed.'
'I will conduct you to your door, sir,' said his host.
The piano was heard. Dr. Middleton laid his hand on the banisters, and remarked: 'The ladies must have gone to bed?'
Vernon came out of the library and was hailed, 'Fellow-student!'
He waved a good-night to the Doctor, and said to Willoughby: 'The ladies are in the drawing-room.'
'I am on my way upstairs,' was the reply.
'Solitude and sleep, after such a wine as that; and forefend us human society!' the Doctor shouted. 'But, Willoughby!'
'Sir.'
'One to-morrow.'
'You dispose of the cellar, sir.'
