"At all seasons. You shall go with Miss Dale. But, my dear! my love! Seriously, where are we? One hears of lover's quarrels. Now I never quarrel. It is a characteristic of mine. And you speak of me to my cousin Vernon! Seriously, plighted faith signifies plighted faith, as much as an iron-cable is iron to hold by. Some little twist of the mind? To Vernon, of all men! Tush! she has been dreaming of a hero of perfection, and the comparison is unfavourable to her Willoughby. But, my Clara, when I say to you, that bride is bride, and you are mine, mine!"
"Willoughby, you mentioned them,--those separations of two married. You said, if they do not love . . . Oh! say, is it not better--instead of later?"
He took advantage of her modesty in speaking to exclaim. "Where are we now? Bride is bride, and wife is wife, and affianced is, in honour, wedded. You cannot be released. We are united. Recognize it; united. There is no possibility of releasing a wife!"
"Not if she ran ... ?"
This was too direct to be histrionically misunderstood. He had driven her to the extremity of more distinctly imagining the circumstance she had cited, and with that cleared view the desperate creature gloried in launching such a bolt at the man's real or assumed insensibility as must, by shivering it, waken him.
But in a moment she stood in burning rose, with dimmed eyesight.
She saw his horror, and, seeing, shared it; shared just then only by seeing it; which led her to rejoice with the deepest of sighs that some shame was left in her.
"Ran? ran? ran?" he said as rapidly as he blinked. "How? where? what idea ... ?"
Close was he upon an explosion that would have sullied his conception of the purity of the younger members of the *** hauntingly.
That she, a young lady, maiden, of strictest education, should, and without his teaching, know that wives ran!--know that by running they compelled their husbands to abandon pursuit, surrender possession!--and that she should suggest it of herself as a wife!--that she should speak of running!
His ideal, the common male Egoist ideal of a waxwork ***, would have been shocked to fragments had she spoken further to fill in the outlines of these awful interjections.
She was tempted: for during the last few minutes the fire of her situation had enlightened her understanding upon a subject far from her as the ice-fields of the North a short while before; and the prospect offered to her courage if she would only outstare shame and seem at home in the doings of wickedness, was his loathing and dreading so vile a young woman. She restrained herself; chiefly, after the first bridling of maidenly timidity, because she could not bear to lower the idea of her *** even in his esteem.
The door was open. She had thoughts of flying out to breathe in an interval of truce.
She reflected on her situation hurriedly askance:
"If one must go through this, to be disentangled from an engagement, what must it be to poor women seeking to be free of a marriage?"
Had she spoken it, Sir Willoughby might have learned that she was not so iniquitously wise of the things of this world as her mere ***'s instinct, roused to the intemperateness of a creature struggling with fetters, had made her appear in her dash to seize a weapon, indicated moreover by him.
Clara took up the old broken vow of women to vow it afresh: "Never to any man will I give my hand."
She replied to Sir Willoughby, "I have said all. I cannot explain what I have said."
She had heard a step in the passage. Vernon entered.
Perceiving them, he stated his mission in apology: "Doctor Middleton left a book in this room. I see it; it's a Heinsius."
"Ha! by the way, a book; books would not be left here if they were not brought here, with my compliments to Doctor Middleton, who may do as he pleases, though, seriously, order is order," said Sir Willoughby. "Come away to the laboratory, Clara. It's a comment on human beings that wherever they have been there's a mess, and you admirers of them," he divided a sickly nod between Vernon and the stale breakfast-table, "must make what you can of it. Come, Clara."
Clara protested that she was engaged to walk with Miss Dale.
"Miss Dale is waiting in the hall," said Vernon.
"Miss Dale is waiting?" said Clara.
"Walk with Miss Dale; walk with Miss Dale," Sir Willoughby remarked, pressingly. "I will beg her to wait another two minutes.
You shall find her in the hall when you come down."
He rang the bell and went out.
"Take Miss Dale into your confidence; she is quite trustworthy,"
Vernon said to Clara.
"I have not advanced one step," she replied.
"Recollect that you are in a position of your own choosing; and if, after thinking over it, you mean to escape, you must make up your mind to pitched battles, and not be dejected if you are beaten in all of them; there is your only chance."
"Not my choosing; do not say choosing, Mr. Whitford. I did not choose. I was incapable of really choosing. I consented."
"It's the same in fact. But be sure of what you wish."
"Yes," she assented, taking it for her just punishment that she should be supposed not quite to know her wishes. "Your advice has helped me to-day."
"Did I advise?"
"Do you regret advising?"
"I should certainly regret a word that intruded between you and him."
"But you will not leave the Hall yet? You will not leave me without a friend? If papa and I were to leave to-morrow, I foresee endless correspondence. I have to stay at least some days, and wear through it, and then, if I have to speak to my poor father, you can imagine the effect on him."
Sir Willoughby came striding in, to correct the error of his going out.
"Miss Dale awaits you, my dear. You have bonnet, hat?--No? Have you forgotten your appointment to walk with her?"
"I am ready," said Clara, departing.
The two gentlemen behind her separated in the passage. They had not spoken.
She had read of the reproach upon women, that they divide the friendships of men. She reproached herself but she was in action, driven by necessity, between sea and rock. Dreadful to think of! she was one of the creatures who are written about.
