Surely there is nothing stranger in mortal experience. The man was confounded. At the game of Chess it is the dishonour of our adversary when we are stale-mated: but in life, combatting the world, such a winning of the game questions our sentiments.
Willoughby's interpretation of his discovery was directed by pity: he had no other strong emotion left in him. He pitied himself, and he reached the conclusion that he suffered because he was active; he could not be quiescent. Had it not been for his devotion to his house and name, never would he have stood twice the victim of womankind. Had he been selfish, he would have been the happiest of men! He said it aloud. He schemed benevolently for his unborn young, and for the persons about him: hence he was in a position forbidding a step under pain of injury to his feelings. He was generous: otherwise would he not in scorn of soul, at the outset, straight off have pitched Clara Middleton to the wanton winds? He was faithful in his affection: Lætitia Dale was beneath his roof to prove it. Both these women were examples of his power of forgiveness, and now a tender word to Clara might fasten shame on him — such was her gratitude! And if he did not marry Lætitia, laughter would be devilish all around him — such was the world's! Probably Vernon would not long be thankful for the chance which varied the monotony of his days. What of Horace? Willoughby stripped to enter the ring with Horace: he cast away disguise. That man had been the first to divide him in the all but equal slices of his egoistic from his amatory self: murder of his individuality was the crime of Horace De Craye. And further, suspicion fixed on Horace (he knew not how, except that The Book bids us be suspicious of those we hate) as the man who had betrayed his recent dealings with Lætitia.
Willoughby walked the thoroughfares of the house to meet Clara and make certain of her either for himself, or, if it must be, for Vernon, before he took another step with Lætitia Dale. Clara could reunite him, turn him once more into a whole and an animated man; and she might be willing. Her willingness to listen to Vernon promised it. "A gentleman with a tongue would have a chance", Mrs. Mountstuart had said. How much greater the chance of a lover! For he had not yet supplicated her: he had shown pride and temper. He could woo, he was a torrential wooer. And it would be glorious to swing round on Lady Busshe and the world, with Clara nestling under an arm, and protest astonishment at the erroneous and utterly unfounded anticipations of any other development. And it would righteously punish Lætitia.
Clara came downstairs, bearing her letter to Miss Darleton.
"Must it be posted?" Willoughby said, meeting her in the hall.
"They expect us any day, but it will be more comfortable for papa," was her answer. She looked kindly in her new shyness.
She did not seem to think he had treated her contemptuously in flinging her to his cousin, which was odd.
"You have seen Vernon?"
"It was your wish."
"You had a talk?"
"We conversed."
"A long one?"
"We walked some distance."
"Clara, I tried to make the best arrangement I could."
"Your intention was generous."
"He took no advantage of it?"
"It could not be treated seriously."
"It was meant seriously."
"There I see the generosity."
Willoughby thought this encomium, and her consent to speak on the subject, and her scarcely embarrassed air and richness of tone in speaking, very strange: and strange was her taking him quite in earnest. Apparently she had no feminine sensation of the unwontedness and the absurdity of the matter!
"But, Clara, am I to understand that he did not speak out?"
"We are excellent friends."
"To miss it, though his chance were the smallest!"
"You forget that it may not wear that appearance to him."
"He spoke not one word of himself?"
"No."
"Ah! the poor old fellow was taught to see it was hopeless — chilled. May I plead? Will you step into the laboratory for a minute? We are two sensible persons…"
"Pardon me, I must go to papa."
"Vernon's personal history, perhaps…"
"I think it honourable to him."
"Honourable! — 'hem!"
"By comparison."
"Comparison with what?"
"With others."
He drew up to relieve himself of a critical and condemnatory expiration of a certain length. This young lady knew too much. But how physically exquisite she was!
"Could you, Clara, could you promise me — I hold to it. I must have it, I know his shy tricks — promise me to give him ultimately another chance? Is the idea repulsive to you?"
"It is one not to be thought of."
"It is not repulsive?"
"Nothing could be repulsive in Mr. Whitford."
"I have no wish to annoy you, Clara."
"I feel bound to listen to you, Willoughby. Whatever I can do to please you, I will. It is my life-long duty."
"Could you, Clara, could you conceive it, could you simply conceive it — give him your hand?"
"As a friend. Oh, yes."
"In marriage."
She paused. She, so penetrative of him when he opposed her, was hoodwinked when he softened her feelings: for the heart, though the clearest, is not the most constant instructor of the head; the heart, unlike the often obtuser head, works for itself and not for the commonwealth.
"You are so kind… I would do much…" she said.
"Would you accept him — marry him? He is poor."
"I am not ambitious of wealth."
"Would you marry him?"
"Marriage is not in my thoughts."
"But could you marry him?"
Willoughby expected no. In his expectation of it he hung inflated.
She said these words: "I could engage to marry no one else." His amazement breathed without a syllable.
He flapped his arms, resembling for the moment those birds of enormous body which attempt a rise upon their wings and achieve a hop.
"Would you engage it?" he said, content to see himself stepped on as an insect if he could but feel the agony of his false friend Horace — their common pretensions to win her were now of that comparative size.
"Oh! there can be no necessity. And an oath — no!" said Clara, inwardly shivering at a recollection.
"But you could?"
"My wish is to please you."
"You could?"
"I said so."
It has been known to the patriotic mountaineer of a hoary pile of winters, with little life remaining in him, but that little on fire for his country, that by the brink of the precipice he has flung himself on a young and lusty invader, dedicating himself exultingly to death if only he may score a point for his country by extinguishing in his country's enemy the stronger man. So likewise did Willoughby, in the blow that deprived him of hope, exult in the toppling over of Horace De Craye. They perished together, but which one sublimely relished the headlong descent? And Vernon taken by Clara would be Vernon simply tolerated. And Clara taken by Vernon would be Clara previously touched, smirched. Altogether he could enjoy his fall.