The Egoist: A Comedy in Narrative. George Meredith

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      "Possibly. I was not conscious of paying them"

      "And a disposition to rebel?"

      "To challenge authority, at least."

      "That is a dreadful character."

      "At all events, it is a character."

      "Fit for an Alpine comrade?"

      "For the best of comrades anywhere."

      "It is not a piece of drawing-room sculpture: that is the most one can say for it!" she dropped a dramatic sigh.

      Had he been willing she would have continued the theme, for the pleasure a poor creature long gnawing her sensations finds in seeing herself from the outside. It fell away. After a silence, she could not renew it; and he was evidently indifferent, having to his own satisfaction dissected and stamped her a foreigner. With it passed her holiday. She had forgotten Sir Willoughby: she remembered him and said. "You knew Miss Durham, Mr. Whitford?"

      He answered briefly, "I did."

      "Was she? . . ." some hot-faced inquiry peered forth and withdrew.

      "Very handsome," said Vernon.

      "English?"

      "Yes; the dashing style of English."

      "Very courageous."

      "I dare say she had a kind of courage."

      "She did very wrong."

      "I won't say no. She discovered a man more of a match with herself; luckily not too late. We're at the mercy . . ."

      "Was she not unpardonable?"

      "I should be sorry to think that of any one."

      "But you agree that she did wrong."

      "I suppose I do. She made a mistake and she corrected it. If she had not, she would have made a greater mistake."

      "The manner. . ."

      "That was bad—as far as we know. The world has not much right to judge. A false start must now and then be made. It's better not to take notice of it, I think."

      "What is it we are at the mercy of?"

      "Currents of feeling, our natures. I am the last man to preach on the subject: young ladies are enigmas to me; I fancy they must have a natural perception of the husband suitable to them, and the reverse; and if they have a certain degree of courage, it follows that they please themselves."

      "They are not to reflect on the harm they do?" said Miss Middleton.

      "By all means let them reflect; they hurt nobody by doing that."

      "But a breach of faith!"

      "If the faith can be kept through life, all's well."

      "And then there is the cruelty, the injury!"

      "I really think that if a young lady came to me to inform me she must break our engagement—I have never been put to the proof, but to suppose it:—I should not think her cruel."

      "Then she would not be much of a loss."

      "And I should not think so for this reason, that it is impossible for a girl to come to such a resolution without previously showing signs of it to her . . . the man she is engaged to. I think it unfair to engage a girl for longer than a week or two, just time enough for her preparations and publications."

      "If he is always intent on himself, signs are likely to be unheeded by him," said Miss Middleton.

      He did not answer, and she said, quickly:

      "It must always be a cruelty. The world will think so. It is an act of inconstancy."

      "If they knew one another well before they were engaged."

      "Are you not singularly tolerant?" said she.

      To which Vernon replied with airy cordiality:—

      "In some cases it is right to judge by results; we'll leave severity to the historian, who is bound to be a professional moralist and put pleas of human nature out of the scales. The lady in question may have been to blame, but no hearts were broken, and here we have four happy instead of two miserable."

      His persecuting geniality of countenance appealed to her to confirm this judgement by results, and she nodded and said: "Four," as the awe-stricken speak.

      From that moment until young Crossjay fell into the green-rutted lane from a tree, and was got on his legs half stunned, with a hanging lip and a face like the inside of a flayed eel-skin, she might have been walking in the desert, and alone, for the pleasure she had in society.

      They led the fated lad home between them, singularly drawn together by their joint ministrations to him, in which her delicacy had to stand fire, and sweet good-nature made naught of any trial. They were hand in hand with the little fellow as physician and professional nurse.

      CHAPTER XIII

      THE FIRST EFFORT AFTER FREEDOM

      Crossjay's accident was only another proof, as Vernon told Miss Dale, that the boy was but half monkey.

      "Something fresh?" she exclaimed on seeing him brought into the Hall, where she had just arrived.

      "Simply a continuation," said Vernon. "He is not so prehensile as he should be. He probably in extremity relies on the tail that has been docked. Are you a man, Crossjay?"

      "I should think I was!" Crossjay replied, with an old man's voice, and a ghastly twitch for a smile overwhelmed the compassionate ladies.

      Miss Dale took possession of him. "You err in the other direction," she remarked to Vernon.

      "But a little bracing roughness is better than spoiling him." said Miss Middleton.

      She did not receive an answer, and she thought: "Whatever Willoughby does is right, to this lady!"

      Clara's impression was renewed when Sir Willoughby sat beside Miss Dale in the evening; and certainly she had never seen him shine so picturesquely as in his bearing with Miss Dale. The sprightly sallies of the two, their rallyings, their laughter, and her fine eyes, and his handsome gestures, won attention like a fencing match of a couple keen with the foils to display the mutual skill. And it was his design that she should admire the display; he was anything but obtuse; enjoying the match as he did and necessarily did to act so excellent a part in it, he meant the observer to see the man he was with a lady not of raw understanding. So it went on from day to day for three days.

      She fancied once that she detected the agreeable stirring of the brood of jealousy, and found it neither in her heart nor in her mind, but in the book of wishes, well known to the young where they write matter which may sometimes be independent of both those volcanic albums. Jealousy would have been a relief to her, a dear devil's aid. She studied the complexion of jealousy to delude herself with the sense of the spirit being in her, and all the while she laughed, as at a vile theatre whereof the imperfection of the stage machinery rather than the performance is the wretched source of amusement.

      Vernon СКАЧАТЬ