CHAPTER XVII
THE next day Mrs. Campion and Cecilia were seated under the veranda. They were both ostensibly employed on two several pieces of embroidery, one intended for a screen, the other for a sofa-cushion; but the mind of neither was on her work.
MRS. CAMPION.—“Has Mr. Chillingly said when he means to take leave?”
CECILIA.—“Not to me. How much my dear father enjoys his conversation!”
MRS. CAMPION.—“Cynicism and mockery were not so much the fashion among young men in your father’s day as I suppose they are now, and therefore they seem new to Mr. Travers. To me they are not new, because I saw more of the old than the young when I lived in London, and cynicism and mockery are more natural to men who are leaving the world than to those who are entering it.”
CECILIA.—“Dear Mrs. Campion, how bitter you are, and how unjust! You take much too literally the jesting way in which Mr. Chillingly expresses himself. There can be no cynicism in one who goes out of his way to make others happy.”
MRS. CAMPION.—“You mean in the whim of making an ill-assorted marriage between a pretty village flirt and a sickly cripple, and settling a couple of peasants in a business for which they are wholly unfitted.”
CECILIA.—“Jessie Wiles is not a flirt, and I am convinced that she will make Will Somers a very good wife, and that the shop will be a great success.”
MRS. CAMPION.—“We shall see. Still, if Mr. Chillingly’s talk belies his actions, he may be a good man, but he is a very affected one.”
CECILIA.—“Have I not heard you say that there are persons so natural that they seem affected to those who do not understand them?”
Mrs. Campion raised her eyes to Cecilia’s face, dropped them again over her work, and said, in grave undertones,—“Take care, Cecilia.”
“Take care of what?”
“My dearest child, forgive me; but I do not like the warmth with which you defend Mr. Chillingly.”
“Would not my father defend him still more warmly if he had heard you?”
“Men judge of men in their relations to men. I am a woman, and judge of men in their relations to women. I should tremble for the happiness of any woman who joined her fate with that of Kenelm Chillingly.”
“My dear friend, I do not understand you to-day.”
“Nay; I did not mean to be so solemn, my love. After all, it is nothing to us whom Mr. Chillingly may or may not marry. He is but a passing visitor, and, once gone, the chances are that we may not see him again for years.”
Thus speaking, Mrs. Campion again raised her eyes from her work, stealing a sidelong glance at Cecilia; and her mother-like heart sank within her, on noticing how suddenly pale the girl had become, and how her lips quivered. Mrs. Campion had enough knowledge of life to feel aware that she had committed a grievous blunder. In that earliest stage of virgin affection, when a girl is unconscious of more than a certain vague interest in one man which distinguishes him from others in her thoughts,—if she hears him unjustly disparaged, if some warning against him is implied, if the probability that he will never be more to her than a passing acquaintance is forcibly obtruded on her,—suddenly that vague interest, which might otherwise have faded away with many another girlish fancy, becomes arrested, consolidated; the quick pang it occasions makes her involuntarily, and for the first time, question herself, and ask, “Do I love?” But when a girl of a nature so delicate as that of Cecilia Travers can ask herself the question, “Do I love?” her very modesty, her very shrinking from acknowledging that any power over her thoughts for weal or for woe can be acquired by a man, except through the sanction of that love which only becomes divine in her eyes when it is earnest and pure and self-devoted, makes her prematurely disposed to answer “yes.” And when a girl of such a nature in her own heart answers “yes” to such a question, even if she deceive herself at the moment, she begins to cherish the deceit till the belief in her love becomes a reality. She has adopted a religion, false or true, and she would despise herself if she could be easily converted.
Mrs. Campion had so contrived that she had forced that question upon Cecilia, and she feared, by the girl’s change of countenance, that the girl’s heart had answered “yes.”
CHAPTER XVIII
WHILE the conversation just narrated took place, Kenelm had walked forth to pay a visit to Will Somers. All obstacles to Will’s marriage were now cleared away; the transfer of lease for the shop had been signed, and the banns were to be published for the first time on the following Sunday. We need not say that Will was very happy. Kenelm then paid a visit to Mrs. Bowles, with whom he stayed an hour. On reentering the Park, he saw Travers, walking slowly, with downcast eyes and his hands clasped behind him (his habit when in thought). He did not observe Kenelm’s approach till within a few feet of him, and he then greeted his guest in listless accents, unlike his usual cheerful tones.
“I have been visiting the man you have made so happy,” said Kenelm.
“Who can that be?”
“Will Somers. Do you make so many people happy that your reminiscence of them is lost in their number?”
Travers smiled faintly, and shook his head.
Kenelm went on. “I have also seen Mrs. Bowles, and you will be pleased to hear that Tom is satisfied with his change of abode: there is no chance of his returning to Graveleigh; and Mrs. Bowles took very kindly to my suggestion that the little property you wish for should be sold to you, and, in that case, she would remove to Luscombe to be near her son.”
“I thank you much for your thought of me,” said Travers, “and the affair shall be seen to at once, though the purchase is no longer important to me. I ought to have told you three days ago, but it slipped my memory, that a neighbouring squire, a young fellow just come into his property, has offered to exchange a capital farm, much nearer to my residence, for the lands I hold in Graveleigh, including Saunderson’s farm and the cottages: they are quite at the outskirts of my estate, but run into his, and the exchange will be advantageous to both. Still I am glad that the neighbourhood should be thoroughly rid of a brute like Tom Bowles.”
“You would not call him brute if you knew him; but I am sorry to hear that Will Somers will be under another landlord.”
“It does not matter, since his tenure is secured for fourteen years.”
“What sort of man is the new landlord?”
“I don’t know much of him. He was in the army till his father died, and has only just made his appearance in the county. He has, however, already earned the character of being too fond of the other sex: it is well that pretty Jessie is to be safely married.”
Travers then relapsed into a moody silence from which Kenelm found it difficult to rouse him. At length the latter said kindly,—
“My dear Mr. Travers, do not think I take a liberty if I venture to guess that something has happened this morning which troubles or vexes you. When that is the case, it is often a relief to say what it is, even to a confidant so unable to advise or to comfort as myself.”
“You are a good fellow, Chillingly, and I know not, at least in these parts, a man to whom I would unburden myself more freely. I am put out, I confess; disappointed unreasonably, in a cherished wish, and,” he added, with a slight laugh, “it always annoys me when I don’t have my own way.”
“So it does me.”
“Don’t you think that George Belvoir is a very fine young man?”
“Certainly.”
“
I
call him handsome; he is steadier, too, than most men of his age, and of his command of money; and yet he does not want spirit nor knowledge of life. To every advantage of rank and fortune he adds the industry and the ambition which attain distinction in public life.”
“Quite true. Is he going to withdraw from the election after all?”
“Good heavens, no!”
“Then how does he not let you have your own way?”
“It is not he,” said Travers, peevishly; “it is Cecilia. Don’t you understand that George is precisely the husband I would choose for her; and this morning came a very well written manly letter from him, asking my permission to pay his addresses to her.”
“But that is your own way so far.”
“Yes, and here comes the balk. Of course I had to refer it to Cecilia, and she positively declines, and has no reasons to give; does not deny that George is good-looking and sensible, that he is a man of whose preference any girl might be proud; but she chooses to say she cannot love him, and when I ask why she cannot love him, has no other answer than that ‘she cannot say.’ It is too provoking.”
“It is provoking,” answered Kenelm; “but then Love is the most dunderheaded of all the passions; it never will listen to reason. The very rudiments of logic are unknown to it. ‘Love has no wherefore,’ says one of those Latin poets who wrote love-verses called elegies,—a name which we moderns appropriate to funeral dirges. For my own part, I can’t understand how any one can be expected voluntarily to make up his mind to go out of his mind. And if Miss Travers cannot go out of her mind because George Belvoir does, you could not argue her into doing so if you talked till doomsday.”
Travers smiled in spite of himself, but he answered gravely, “Certainly, I would not wish Cissy to marry any man she disliked, but she does not dislike George; no girl could: and where that is the case, a girl so sensible, so affectionate, so well brought up, is sure to love, after marriage, a thoroughly kind and estimable man, especially when she has no previous attachment,—which, of course, Cissy never had. In fact, though I do not wish to force my daughter’s will, I am not yet disposed to give up my own. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“I am the more inclined to a marriage so desirable in every way, because when Cissy comes out in London, which she has not yet done, she is sure to collect round her face and her presumptive inheritance all the handsome fortune-hunters and titled
vauriens
; and if in love there is no wherefore, how can I be sure that she may not fall in love with a scamp?”
“I think you may be sure of that,” said Kenelm. “Miss Travers has too much mind.”
“Yes, at present; but did you not say that in love people go out of their mind?”
“True! I forgot that.”
“I am not then disposed to dismiss poor George’s offer with a decided negative, and yet it would be unfair to mislead him by encouragement. In fact, I’ll be hanged if I know how to reply.”
“You think Miss Travers does not dislike George Belvoir, and if she saw more of him may like him better, and it would be good for her as well as for him not to put an end to that, chance?”
“Exactly so.”
“Why not then write: ‘My dear George,—You have my best wishes, but my daughter does not seem disposed to marry at present. Let me consider your letter not written, and continue on the same terms as we were before.’ Perhaps, as George knows Virgil, you might find your own schoolboy recollections of that poet useful here, and add,
Varium et mutabile semper femina
; hackneyed, but true.”
“My dear Chillingly, your suggestion is capital. How the deuce at your age have you contrived to know the world so well?”
Kenelm answered in the pathetic tones so natural to his voice, “By being only a looker-on; alas!”
Leopold Travers felt much relieved after he had written his reply to George. He had not been quite so ingenuous in his revelation to Chillingly as he may have seemed. Conscious, like all proud and fond fathers, of his daughter’s attractions, he was not without some apprehension that Kenelm himself might entertain an ambition at variance with that of George Belvoir: if so, he deemed it well to put an end to such ambition while yet in time: partly because his interest was already pledged to George; partly because, in rank and fortune, George was the better match; partly because George was of the same political party as himself,—while Sir Peter, and probably Sir Peter’s heir, espoused the opposite side; and partly also because, with all his personal liking to Kenelm, Leopold Travers, as a very sensible, practical man of the world, was not sure that a baronet’s heir who tramped the country on foot in the dress of a petty farmer, and indulged pugilistic propensities in martial encounters with stalwart farriers, was likely to make a safe husband and a comfortable son-in-law. Kenelm’s words, and still more his manner, convinced Travers that any apprehensions of rivalry that he had previously conceived were utterly groundless.
CHAPTER XIX
THE same evening, after dinner (during that lovely summer month they dined at Neesdale Park at an unfashionably early hour), Kenelm, in company with Travers and Cecilia, ascended a gentle eminence at the back of the gardens, on which there were some picturesque ivy-grown ruins of an ancient priory, and commanding the best view of a glorious sunset and a subject landscape of vale and wood, rivulet and distant hills.
“Is the delight in scenery,” said Kenelm, “really an acquired gift, as some philosophers tell us? Is it true that young children and rude savages do not feel it; that the eye must be educated to comprehend its charm, and that the eye can be only educated through the mind?”
“I should think your philosophers are right,” said Travers. “When I was a schoolboy, I thought no scenery was like the flat of a cricket ground; when I hunted at Melton, I thought that unpicturesque country more beautiful than Devonshire. It is only of late years that I feel a sensible pleasure in scenery for its own sake, apart from associations of custom or the uses to which we apply them.”
“And what say you, Miss Travers?”
“I scarcely know what to say,” answered Cecilia, musingly. “I can remember no time in my childhood when I did not feel delight in that which seemed to me beautiful in scenery, but I suspect that I vaguely distinguished one kind of beauty from another. A common field with daisies and buttercups was beautiful to me then, and I doubt if I saw anything more beautiful in extensive landscapes.”
“True,” said Kenelm: “it is not in early childhood that we carry the sight into distance: as is the mind so is the eye; in early childhood the mind revels in the present, and the eye rejoices most in the things nearest to it. I don’t think in childhood that we—
“‘Watched with wistful eyes the setting sun.’”
“Ah! what a world of thought in that word ‘wistful’!” murmured Cecilia, as her gaze riveted itself on the western heavens, towards which Kenelm had pointed as he spoke, where the enlarging orb rested half its disk on the rim of the horizon.
She had seated herself on a fragment of the ruin, backed by the hollows of a broken arch. The last rays of the sun lingered on her young face, and then lost themselves in the gloom of the arch behind. There was a silence for some minutes, during which the sun had sunk. Rosy clouds in thin flakes still floated, momently waning: and the eve-star stole forth steadfast, bright, and lonely,—nay, lonely not now; that sentinel has aroused a host.
Said a voice, “No sign of rain yet, Squire. What will become of the turnips?”
“Real life again! Who can escape it?” muttered Kenelm, as his eye rested on the burly figure of the Squire’s bailiff.
“Ha! North,” said Travers, “what brings you here? No bad news, I hope?”
“Indeed, yes, Squire. The Durham bull—”
“The Durham bull! What of him? You frighten me.”
“Taken bad. Colic.”
“Excuse me, Chillingly,” cried Travers; “I must be off. A most valuable animal, and no one I can trust to doctor him but myself.”
“That’s true enough,” said the bailiff, admiringly. “There’s not a veterinary in the county like the Squire.”
Travers was already gone, and the panting bailiff had hard work to catch him up.
Kenelm seated himself beside Cecilia on the ruined fragment.
“How I envy your father!” said he.
“Why just at this moment,—because he knows how to doctor the bull?” said Cecilia, with a sweet low laugh.
“Well, that is something to envy. It is a pleasure to relieve from pain any of God’s creatures,—even a Durham bull.”
“Indeed, yes. I am justly rebuked.”
“On the contrary you are to be justly praised. Your question suggested to me an amiable sentiment in place of the selfish one which was uppermost in my thoughts. I envied your father because he creates for himself so many objects of interest; because while he can appreciate the mere sensuous enjoyment of a landscape and a sunset, he can find mental excitement in turnip crops and bulls. Happy, Miss Travers, is the Practical Man.”
“When my dear father was as young as you, Mr. Chillingly, I am sure that he had no more interest in turnips and bulls than you have. I do not doubt that some day you will be as practical as he is in that respect.”
“Do you think so—sincerely?”
Cecilia made no answer.
Kenelm repeated the question.
“Sincerely, then, I do not know whether you will take interest in precisely the same things that interest my father; but there are other things than turnips and cattle which belong to what you call ‘practical life,’ and in these you will take interest, as you took in the fortunes of Will Somers and Jessie Wiles.”
“That was no practical interest. I got nothing by it. But even if that interest were practical,—I mean productive, as cattle and turnip crops are,—a succession of Somerses and Wileses is not to be hoped for. History never repeats itself.”
“May I answer you, though very humbly?”
“Miss Travers, the wisest man that ever existed never was wise enough to know woman; but I think most men ordinarily wise will agree in this, that woman is by no means a humble creature, and that when she says she ‘answers very humbly,’ she does not mean what she says. Permit me to entreat you to answer very loftily.”
Cecilia laughed and blushed. The laugh was musical; the blush was—what? Let any man, seated beside a girl like Cecilia at starry twilight, find the right epithet for that blush. I pass it by epithetless. But she answered, firmly though sweetly,—
“Are there not things very practical, and affecting the happiness, not of one or two individuals, but of innumerable thousands, in which a man like Mr. Chillingly cannot fail to feel interest, long before he is my father’s age?”
“Forgive me: you do not answer; you question. I imitate you, and ask what are those things as applicable to a man like Mr. Chillingly?”
Cecilia gathered herself up, as with the desire to express a great deal in short substance, and then said,—
“In the expression of thought, literature; in the conduct of action, politics.”
Kenelm Chillingly stared, dumfounded. I suppose the greatest enthusiast for woman’s rights could not assert more reverentially than he did the cleverness of women; but among the things which the cleverness of woman did not achieve, he had always placed “laconics.” “No woman,” he was wont to say, “ever invented an axiom or a proverb.”
“Miss Travers,” he said at last, “before we proceed further, vouchsafe to tell me if that very terse reply of yours is spontaneous and original; or whether you have not borrowed it from some book which I have not chanced to read?”
Cecilia pondered honestly, and then said, “I don’t think it is from any book; but I owe so many of my thoughts to Mrs. Campion, and she lived so much among clever men, that—”
“I see it all, and accept your definition, no matter whence it came. You think I might become an author or a politician. Did you ever read an essay by a living author called ‘Motive Power’?”
“No.”
“That essay is designed to intimate that without motive power a man, whatever his talents or his culture, does nothing practical. The mainsprings of motive power are Want and Ambition. They are absent from my mechanism. By the accident of birth I do not require bread and cheese; by the accident of temperament and of philosophical culture I care nothing about praise or blame. But without want of bread and cheese, and with a most stolid indifference to praise and blame, do you honestly think that a man will do anything practical in literature or politics? Ask Mrs. Campion.”
“I will not ask her. Is the sense of duty nothing?”
“Alas! we interpret duty so variously. Of mere duty, as we commonly understand the word, I do not think I shall fail more than other men. But for the fair development of all the good that is in us, do you believe that we should adopt some line of conduct against which our whole heart rebels? Can you say to the clerk, ‘Be a poet’? Can you say to the poet, ‘Be a clerk’? It is no more to the happiness of a man’s being to order him to take to one career when his whole heart is set on another, than it is to order him to marry one woman when it is to another woman that his heart will turn.”
Cecilia here winced and looked away. Kenelm had more tact than most men of his age,—that is, a keener perception of subjects to avoid; but then Kenelm had a wretched habit of forgetting the person he talked to and talking to himself. Utterly oblivious of George Belvoir, he was talking to himself now. Not then observing the effect his
mal-a-propos
dogma had produced on his listener, he went on, “Happiness is a word very lightly used. It may mean little; it may mean much. By the word happiness I would signify, not the momentary joy of a child who gets a plaything, but the lasting harmony between our inclinations and our objects; and without that harmony we are a discord to ourselves, we are incompletions, we are failures. Yet there are plenty of advisers who say to us, ‘It is a duty to be a discord.’ I deny it.”
Here Cecilia rose and said in a low voice, “It is getting late. We must go homeward.”
They descended the green eminence slowly, and at first in silence. The bats, emerging