CECIL EXHIBITS HIMSELF.
The three letters, just given, will save me a great deal of
explanation and description and, as the horses are at the door, we
have no time to waste.
Mrs. Langley Turner, Sir Harry Johnstone, young Lufton, Cecil, and
Violet are preparing to ride out, and afterwards to lunch at the
Grange.
Cecil rode remarkably well, and was proud of it; besides, he looked
handsomer on horseback, as then his head and bust were seen to full
advantage, of which he was also aware; and Violet, who had of late
been accustomed to follow the hounds, and spend the greater part of
every day on horseback, looked upon him with fresh admiration, as she
marked the graceful mastery of his bearing. With a more than womanly
contempt for effeminate men, she had at first imagined Cecil one,
from the delicacy and dapperness she noticed in him. But finding
that he was an excellent shot with the rifle, that he even excelled
her with pistols, that he fenced well, and rode boldly, she gave him
her esteem,--and was nearly giving him her heart; but that was not
gone as yet. She was charmed with Cecil's manner--she admired him,
and saw his admiration for her; but she loved him not as yet, however
fast she might be galloping on the road to it.
Off they started, Shot barking and leaping up at the nose of his
playfellow, Violet's bay mare, Jessy, while a sedater hound trotted
slowly behind. Mrs. Langley Turner, Sir Harry, and Lufton rode
abreast, discussing the proposition which had just been started, of
getting up private theatricals at the hall. Violet and Cecil
followed, talking of favourite books and favourite composers,
comparing sentiments, and looking into each other's handsome faces,
suffused with the bright flush of excitement.
"Here we are at the Grange," said Violet, as they cantered within
sight of the lodge gates.
"Alas, yes!" replied Cecil.
He sighed at the thought of his delicious _tête-à-tête_ being broken
up; and, though he consoled himself with the idea that, since he was
to remain at the hall, many other opportunities must occur, yet he
knew by experience that there is no such thing as the repetition of a
scene in which emotion plays the principal part. You cannot command
such things. They spring out of the moment. They are dependent upon
a thousand circumstances, over which you have no control. The mood
of mind, the state of the atmosphere, the accident of association,
all concur in investing some ordinary occasion with a magic charm,
which may never be felt again. "I was a fool not to have declared
myself. She would certainly have accepted me," he said to himself,
as he dismounted, and passed into the drawing-room, where he found
Mrs. St. John, Julius, the clergyman's wife, and Marmaduke Ashley,
who had just come down on a visit at the Grange. Maxwell, with Mr.
and Mrs. Meredith Vyner arrived shortly afterwards, and the whole
party sat down to a merry luncheon.
"I'm delighted to learn that you are going to prolong your stay down
here, Mr. Chamberlayne," said Julius St. John; "and hope you will not
confine your shooting to Wyton. The Grange, they tell me, is famous
for its game."
"You are very kind," replied Cecil; "but I shall scarcely avail
myself of your offer. I am no sportsman."
Violet, turning suddenly round upon him, with a look of incredulity,
said,--
"No sportsman?--and such an excellent shot!"
"Don't confess it before her," said Vyner, laughing; "or you will be
lost in her estimation. She is a true descendant of Diana; and, like
her mythic ancestress,--
Sævis inimica Virgo
Belluis...."
"I'm grieved, indeed!" replied Cecil; "but treat me as a cockney;
shower contempt upon me for the confession; but, the truth is, I
never found much pleasure in any sport, except hunting; and the
little pleasure I used to find in shooting was destroyed five years
ago."
"How was that?"
"The anecdote is almost childish, but I am not such a child as to be
ashamed of relating it. I was one day rambling over the wood at
Rushfield Park, with my rifle in my hand tired of shooting at a mark.
There started a hare at a tempting distance from me, I fired. A
slight appearance of ruffled fur alone told me that he was hit. He
ran leisurely away, and described a circle round me, till approaching
within a few paces he lay meekly down, and died. I know not
wherefore, but the death of this hare was indescribably touching to
me. It was not the mere death: I had killed hundreds before, and
often had to despatch by a blow those only wounded. But this one had
died so meekly, without a cry, without a struggle, and had come to
die so piteously at the feet of him who had shot it, that I took a
sudden disgust to the sport, and have never fired a gun since at
either hare or partridge."
There was a slight pause. The emotion of the speaker communicated
itself to the audience, and Mrs. Meredith Vyner, with tears in her
eyes, declared, that for her part she so well understood what his
feelings must have been, that she must have hated him (hated was said
with the prettiest accent in the world), if he had not relinquished
shooting on the spot.
Violet would have said the same, but her mother having volunteered
the observation, closed her mouth. She really felt what her mother
only spoke; but the intuitive knowledge of her mother's
insincerity--the thorough appreciation of the tear which so
sentimentally sparkled on that mother's eyelid--made her dread lest
any expression of her own sentiments should be confounded with such
affectation, and she was silent.
Cecil was hurt at her silence. The more so as she did not even look
at him, but kept her eyes fixed upon her plate.
Meredith Vyner, who had been vainly beating his brains for a pat
quotation, now gave up the attempt and said,--
"But then, my dear, _you_ have so much sensibility! Why, I vow if
the story hasn't brought tears into her eyes--
Humor et in genas
Furtim labitur.
Certainly, there never was a more tender-hearted creature--nor one
shrinking so much from the infliction of even the smallest pain."
Vyner, as he finished his sentence, turned aside his head to fill his
nose with a pinch of snuff adequate to the occasion--as if it was
only in some vociferous demonstration of the kind that he could
supply eloquence capable of properly setting forth his wife's
sensibility.
At the mention of her tender-heartedness, both Marmaduke and Violet,
involuntarily looked at her, and as they withdrew their eyes, their
gaze met. No words can translate the language which passed in that
gaze: it was but a second in duration, and yet in that second each
soul was laid bare to the eyes of each. The ironical smile which had
stolen over their eyes changed, like the glancing hues on a dove's
neck, from irony to surprise, from surprise to mutual assent, from
assent to superb contempt. Marmaduke and Violet had never met
before, yet in that one glance each said to the other, "So, you know
this woman! You appreciate her sincerity! You know what a cruel
hypocrite she is!"
Mrs. Wyner did not observe that look. She had felt Marmaduke's eyes
were upon her, and affecting not to know it, threw an extra
expression of sensibility into her face.
When Cecil fairly caught a sight of Violet's face, he saw on it the
last faint traces of that contempt which she had expressed for her
mother, but which he attributed to her unfeminine delight in
field-sports, and her contempt for his sensibility.
He was glad when luncheon was concluded, and the party rose to ramble
about the grounds. As they were walking through the garden, he
managed to bring up the subject, and frankly asked her if she did not
feel something like disdain at his chicken-heartedness.
"Disdain!" she exclaimed, "how could you imagine it? Knowing you to
be so little effeminate that it could not spring but from a kind and
affectionate nature, I assure you I look upon it as the very best
feather you have stuck in your cap--at least in my presence. I have
only contempt for the _affectation_ of sensibility."
"It was what your father said----"
"My poor father understands me about as little as he understands
mama. Less he could not. Fond as I am of hunting and everything
like exercise in the open air, I have seen too much of the mere
Nimrods not to value them at their just ratio. Good in the field:
detestable everywhere else."
"I'm delighted to hear you say it."
"I must confess to prizing _manliness_ so high, that I prefer even
brutality to cowardice. There is nothing to me so contemptible in a
man or woman as moral weakness, and therefore I prefer even the
outrages of strength to the questionable virtues of a weak, yielding,
coddling mind."
"What do you mean by the questionable virtues of such a mind?" he
asked.
"They are questionable, because not stable: the ground from which
they spring being treacherous. A man who is weak will yield to good
arguments; but he will also yield to bad arguments; and he will,
moreover, yield against his conviction. A man who is timid will be
cruel out of his very timidity, for there is nothing so cruel as
cowardice."
By this time they had left the garden, and joined the others, who had
disposed themselves in groups, which permitted their _tête-à-tête_ to
continue. Meredith Vyner, Mrs. St. John, and the clergyman's wife
were in advance. Mrs. Langley Turner and young Lufton followed,
conning over London acquaintance and London gossip. Marmaduke, Sir
Harry, and Mrs. Vyner were very lively, talking on an infinite
variety of topics--Mrs. Vyner making herself excessively engaging to
Marmaduke, whom she had not seen since that Sunday night when his
last words had been so contemptuous, his look so strange and
voluptuous. She did not doubt that the great motive of his visit at
the Grange was to put his threat of vengeance in execution; and
determined either to soften him, or to learn his plans, the better to
combat them.
George Maxwell walked behind them, scowling.
Julius remained in doors; so Violet and Cecil had only to lag a
little behind, to enjoy a perfect _tête-à-tête_. Shot walked gravely
at their heels.
The ramble about the grounds lasted all the afternoon. There only
occurred one incident worth relating, as bearing upon the fortunes of
two of the actors.
Cecil and Violet, in stopping to pick many flowers, had been left so
far behind the others, that they determined to take a shorter cut to
the house through a meadow lying alongside of the shrubbery. They
had not gone many steps across the meadow before a bull seemed to
resent their intrusion. He began tearing up the ground, and tossing
about his head in anger.
"I don't like the look of that animal," said Cecil. "Let us return."
She only laughed, and said:--
"Return! No, no. He won't interfere with us. Besides, when you
live in the country you must take your choice, either never to enter
a field where there are cattle, or never to turn aside from your
path, should the field be full of bulls. I made my choice long ago."
This was said with a sort of mock heroic air, which quite set Cecil's
misgivings aside. He thought she must certainly be perfectly aware
the bull was harmless, or she would not have spoken in that tone; and
above all, would not have so completely disregarded what seemed to
him rather formidable demonstrations on the part of the animal. They
continued, therefore, to walk leisurely along the meadow, the bull
bellowing at them, and following at a little distance. He was
evidently lashing himself into the stupid rage peculiar to his kind,
and Shot showed considerable alarm.
"For God's sake, Miss Vyner! let us away from this," said Cecil,
agitated.
"He doesn't like Shot's appearance here," she calmly replied, as the
dog slunk through the iron hurdles which fenced off the shrubbery.
She turned round to watch the bull, and her heart beat as she saw him
close his dull fierce eye--the certain sign that he was about to make
a rush.
Cecil saw it too, and placing his hand upon the iron hurdle, vaulted
on the other side, obeying the rapid suggestion of danger as quickly
as it was suggested.
No sooner was his own safety accomplished, than almost in the same
instant that his feet touched the ground, the defenceless position of
Violet rushed horribly across his mind.
"Good God!" he said to himself; "what have I done? How can I ever
explain this?"
He vaulted back again to rush to her succour; but he was too late.
His hesitation had not lasted two seconds, but they were two
irrevocable seconds; during which Violet, partly out of bravado and
contempt for the cowardice of her lover, and partly out of that
virile energy and promptitude which on all occasions made her front
the danger and subdue it, sprang forwards at the animal about to
rush, and with her riding-whip cut him sharply twice across the nose.
Startled by this attack, and stinging with acute pain--the nose being
his most sensitive part--the brute ran off bellowing, tail in air.
He had already relinquished the fight when Cecil came up. The
coincidence was cruel. He felt it so. Violet, pale and trembling,
passed her hand across her brow, but turning from Cecil, called to
her dog.
"Shot! Shot! come here, you foolish fellow. He won't hurt you."
This speech was crushing. Cecil felt that he had slunk away from
danger like the dog, and that Violet's words were levelled at him.
Never was man placed in a more humiliating position. To have left a
young girl to shift for herself on such an occasion, and to see her
vanquish the enemy in his presence; to appear before a brave girl as
a despicable coward, and to feel that he could not by any means
explain his action, except to make himself more odious; for if he
were not himself too terrified to face the danger, what utter
selfishness would it appear for him to have so secured his own safety!
Cecil felt the difficulty of his position, and that chained his
tongue. Violet, who was suffering morally as well as physically, was
also unable to speak. The shock given to her frame by the recent
peril was in itself considerable; and she trembled now it was past,
almost as much as another would have trembled at the moment. But,
perhaps, the moral shock was as great. She had begun to consider
Cecil in the light of a lover, and was almost in love with him
herself. What she had just witnessed turned all her feelings against
him. Deep and bitter scorn uprooted all her previous regard, and she
was angry with herself for having ever thought of him kindly.
They joined the rest of the party, without uttering a word. "My dear
Violet," exclaimed Mrs. Vyner, "how pale you look! Has anything
happened? Are you ill?"
Cecil's temples throbbed fearfully. He expected to hear himself
exposed before them all, and was trying to muster courage to endure
either their scorn, or Violet's sarcastic irony in her description.
She only said,--
"Oh, nothing; only a little fright. There was a bull in the meadow
who took offence at Shot, and began to threaten us. It is very
foolish to be so agitated; but I can't help it."
"Very natural, too, my dear," said Mrs. St. John. "Come and let me
give you a glass of wine: that will restore you."
"No, thank you," she replied; "it's not worth making a fuss about.
It will go off in a minute or two. Well, Mrs. Langley Turner, have
you settled anything about the theatricals?"
"Settled nothing, my dear, but projected an immense deal. Let us lay
our heads together a little."
Mrs. Langley Turner twined her arm round Violet's waist, and moved
away with her.
Cecil was intent upon the structure of a dahlia.
Nothing more was said on the subject of the fright; and amidst his
poignant sense of shame, there was a feeling of grateful reverence to
Violet for having spared him. He knew her well enough to be certain
that, as she had not revealed his conduct then, she would not whisper
it in private. He knew her capable of crushing him in her scorn by
some epigram, such as she had uttered in the meadow, but incapable of
a spiteful innuendo, or sarcastic narration, in private.
Nevertheless, _she_ knew it. How could he again face her? How could
he dwell under the same roof with her? He would not. He would set
off on the morrow. He would invent some pretext; anything, so that
he had not to encounter the scorn of those haughty features.
The ride home was a painful contrast to the setting out; at least for
the two lovers. The rest were as gay and chatty as before; the
horses pranced, and shook their heads; Shot leaped up at Jessy's
nose, and the sedater hound trotted calmly behind. The ring of
laughter, the clatter of hoofs, and the barking of Shot, only made
Cecil more conscious of the change. He rode on in sullen silence.
Violet had taken her mother's place in the carriage, not feeling
quite recovered: her mother mounted Jessy.
It would fill a volume to tell all that passed in the minds of Violet
and Cecil during that ride. Her thoughts were all thoughts of
unutterable scorn; his thoughts were of overwhelming humiliation.
There was an oppressive, moody, suffocating sense of remorse and rage
weighing down his spirits. He cursed himself for that unreflecting
action as deeply, perhaps more deeply, than if he had murdered a man.
In his impotent rage, he asked himself how it was that he had so
utterly forgotten her to think solely of himself; and cursed his ill
fortune that had placed the fence so close to him. Had it been only
half a dozen paces removed, he should have thought of her before
reaching it, and then he could have been spared this galling shame.
Violet tried to find excuses for him, but could not. As he rode
past, rapt in gloomy thought, crest-fallen, shame-stricken, she
wondered that she had ever thought him handsome. The scales had
fallen from her eyes.
Who has not experienced some such revulsion of feeling? Who has not
looked with astonishment upon some delusion, and asked himself, "Was
it, then, really so? Was this the person I believed so great and
good?" Alas! no; not _this_, but another. It was your ideal that
you loved, and mistook for the reality. Seen in the bright colours
of your fancy, that man appeared admirable whom now you see to be
contemptible.
The other day I took up a common pebble from the shore; washed by the
advancing waves, and glittering in the summer sun, it looked like a
gem. I carried it home; arrived there, I took it from my pocket: the
pebble was dry, its splendour had vanished, and I held it for what it
was--a pebble.
Such is life, with and without its illusions.