Chapter 39

been blind to it?—scarcely blind, she remembered, but sensitively blinking her eyelids to distract her sight in contemplating it, and to preserve her repose. As to Beauchamp’s demand of the apology, Mr. Austin considered that it might be an instance of his want of knowledge of men, yet could not be called silly, and to call it insane was the rhetoric of an adversary.

“I do call it insane,” said the colonel.

He separated himself from his daughter by a sharp division.

Had Beauchamp appeared at Mount Laurels, Cecilia would have been ready to support and encourage him, boldly. Backed by Mr. Austin, she saw some good in Dr. Shrapnel’s writing, much in Beauchamp’s devotedness. He shone clear to her reason, at last: partly because her father in his opposition to him did not, but was on the contrary unreasonable, cased in mail, mentally clouded. She sat with Mr. Austin and her father, trying repeatedly, in obedience to Beauchamp’s commands, to bring the latter to a just contemplation of the unhappy case; behaviour on her part which rendered the colonel inveterate.

Beauchamp at this moment was occupied in doing secretary’s work for Dr. Shrapnel. So Cecilia learnt from Mr. Lydiard, who came to pay his respects to Mrs. Wardour-Devereux at Mount Laurels. The pursuit of the apology was continued in letters to his uncle and occasional interviews with him, which were by no means instigated by the doctor, Mr. Lydiard informed the ladies. He described Beauchamp as acting in the spirit of a man who has sworn an oath to abandon every pleasure in life, that he may, as far as it lies in his power, indemnify his friend for the wrong done to him.

“Such men are too terrible for me,” said Mrs. Devereux.

Cecilia thought the reverse: Not for me! But she felt a strain upon her nature, and she was miserable in her alienation from her father. Kissing him one night, she laid her head on his breast, and begged his forgiveness. He embraced her tenderly. “Wait, only wait; you will see I am right,” he said, and prudently said no more, and did not ask her to speak.

She was glad that she had sought the reconciliation from her heart’s natural warmth, on hearing some time later that M. de Croisnel was dead, and that Beauchamp meditated starting for France to console his Renée. Her continual agitations made her doubtful of her human feelings: she clung to that instance of her filial stedfastness.

The day before Cecilia and her father left Mount Laurels for their season in Wales, Mr. Tuckham and Beauchamp came together to the house, and were closeted an hour with her father. Cecilia sat in the drawing-room, thinking that she did indeed wait, and had great patience. Beauchamp entered the room alone. He looked worn and thin, of a leaden colour, like the cloud that bears the bolt. News had reached him of the death of Lord Avonley in the hunting-field, and he was going on to Steynham to persuade his uncle to accompany him to Bevisham and wash the guilt of his wrong-doing off him before applying for the title. “You would advise me not to go?” he said. “I must. I should be dishonoured myself if I let a chance pass. I run the risk of being a beggar: I’m all but one now.”

Cecilia faltered: “Do you see a chance?”

“Hardly more than an excuse for trying it,” he replied.

She gave him back Dr. Shrapnel’s letters. “I have read them,” was all she said. For he might have just returned from France, with the breath of Renée about him, and her pride would not suffer her to melt him in rivalry by saying what she had been led to think of the letters.

Hearing nothing from her, he silently put them in his pocket. The struggle with his uncle seemed to be souring him or deadening him.

They were not alone for long. Mr. Tuckham presented himself to take his leave of her. Old Mrs. Beauchamp was dying, and he had only come to Mount Laurels on special business. Beauchamp was just as anxious to hurry away.

Her father found her sitting in the solitude of a drawing-room at midday, pale-faced, with unoccupied fingers, not even a book in her lap.

He walked up and down the room until Cecilia, to say something, said: “Mr. Tuckham could not stay.”

“No,” said her father; “he could not. He has to be back as quick as he can to cut his legacy in halves!”

Cecilia looked perplexed.

“I’ll speak plainly,” said the colonel. “He sees that Nevil has ruined himself with his uncle. The old lady won’t allow Nevil to visit her; in her condition it would be an excitement beyond her strength to bear. She sent Blackburn to bring Nevil here, and give him the option of stating before me whether those reports about his misconduct in France were true or not. He demurred at first: however, he says they are not true. He would have run away with the Frenchwoman, and he would have fought the duel: but he did neither. Her brother ran ahead of him and fought for him: so he declares and she wouldn’t run. So the reports are false. We shall know what Blackburn makes of the story when we hear of the legacy. I have been obliged to write word to Mrs. Beauchamp that I believe Nevil to have made a true statement of the facts. But I distinctly say, and so I told Blackburn, I don’t think money will do Nevil Beauchamp a farthing’s worth of good. Blackburn follows his own counsel. He induced the old lady to send him; so I suppose he intends to let her share the money between them. I thought better of him; I thought him a wiser man.”

Gratitude to Mr. Tuckham on Beauchamp’s behalf caused Cecilia to praise him, in the tone of compliments. The difficulty of seriously admiring two gentlemen at once is a feminine dilemma, with the maidenly among women.

“He has disappointed me,” said Colonel Halkett.

“Would you have had him allow a falsehood to enrich him and ruin Nevil, papa?”

“My dear child, I’m sick to death of romantic fellows. I took Blackburn for one of our solid young men. Why should he share his aunt’s fortune?”

“You mean, why should Nevil have money?”

“Well, I do mean that. Besides, the story was not false as far as his intentions went: he confessed it, and I ought to have put it in a postscript. If Nevil wants money, let him learn to behave himself like a gentleman at Steynham.”

“He has not failed.”

“I’ll say, then, behave himself, simply. He considers it a point of honour to get his uncle Everard to go down on his knees to Shrapnel. But he has no moral sense where I should like to see it: none: he confessed it.”

“What were his words, papa?”

“I don’t remember words. He runs over to France, whenever it suits him, to carry on there...” The colonel ended in a hum and buzz.

“Has he been to France lately?” asked Cecilia.

Her breath hung for the answer, sedately though she sat.

“The woman’s father is dead, I hear,” Colonel Halkett remarked.

“But he has not been there?”

“How can I tell? He’s anywhere, wherever his passions whisk him.”

“No!”

“I say, yes. And if he has money, we shall see him going sky-high and scattering it in sparks, not merely spending; I mean living immorally, infidelizing, republicanizing, scandalizing his class and his country.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Cecilia, rising and moving to the window to feast her eyes on driving clouds, in a strange exaltation of mind, secretly sure now that her idea of Nevil’s having gone over to France was groundless; and feeling that she had been unworthy of him who strove to be “worthier of her, as he hoped to become.”

Colonel Halkett scoffed at her “Oh no,” and called it woman’s logic.

She could not restrain herself. “Have you forgotten Mr. Austin, papa? It is Nevil’s perfect truthfulness that makes him appear worse to you than men who are timeservers. Too many time-servers rot the State, Mr. Austin said. Nevil is not one of them. I am not able to judge or speculate whether he has a great brain or is likely to distinguish himself out of his profession: I would rather he did not abandon it: but Mr. Austin said to me in talking of him...”

“That notion of Austin’s of screwing women’s minds up to the pitch of men’s!” interjected the colonel with a despairing flap of his arm.

“He said, papa, that honestly active men in a country, who decline to practise hypocrisy, show that the blood runs, and are a sign of health.”

“You misunderstood him, my dear.”

“I think I thoroughly understood him. He did not call them wise. He said they might be dangerous if they were not met in debate. But he said, and I presume to think truly, that the reason why they are decried is, that it is too great a trouble for a lazy world to meet them. And, he said, the reason why the honest factions agitate is because they encounter sneers until they appear in force. If they were met earlier, and fairly—I am only quoting him—they would not, I think he said, or would hardly, or would not generally, fall into professional agitation.”

“Austin’s a speculative Tory, I know; and that’s his weakness,” observed the colonel. “But I’m certain you misunderstood him. He never would have called us a lazy people.”

“Not in matters of business: in matters of thought.”

“My dear Cecilia! You’ve got hold of a language!... a way of speaking! .... Who set you thinking on these things?”

“That I owe to Nevil Beauchamp!”

Colonel Halkett indulged in a turn or two up and down the room. He threw open a window, sniffed the moist air, and went to his daughter to speak to her resolutely.

“Between a Radical and a Tory, I don’t know where your head has been whirled to, my dear. Your heart seems to be gone: more sorrow for us! And for Nevil Beauchamp to be pretending to love you while carrying on with this Frenchwoman!”

“He has never said that he loved me.”

The splendour of her beauty in humility flashed on her father, and he cried out: “You are too good for any man on earth! We won’t talk in the dark, my darling. You tell me he has never, as they say, made love to you?”

“Never, papa.”

“Well, that proves the French story. At any rate, he’s a man of honour. But you love him?”

“The French story is untrue, papa.”

Cecilia stood in a blush like the burning cloud of the sunset.

“Tell me frankly: I’m your father, your old dada, your friend, my dear girl! do you think the man cares for you, loves you?”

She replied: “I know, papa, the French story is untrue.”

“But when I tell you, silly woman, he confessed it to me out of his own mouth!”

“It is not true now.”

“It’s not going on, you mean? How do you know?”

“I know.”

“Has he been swearing it?”

“He has not spoken of it to me.”

“Here I am in a woman’s web!” cried the colonel. “Is it your instinct tells you it’s not true? or what? what? You have not denied that you love the man.”

“I know he is not immoral.”

“There you shoot again! Haven’t you a yes or a no for your father?”

Cecilia cast her arms round his neck, and sobbed.

She could not bring it to her lips to say (she would have shunned the hearing) that her defence of Beauchamp, which was a shadowed avowal of the state of her heart, was based on his desire to read to her the conclusion of Dr. Shrapnel’s letter touching a passion to be overcome; necessarily therefore a passion that was vanquished, and the fullest and bravest explanation of his shifting treatment of her: nor would she condescend to urge that her lover would have said he loved her when they were at Steynham, but for the misery and despair of a soul too noble to be diverted from his grief and sense of duty, and, as she believed, unwilling to speak to win her while his material fortune was in jeopardy.

The colonel cherished her on his breast, with one hand regularly patting her shoulder: a form of consolation that cures the disposition to sob as quickly as would the drip of water.

Cecilia looked up into his eyes, and said, “We will not be parted, papa, ever.”

The colonel said absently: “No”; and, surprised at himself, added: “No, certainly not. How can we be parted? You won’t run away from me? No, you know too well I can’t resist you. I appeal to your judgement, and I must accept what you decide. But he is immoral. I repeat that. He has no roots. We shall discover it before it’s too late, I hope.”

Cecilia gazed away, breathing through tremulous dilating nostrils.

“One night after dinner at Steynham,” pursued the colonel, “Nevil was rattling against the Press, with Stukely Culbrett to prime him: and he said editors of papers were growing to be like priests, and as timid as priests, and arrogant: and for one thing, it was because they supposed themselves to be guardians of the national morality. I forget exactly what the matter was: but he sneered at priests and morality.”

A smile wove round Cecilia’s lips, and in her towering superiority to one who talked nonsense, she slipped out of maiden shame and said: “Attack Nevil for his political heresies and his wrath with the Press for not printing him. The rest concerns his honour, where he is quite safe, and all are who trust him.”

“If you find out you’re wrong?”

She shook her head.

“But if you find out you’re wrong about him,” her father reiterated piteously, “you won’t tear me to strips to have him in spite of it?”

“No, papa, not I. I will not.”

“Well, that’s something for me to hold fast to,” said Colonel Halkett, sighing.