Chapter XIII: How a Lover Vacillates

Cecil's reflections had not been cheering. Although he felt himself too much in love with Blanche to give her up because she was portionless, he was, at the same time, too well aware of his own slender resources to think of marrying upon them. Bred to luxurious habits, he was not one by whom poverty could be lightly treated.

The more he reflected, the more urgent it appeared to him that he should conquer his passion, and save himself from perdition. Could Captain Heath have read what was passing in his rival's mind, he would have smiled grimly at this verification of his suspicions, and rejoiced in the success of an experiment which removed that rival from his path.

As Cecil descended into the drawing-room that day before dinner, he was struck painfully by the sight of Violet on the sofa in exactly the same attitude--caressing Shot--as she had appeared to him on that afternoon when he had relinquished all idea of her. The coincidence affected him.

"There is a fate against my marrying into this family," he said to himself: "first one, and then the other."

Blanche was standing at the window, looking out. She turned her head towards him as he entered, and felt a little mortified to see him throw himself into a chair by the side of Rose, with whom he began a lively chat.

Captain Heath, who had watched this manœuvre, now looked at Blanche; but she, conscious of his gaze, avoided it, and again resumed her contemplation of the undulating lawn and woody distance.

Dinner was announced. Meredith Vyner, as usual, took Mrs. Langley Turner; Sir Harry Johnstone, Mrs. Vyner; and Tom Wincot, Violet. Cecil, to Rose's surprise, offered her his arm, which was natural enough, inasmuch as he had been talking to her up to that time; but still, as for many days he had invariably managed to take Blanche, she could not help remarking the circumstance.

Captain Heath walked up to Blanche, who remained at the window; her heart throbbing violently, her mind distracted with contradictory thoughts.

"Blanche," he said, tenderly, "we are the last."

"I shall not dine to-day," she said, angrily, hurt at the pity of his tone.

"My dear Blanche, do not betray yourself; do not give him reason to suppose his neglect can affect you."

She sighed, put her arm within his, and walked silently with him into the dining-room.

She sat opposite Cecil, who seemed more talkative than usual. No one remarked her silence--she seldom spoke at dinner, except to her neighbour. No one asked her if she were ill, though she sent away her plate each time untouched. Cecil and Captain Heath observed it; both with pain.

Keen were the pangs she suffered at this fulfilment of the captain's cruel prophecy, and bitterly did she at that moment hate him for having undeceived her. That Cecil avoided her was but too evident. That his neglect could have but the one motive Captain Heath had ascribed was never doubted; but she threw all the blame on the captain's officiousness in speaking about their want of fortune, and in fact, with all the unreasonableness of suffering, hated him as the proximate cause of her pain.

Captain Heath applauded his own sagacity as a reader of character, and rejoiced as a lover in the success of his calculation. But he rejoiced too soon. Like most men he had erred in his calculation, because he dealt with human nature as if it were simple, instead of being, as it really is, strangely complex; and as if one motive was not counteracted by another. This is the grand source of the errors committed by cunning people: they are said to be "too cunning" when they overreach themselves by what seems an artful and logically-reasoned calculation; but the truth is, they have not been cunning enough. They have planned their plans as if the mind of man were to be treated like a mathematical problem, not as a bundle of motives, of prejudices, and of passions. The plan may look admirable on paper; but then it is constructed on the assumption that the victim must needs be impelled by certain motives; whereas, when it comes into execution, we find that some other motives are brought into play, the existence of which was not allowed for in the calculation; and these entirely subvert the plan.

Captain Heath's plan erred in precisely this way. Judging Cecil's character in the main aright, he justly argued that such a man would shun poverty as a pestilence, because he was weak, and money is power; and that he would shrink from affronting the world with no other aid than his own right hand. He therefore concluded that an intimation of Vyner's affairs would be an effectual method of putting an end to Cecil's attentions.

Now this argument would have no flaw in it, if we assume that a man is led solely by prudential considerations: it would be perfect, were men swayed solely by their reason.

Cecil's views were precisely such as Captain Heath had suspected. But then Cecil had emotions, passions, senses--and these the captain had left out of the calculation. Yet these, which are the stronger powers in every breast, were to overthrow the captain's plan.

Cecil in his own room, surveying his situation, was a very different man from Cecil in the presence of his beloved, pained at the aspect of her pain, and conscience-stricken as he gazed upon her lovely, sorrowing face. His heart smote him for his selfishness, and he was asking himself whether he could give her up--whether poverty with her were not preferable to splendour with another, when he thought he saw something in the captain's look which betokened scornful triumph.

"Can he have deceived me? Does he wish to get me out of the way?" he said to himself. "Egad! I think so. The game at billiards this morning--that was mysterious. What could induce him to propose such a thing to me--he who never took the slightest notice of me before? He had some motive. And then his story about Vyner's affairs--fudge! I won't believe it, until I have it on better authority."

The ladies rose from the table.

"I sha'n't sit long over the wine," Cecil whispered to Blanche, as she passed him.

A sudden gleam irradiated her sweet face, as she raised it towards him with a smile of exquisite joy and gratitude. That one word had rolled the heavy stone which was lying on her heart, and gave the lie to all the "base insinuations of that odious Captain Heath."

'Twas thus she spoke of one she really loved, and who loved her more than anything on earth!

The men drew their chairs closer together, and commenced that onslaught on the dessert which is characteristic of such moments.

"Have you never remarked," said Cecil, "that men refuse to touch fruit until the women retire, and then attack it as if their appetites had been sharpened by restraint?"

"It is, I pwesume, upon the pwinciple of compensation," said Tom Wincot. "Depwived of the fwuit of humanity, the gwapes, apwicots, and nectawines of life, we are thwown upon the fwuit of nature! I say, Cecil, isn't that vewy poetically expwessed?"

"Very. But I don't think much of the compensation myself. I should like the women to remain with us as they do abroad."

"That," said Meredith Vyner, "would spoil dinners. The pleasantest part is the conversation after the ladies have retired."

"Besides," objected Tom Wincot, "however pleasant the society of women, one can't be always with them. _Toujours perdwix_!"

"Toujours _de la_ perdrix," interposed Vyner, glad of an opportunity of setting any one right. "If you must quote French, quote it at least correctly."

"Isn't toujours perdwix cowect, Mr. Mewedith Vyner. I never heard it expwessed otherwise."

"No, sir, it is grossly incorrect. The phrase is attributed to Louis XV. who excused his conjugal inconstancy by saying, that although partridges might be a dainty dish, '_Mangez toujours de la perdrix, et vous en serez bien vite rassasié_,' was his witty but immoral remark. The claret is with you, Mr. Wincot."

"By the way," said Cecil, who was anxious to regain Vyner's goodwill, by flattering his vanity, "I have a theory which I must call upon your stores of learning, Mr. Vyner, to assist me in developing." Vyner bowed, and with his forefinger and thumb prepared a pinch of snuff, while Cecil continued--"It was suggested to me by Talleyrand's witticism that language was given to man to conceal his thoughts."

"Talleyrand," said Vyner gravely, "is not the author of that joke; though it is commonly attributed to him. The author is a man now* living in Paris, M. Harel, some of whose _bon mots_ are the best I ever heard. I remember his describing to me M. Buloz, the proprietor of The Revue des Deux Mondes and The Revue de Paris, as a man who was 'l'âme de deux revues, avec _l'attention habile_ de n'en être jamais l'esprit.'"

* 1840. He died in 1846.

"_L'attention habile_," exclaimed Cecil, laughing loudly, "is exquisite. To my theory, however."

"No, no; none of your theowies," said Wincot, "they are always pwepostewously exaggewated."

"You shall judge," replied Cecil, "in saying language was given to us to conceal our thoughts, M. Harel explained the construction of a great many words in all tongues. Thus demonstration is evidently derived from demon, the father of lies."

"That is vewy faw fetched. Pass the clawet."

"Then, again, Mr. Vyner will tell you," pursued Cecil, "that the Greek verb to govern is ανασσω, which is derived from ανασσα, a queen, not from αναξ, a king. Now, you will admit, that to deduce the governing principle from the weaker sex is only a bit of irony. The mildest possible symbol is used for the severest possible office, viz., government. The soft delicious sway of woman who leads humanity by the nose is not to be disputed. Bearded warriors, steel-clad priests, ambitious nobles, a ragged, mighty, and mysterious plebs, these no _single_ arm could possibly subdue. And yet a king is necessary. Here the grand problem presents itself: how to force the governed to accept a governor?"

"Oh! pass the clawet!"

"The king," said Vyner, shutting his box, "is the strongest. König, Könning, or _can_ning: he is the one who _can_ rule."

"But," replied Cecil, "I maintain he _can't_ rule: no man was ever strong enough to rule men. The true solution of the problem is, _that the first king was a woman_."

"This is fuwiously widiculous!"

"Laugh! laugh! I am prepared to maintain that woman is weak, and _omnipotent because of her weakness_. She is girt with the proof armour of defencelessness. A man you knock down, but who dares raise a hand against a woman?"

"Very true," suggested Vyner, "very true. What says Anacreon, whom Plato calls 'the wise?' Nature, he says, gave horns to bulls, and a 'chasm of teeth to lions;' but when she came to furnish woman with weapons,

τι ουν δίδωσι; κάλλοϛ

Beauty, beauty was the tremendous arm which was to surpass all others."

"And formidably she uses it," continued Cecil. "To man's violence she opposes her 'defencelessness'--and nails; to his strength she opposes her 'weakness'--and tongue."

"In support of your theory," said Vyner, "the French call a queen a _reine_; and we say the king _reigns_."

He chuckled prodigiously at this pun, which Cecil pronounced admirable.

"My theory of kingship is this," said Cecil. "The first king, as I said, was a woman. She ruled unruly men. She took to herself some male subject, helplessly strong; some 'brute of a man,' docile as a lamb; him she made her husband. Her people she ruled with smiles and promises, touchingly alluding, on all befitting occasions, to her helpless state. Her husband she ruled with scratches----"

"And _hysterics_," feelingly suggested Vyner.

"Well, a son was born--many sons if you like; but one was her especial darling. Growing old and infirm, she declared her son should wield the sceptre of the state in her name. Councillors demurred; she cajoled; they consented. Her son became regent. At her death he continued to govern--not in his name, but in hers. The king was symbol of the woman, and reigned vicariously. When we say the king reigns, we mean the king queens it."

"Bravo!" exclaimed Vyner, chuckling in anticipation of the joke; "and this is the explanation of Thiers's celebrated aphorism, '_le roi REGNE et ne gouverne pas_.'"

"This explains also the Salic law; a curious example of the tendency of language to conceal the thoughts. A decree is enacted that no woman shall reign. That is to say, men preferred the symbol (man) to the reality (woman). They dreaded the divine right of mistresses--the autocratic absolutism of petticoats."

"And pray, Mr. Chamberlayne," asked Vyner, "how do you explain the derivation of the French verb _tuer_, to kill, from the Latin _tucor_, to preserve?"

"Nothing easier upon my theory of the irony of language. What is death but preservation?"

"Bwavo! pwoceed. Pwove that."

"Is it not preservation from sickness and from sorrow, from debts, diseases, dull parties, and bores? Death preserves us, by rescuing our frames from mortality, and wafting our souls into the bosom of immortal life. Then look at the irony of our use of the word _preserves, i.e., places_ where game is kept for indiscriminate _slaughter_; or else, _pots of luxurious sweets_, destined to bring children to an untimely end."

"Why," said Vyner, "do we call a sycophant a _toady_?"

"I really don't know."

"Because his sycophancy has its source in το δέος, _fear_," replied Vyner, delighted at the joke.

"Good!" said Cecil, laughing. "I accept the derivation: the irony is perfect, as a toad is the very _last_ creature to accuse of sycophancy; he spits upon the world in an unbiassed and exasperating impartiality: hence the name. One of the things which has most struck me," he continued, "is the occasional urbanity of language--instance the word _question_ for _torture_."

"Like Astyages in Herodotus," said Vyner, "politely counselling the herdsman not to desire to proceed to necessities, εϛ ταϛ ανάγκαϛ, which the man perfectly understands to mean torture. Consider, also, the _changes_ which take place in words. 'Virtue' originally meant _manliness_. The Greek word αρετη is obviously derived from Ares (Mars), and meant _martialness_; it has now degenerated into _virtù_, a taste for cameos and pictures; and into _virtue_, woman's fairest quality, but the farthest removed from martial excellence."

"This is all vewy ingenious, pewhaps," said Tom Wincot; "but let us go to the ladies, and hear their theowies."

They rose from table. Vyner in evidently better disposition towards Cecil than he had been since the last Horatian discussion; Maxwell dull and stupid as ever; Captain Heath silent and reflective.