Chapter XVIII: Cecil in His True Colours

Cecil reached his own room with savage sullenness. He had asked Blanche if she would share his poverty, and was delighted with her answer; but--strange paradox--he had never seriously thought of sharing it with her; and now his perplexity was how to escape from his present dilemma. To marry upon his means was impossible; impossible also to think of giving her up. To trust for one moment to Vyner's liberality, he felt was futile; the mere avowal of his attachment would be sufficient to close the doors against him for ever.

Angrily he paced up and down his room, striving in vain to detect some means of extricating himself. A fierce and contemptible struggle between passion and interest agitated him: sometimes love prevailed, and sometimes prudence.

In the midst of this self-struggle Captain Heath came in.

"I have come to speak with you," he said, "and trust you will regard me as Blanche's elder brother, anxious to befriend you, but still more anxious to protect her. Will you treat with me on those terms?"

"Certainly. You have already discovered our secret--how, I know not--and there can be no impropriety in consulting with you; I have perfect confidence in you."

"Your confidence is deserved. Now, tell me; you have yourself heard from Vyner what I told you in the billiard-room. I told it you, because I saw in what direction you turned your eyes, and wished you to have a clear comprehension of the family affairs. Had only your fancy been touched, my warning would have been in time; as it was, your heart was engaged, and my warning came too late. I do not repent it, however, the more so as it served to show me the strength of your love. Pardon me for having misjudged you," holding out his hand, "but I imagined that what I said respecting Blanche's poverty would at once put a stop to your attentions. You have shown me how ill I judged you. Will this confession, while it convinces you of my sincerity, also purchase my forgiveness?"

Cecil coloured with shame, and pressed the outstretched hand in silence.

"Now to your affairs. You wish to keep your attachment a secret. For what purpose? How can it avail you? It must be discovered, and then you will have lost all the advantages of openness."

"But what am I to do? Vyner will never give his consent. I am too poor."

"If I may ask without indiscretion--what is your income? What are your prospects?"

"My income is the interest of four thousand pounds; my prospects are vague enough. I have some talent. Painting and literature are open to me; but I should prefer diplomacy."

"You cannot marry on such prospects."

"No, indeed! But what am I to do?"

"I have but one suggestion to make. My brother is chairman to a railway now in course of formation. The secretaryship is worth four hundred a year. If you will accept of it, I think, by exerting myself, I could secure it for you."

"I am much obliged to you," replied Cecil, coldly; "but that is not at all in my way."

"You refuse?" said the astonished captain. "Refuse four hundred a year?"

"Remember I am a gentleman's son," he said, haughtily, "and you will appreciate my refusal."

"Upon my word, I do appreciate it, and at its real value! Here, I offer you what certainly I should never have thought of offering you, had it not been for her sake, a situation which thousands of gentlemen's sons would be delighted to accept, a situation which, with your own small property, will enable you to live in decent comfort, and you refuse it?"

"Really, your officious indignation," said Cecil, getting angry in his turn, "is somewhat out of place. You meant kindly, I dare say; but once for all allow me to observe, that I neither am, nor ever will be, a _quill-driver_."

"Not even for _her_ sake?"

"No; for no one will I degrade myself in my own eyes. If I must work, it shall be in some gentlemanly department. I will either paint or write for my livelihood, when I am condemned to gain it."

"And you pretend to love her?"

"I do; but I am sure she would be the first to dissuade me from such a degradation as you propose. She has given her heart to a gentleman, and not to a clerk."

"Bah! you talk in the language of a century ago. The pride which was then, perhaps, excusable, becomes simply ridiculous now-a-days."

"And you, captain, are using language which, if it continues, I shall demand an explanation----"

"You threaten?"

"I have no wish to do so; but the tone you adopt is such as I can no longer permit."

"Well, I did not come to quarrel with you, so will abstain from criticism. Only, let me ask you what you propose to do?"

"I propose nothing, I am totally at a loss."

"You positively refuse my offer?"

"Positively."

"You do not think of marrying upon your present means?"

"Decidedly not."

"Then you have but one course: to relinquish your claim."

"I have thought of that."

As this confession escaped him, a sudden light shone in the captain's eyes, a sparkle of unexpected triumph which did not escape his rival.

It was a double betrayal. Cecil betrayed his selfishness--the captain his love.

"I have thought of it," he repeated, "but I cannot make the sacrifice. I love her too much. It may be selfish, but I feel it impossible to give her up."

He watched the captain's countenance with malicious joy as he spoke this, conscious that every phrase was an arrow to pierce his rival's heart.

"But you must decide either to marry her, or----"

"Or," interrupted Cecil, with a sneer, "relinquish my claim in your favour, eh?"

Captain Heath shook slightly, and then fixing his full gaze upon Cecil, said quietly,--

"How little you know the man whom you so wantonly insult!"

He left the room.

"_He_ loves her," said Cecil to himself, bewildered at the discovery. "Loves her! What, then, is the meaning of his conduct? He acts as sentinel during our interview--takes upon himself to break the matter to her father, if I wish it--offers me a situation to enable me to marry. Oh! it is preposterous! I should be a fool indeed to believe it! Loves her! loves her and assists a rival! There is some cunning scheme in all this. I cannot divine _what_ it is, but I am certain _that_ it is.

"He loves her. Let me see: first, he endeavours to frighten me away by explaining the state of Vyner's affairs. That is intelligible enough: he wanted me to take the alarm and decamp. Failing in that, he suddenly changes tactics, and officiously thrusts himself between us as a patron and protector. The scoundrel!"

Yes, scoundrel! for doing that which, in its simple heroism, so distances all ordinary actions, that it looks like a meanness. Thus are men judged. If a man perform some act of ostentatious grandeur, the town will ring with loud applause; but unless the act is striking, and the motive clearly intelligible, he is sure to be maligned. Men only credit in others the kind of virtue they feel capable of themselves; as Sallust says of the readers of history,--"ubi de magnâ virtute et gloriâ bonorum memores quæ sibi quisque facilia factu putat, æquo animo accipit; supra ea veluti ficta pro falsis ducit."

Captain Heath's self-sacrifice was one demanding the greatest moral fortitude, precisely because it had no adventitious aid from the anticipation of applause; it required an immense effort, and could have no éclat. It was a victory to be gained after a fierce combat, and to be followed by no flourish of trumpets. Strength of mind gained the victory; and the pleasure derived from all exercise of strength was the reward.

Although I uphold such actions as heroic, as springing from true moral greatness, and worthy of our deepest reverence, yet it must not be supposed that there is anything marvellous in this self-abnegation. The followers of De la Rochefoucauld might find out egotism even here, if they used their cold scalpel aright. They might say Captain Heath was convinced that Blanche loved another, and all his efforts to prevent that would be useless. Finding himself thus completely excluded from all hope of obtaining her, he made up his mind to the defeat, and instead of allowing himself to be made miserable by idle regrets and idler jealousy, he gave himself the delight of assisting her.

To Cecil, however, who was certainly so incapable of such conduct as to be incapable of believing it, the captain was evidently a scoundrel, whom he would first outwit and then challenge.

To outwit him, he determined to carry Blanche off.

Cecil, vacillating between his passion and his prudence, between his love for Blanche and his horror at poverty, suddenly lost all hesitation, the instant he was aware of a rival. The selfishness which had made him unwilling to encounter poverty, to rush into the great battle of life, there to gain a footing for the sake of Blanche, now made him ready to run all risks for the sake of triumphing over a rival. No suggestions assailed him now respecting the imprudence of marriage; no horrors at bringing a family into the world without the means of properly providing for them; no thought of what she would suffer now disturbed him, as it had before. And why? because it then was only a mask under which he hid the face of his own selfishness from himself. The one-absorbing thought was how to quickly call her his; how to irrevocably bind her to him.

"He thinks to dupe me, does he? He shall find out his mistake. I will this instant go to her, and arrange our flight."