Beauchamps Career, v5 - George Meredith (top novels TXT) 📗
- Author: George Meredith
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of the young heiress's beauty at the Yacht Ball was accountable for the
bursting out of these fires. Her father would not have deplored her
acceptance of the title of Countess of Lockrace. In the matter of
rejections, however, her will was paramount, and he was on her side
against relatives when the subject was debated among them. He called her
attention to the fact impressively, telling her that she should not hear
a syllable from him to persuade her to marry: the emphasis of which
struck the unspoken warning on her intelligence: Bring no man to me of
whom I do not approve!
'Worthier of you, as I hope to become,' Beauchamp had said. Cecilia lit
on that part of Dr. Shrapnel's letter where 'Fight this out within you,'
distinctly alluded to the unholy love. Could she think ill of the man
who thus advised him? She shared Beauchamp's painful feeling for him in
a sudden tremour of her frame; as it were through his touch. To the rest
of the letter her judgement stood opposed, save when a sentence here and
there reminded her of Captain Baskelett's insolent sing-song declamation
of it: and that would have turned Sacred Writing to absurdity.
Beauchamp had mentioned Seymour Austin as one to whom he would willingly
grant a perusal of the letter. Mr. Austin came to Mount Laurels about
the close of the yachting season, shortly after Colonel Halkett had spent
his customary days of September shooting at Steynham. Beauchamp's folly
was the colonel's theme, for the fellow had dragged Lord Palmet there,
and driven his uncle out of patience. Mr. Romfrey's monumental patience
had been exhausted by him. The colonel boiled over with accounts of
Beauchamp's behaviour toward his uncle, and Palmet, and Baskelett, and
Mrs. Culling: how he flew at and worried everybody who seemed to him to
have had a hand in the proper chastisement of that man Shrapnel. That
pestiferous letter of Shrapnel's was animadverted on, of course; and,
'I should like you to have heard it, Austin,' the colonel said, 'just for
you to have a notion of the kind of universal blow-up those men are
scheming, and would hoist us with, if they could get a little more
blasting-powder than they mill in their lunatic heads.'
Now Cecilia wished for Mr. Austin's opinion of Dr. Shrapnel; and as the
delicate state of her inclinations made her conscious that to give him
the letter covertly would be to betray them to him, who had once, not
knowing it, moved her to think of a possible great change in her life,
she mustered courage to say, 'Captain Beauchamp at my request lent me the
letter to read; I have it, and others written by Dr. Shrapnel.'
Her father hummed to himself, and immediately begged Seymour Austin not
to waste his time on the stuff, though he had no idea that a perusal of
it could awaken other than the gravest reprehension in so rational a Tory
gentleman.
Mr. Austin read the letter through. He asked to see the other letters
mentioned by Cecilia, and read them calmly, without a frown or an
interjection. She sat sketching, her father devouring newspaper columns.
'It's the writing of a man who means well,' Mr. Austin delivered his
opinion.
' Why, the man's an infidel!' Colonel Halkett exclaimed.
'There are numbers.'
'They have the grace not to confess, then.'
'It's as well to know what the world's made of, colonel. The clergy shut
their eyes. There's no treating a disease without reading it; and if we
are to acknowledge a "vice," as Dr. Shrapnel would say of the so-called
middle-class, it is the smirking over what they think, or their not
caring to think at all. Too many time-servers rot the State. I can
understand the effect of such writing on a mind like Captain Beauchamp's.
It would do no harm to our young men to have those letters read publicly
and lectured on-by competent persons. Half the thinking world may think
pretty much the same on some points as Dr. Shrapnel; they are too wise or
too indolent to say it: and of the other half, about a dozen members
would be competent to reply to him. He is the earnest man, and flies at
politics as uneasy young brains fly to literature, fancying they can
write because they can write with a pen. He perceives a bad adjustment
of things: which is correct. He is honest, and takes his honesty for a
virtue: and that entitles him to believe in himself: and that belief
causes him to see in all opposition to him the wrong he has perceived in
existing circumstances: and so in a dream of power he invokes the people:
and as they do not stir, he takes to prophecy. This is the round of the
politics of impatience. The study of politics should be guided by some
light of statesmanship, otherwise it comes to this wild preaching.
These men are theory-tailors, not politicians. They are the men who make
the "strait-waistcoat for humanity." They would fix us to first
principles like tethered sheep or hobbled horses. I should enjoy
replying to him, if I had time. The whole letter is composed of
variations upon one idea. Still I must say the man interests me; I
should like to talk to him.'
Mr. Austin paid no heed to the colonel's 'Dear me! dear me!' of
amazement. He said of the style of the letters, that it was the puffing
of a giant: a strong wind rather than speech: and begged Cecilia to note
that men who labour to force their dreams on mankind and turn vapour into
fact, usually adopt such a style. Hearing that this private letter had
been deliberately read through by Mr. Romfrey, and handed by him to
Captain Baskelett, who had read it out in various places, Mr. Austin
said:
'A strange couple!' He appeared perplexed by his old friend's approval
of them. 'There we decidedly differ,' said he, when the case of Dr.
Shrapnel was related by the colonel, with a refusal to condemn Mr.
Romfrey. He pronounced Mr. Romfrey's charges against Dr. Shrapnel, taken
in conjunction with his conduct, to be baseless, childish, and wanton.
The colonel would not see the case in that light; but Cecilia did. It
was a justification of Beauchamp; and how could she ever have 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 Renee.
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 Renee 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
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