"You won't to-morrow: I shall be up far ahead of you," said she; and musing on her father, while Crossjay vowed to be up the first, she thought it her duty to plunge into another expostulation.
Willoughby had need of Vernon on private affairs. Dr. Middleton betook himself as usual to the library, after answering "I will ruin you yet," to Willoughby's liberal offer to despatch an order to London for any books he might want.
His fine unruffled air, as of a mountain in still morning beams, made Clara not indisposed to a preliminary scene with Willoughby that might save her from distressing him, but she could not stop Willoughby; as little could she look an invitation. He stood in the Hall, holding Vernon by the arm. She passed him; he did not speak, and she entered the library.
"What now, my dear? what is it?" said Dr. Middleton, seeing that the door was shut on them.
"Nothing, papa," she replied, calmly.
"You've not locked the door, my child? You turned something there: try the handle."
"I assure you, papa, the door is not locked."
"Mr. Whitford will be here instantly. We are engaged on tough matter. Women have not, and opinion is universal that they never will have, a conception of the value of time."
"We are vain and shallow, my dear papa."
"No, no, not you, Clara. But I suspect you to require to learn by having work in progress how important is ... is a quiet commencement of the day's task. There is not a scholar who will not tell you so. We must have a retreat. These invasions!--So you intend to have another ride to-day? They do you good. To-morrow we dine with Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, an estimable person indeed, though I do not perfectly understand our accepting.--You have not to accuse me of sitting over wine last night, my Clara! I never do it, unless I am appealed to for my judgement upon a wine."
"I have come to entreat you to take me away, papa."
In the midst of the storm aroused by this renewal of perplexity, Dr Middleton replaced a book his elbow had knocked over in his haste to dash the hair off his forehead, crying: "Whither? To what spot? That reading of guide-books, and idle people's notes of Travel, and picturesque correspondence in the newspapers, unsettles man and maid. My objection to the living in hotels is known. I do not hesitate to say that I do cordially abhor it. I have had penitentially to submit to it in your dear mother's time, [Greek], up to the full ten thousand times. But will you not comprehend that to the older man his miseries are multiplied by his years? But is it utterly useless to solicit your sympathy with an old man, Clara?"
"General Darleton will take us in, papa."
"His table is detestable. I say nothing of that; but his wine is poison. Let that pass--I should rather say, let it not pass!--but our political views are not in accord. True, we are not under the obligation to propound them in presence, but we are destitute of an opinion in common. We have no discourse. Military men have produced, or diverged in, noteworthy epicures; they are often devout; they have blossomed in lettered men: they are gentlemen; the country rightly holds them in honour; but, in fine, I reject the proposal to go to General Darleton.--Tears?"
"No, papa."
"I do hope not. Here we have everything man can desire; without contest, an excellent host. You have your transitory tea-cup tempests, which you magnify to hurricanes, in the approved historic manner of the book of Cupid. And all the better; I repeat, it is the better that you should have them over in the infancy of the alliance. Come in!" Dr. Middleton shouted cheerily in response to a knock at the door.
He feared the door was locked: he had a fear that his daughter intended to keep it locked.
"Clara!" he cried.
She reluctantly turned the handle, and the ladies Eleanor and Isabel came in, apologizing with as much coherence as Dr.
Middleton ever expected from their sex. They wished to speak to Clara, but they declined to take her away. In vain the Rev.
Doctor assured them she was at their service; they protested that they had very few words to say, and would not intrude one moment further than to speak them.
Like a shy deputation of young scholars before the master, these very words to come were preceded by none at all; a dismal and trying cause; refreshing however to Dr. Middleton, who joyfully anticipated that the ladies could be induced to take away Clara when they had finished.
"We may appear to you a little formal," Miss Isabel began, and turned to her sister.
"We have no intention to lay undue weight on our mission, if mission it can be called," said Miss Eleanor.
"Is it entrusted to you by Willoughby?" said Clara.
"Dear child, that you may know it all the more earnest with us, and our personal desire to contribute to your happiness: therefore does Willoughby entrust the speaking of it to us."
Hereupon the sisters alternated in addressing Clara, and she gazed from one to the other, piecing fragments of empty signification to get the full meaning when she might.
"--And in saying your happiness, dear Clara, we have our Willoughby's in view, which is dependent on yours."
"--And we never could sanction that our own inclinations should stand in the way."
"--No. We love the old place; and if it were only our punishment for loving it too idolatrously, we should deem it ground enough for our departure."
"--Without, really, an idea of unkindness; none, not any."
"--Young wives naturally prefer to be undisputed queens of their own establishment."
"--Youth and age!"
"But I," said Clara, "have never mentioned, never had a thought. . ."
"--You have, dear child, a lover who in his solicitude for your happiness both sees what you desire and what is due to you."
"--And for us, Clara, to recognize what is due to you is to act on it."
"--Besides, dear, a sea-side cottage has always been one of our dreams."
"--We have not to learn that we are a couple of old maids, incongruous associates for a young wife in the government of a great house."