Beauchamps Career, v5 by George Meredith (book recommendations for teens .txt) 📕

swing of enthusiasm that seemed to spring of ancient heartfelt fervours.

And indeed soon afterward he was telling her that there on those downs,

in full view of Steynham, he and his wife had first joined hands.

Beauchamp sat silent. Mr. Romfrey despatched orders to the stables,

and Rosamund to the kitchen. Cecilia was rather dismayed by the formal

preparations for the ride. She declined the early cup of coffee. Mr.

Romfrey begged her to take it. 'Who knows the hour when you 'll be

back?' he said. Beauchamp said nothing.

The room grew insufferable to Cecilia. She would have liked to be wafted

to her chamber in a veil, so shamefully unveiled did she seem to be. But

the French lady would have been happy in her place! Her father kissed

her as fathers do when they hand the bride into the travelling-carriage.

His 'Good-night, my darling!' was in the voice of a soldier on duty.

For a concluding sign that her dim apprehensions pointed correctly, Mr.

Romfrey kissed her on the forehead. She could not understand how it had

come to pass that she found herself suddenly on this incline,

precipitated whither she would fain be going, only less hurriedly, less

openly, and with her secret merely peeping, like a dove in the breast.

That pure opaque of the line of downs ran luminously edged against the

pearly morning sky, with its dark landward face crepusculine yet clear in

every combe, every dotting copse and furze-bush, every wavy fall, and the

ripple, crease, and rill-like descent of the turf. Beauty of darkness

was there, as well as beauty of light above.

Beauchamp and Cecilia rode forth before the sun was over the line, while

the West and North-west sides of the rolling downs were stamped with such

firmness of dusky feature as you see on the indentations of a shield of

tarnished silver. The mounting of the sun behind threw an obscurer

gloom, and gradually a black mask overcame them, until the rays shot

among their folds and windings, and shadows rich as the black pansy,

steady as on a dialplate rounded with the hour.

Mr. Everard Romfrey embraced this view from Steynham windows, and loved

were his vision of delight; no image of repose for him, but of the life

in swiftness. He had known them when the great bird of the downs was not

a mere tradition, and though he owned conscientiously to never having

beheld the bird, a certain mystery of holiness hung about the region

where the bird had been in his time. There, too, with a timely word he

had gained a wealthy and good wife. He had now sent Nevil to do the

same.

This astute gentleman had caught at the idea of a ride of the young

couple to the downs with his customary alacrity of perception as being

the very best arrangement for hurrying them to the point. At Steynham

Nevil was sure to be howling all day over his tumbled joss Shrapnel.

Once away in the heart of the downs, and Cecilia beside him, it was a

matter of calculation that two or three hours of the sharpening air would

screw his human nature to the pitch. In fact, unless each of them was

reluctant, they could hardly return unbetrothed. Cecilia's consent was

foreshadowed by her submission in going: Mr. Romfrey had noticed her

fright at the suggestive formalities he cast round the expedition, and

felt sure of her. Taking Nevil for a man who could smell the perfume of

a ripe affirmative on the sweetest of lips, he was pretty well sure of

him likewise. And then a truce to all that Radical rageing and hot-

pokering of the country! and lie in peace, old Shrapnel! and get on your

legs when you can, and offend no more; especially be mindful not to let

fly one word against a woman! With Cecilia for wife, and a year of

marriage devoted to a son and heir, Nevil might be expected to resume his

duties as a naval officer, and win an honourable name for the inheritance

of the young one he kissed.

There was benevolence in these previsions of Mr. Romfrey, proving how

good it is for us to bow to despotic authority, if only we will bring

ourselves unquestioningly to accept the previous deeds of the directing

hand.

Colonel Halkett gave up his daughter for lost when she did not appear at

the breakfast-table: for yet more decidedly lost when the luncheon saw

her empty place; and as time drew on toward the dinner-hour, he began to

think her lost beyond hope, embarked for good and all with the madbrain.

Some little hope of a dissension between the pair, arising from the

natural antagonism of her strong sense to Nevil's extravagance, had

buoyed him until it was evident that they must have alighted at an inn to

eat, which signified that they had overleaped the world and its hurdles,

and were as dreamy a leash of lovers as ever made a dreamland of hard

earth. The downs looked like dreamland through the long afternoon. They

shone as in a veil of silk-softly fair, softly dark. No spot of

harshness was on them save where a quarry South-westward gaped at the

evening sun.

Red light struck into that round chalk maw, and the green slopes and

channels and half-circle hollows were brought a mile-stride higher

Steynham by the level beams.

The poor old colonel fell to a more frequent repetition of the 'Well!'

with which he had been unconsciously expressing his perplexed mind in the

kennels and through the covers during the day. None of the gentlemen

went to dress. Mr. Culbrett was indoors conversing with Rosamund

Culling.

'What's come to them?' the colonel asked of Mr. Romfrey, who said

shrugging, 'Something wrong with one of the horses.' It had happened to

him on one occasion to set foot in the hole of a baked hedgehog that had

furnished a repast, not without succulence, to some shepherd of the

downs. Such a case might have recurred; it was more likely to cause an

upset at a walk than at a gallop: or perhaps a shoe had been cast; and

young people break no bones at a walking fall; ten to one if they do at

their top speed. Horses manage to kill their seniors for them: the young

are exempt from accident.

Colonel Halkett nodded and sighed: 'I daresay they're safe. It's that

man Shrapnel's letter--that letter, Romfrey! A private letter, I know;

but I've not heard Nevil disown the opinions expressed in it. I submit.

It's no use resisting. I treat my daughter as a woman capable of judging

for herself. I repeat, I submit. I haven't a word against Nevil except

on the score of his politics. I like him. All I have to say is, I don't

approve of a republican and a sceptic for my son-in-law. I yield to you,

and my daughter, if she . . . !'

'I think she does, colonel. Marriage 'll cure the fellow. Nevil will

slough his craze. Off! old coat. Cissy will drive him in strings.

"My wife!" I hear him.' Mr. Romfrey laughed quietly. 'It's all "my

country," now. The dog'll be uxorious. He wants fixing; nothing worse.'

'How he goes on about Shrapnel!'

'I shouldn't think much of him if he didn't.'

'You're one in a thousand, Romfrey. I object to seeing a man

worshipped.'

'It's Nevil's green-sickness, and Shrapnel's the god of it.'

'I trust to heaven you're right. It seems to me young fellows ought to

be out of it earlier.'

'They generally are.' Mr. Romfrey named some of the processes by which

they are relieved of brain-flightiness, adding philosophically, 'This way

or that.'

His quick ear caught a sound of hoofs cantering down the avenue on the

Northern front of the house.

He consulted his watch. 'Ten minutes to eight. Say a quarter-past for

dinner. They're here, colonel.'

Mr. Romfrey met Nevil returning from the stables. Cecilia had

disappeared.

'Had a good day?' said Mr. Romfrey.

Beauchamp replied: 'I'll tell you of it after dinner,' and passed by him.

Mr. Romfrey edged round to Colonel Halkett, conjecturing in his mind:

They have not hit it; as he remarked: 'Breakfast and luncheon have been

omitted in this day's fare,' which appeared to the colonel a confirmation

of his worst fears, or rather the extinction of his last spark of hope.

He knocked at his daughter's door in going upstairs to dress.

Cecilia presented herself and kissed him.

'Well?' said he.

'By-and-by, papa,' she answered. 'I have a headache. Beg Mr. Romfrey to

excuse me.'

'No news for me?'

She had no news.

Mrs. Culling was with her. The colonel stepped on mystified to his room.

When the door had closed Cecilia turned to Rosamund and burst into tears.

Rosamund felt that it must be something grave indeed for the proud young

lady so to betray a troubled spirit.

'He is ill--Dr. Shrapnel is very ill,' Cecilia responded to one or two

subdued inquiries in as clear a voice as she could command.

'Where have you heard of him?' Rosamund asked.

'We have been there.'

'Bevisham? to Bevisham?' Rosamund was considering the opinion Mr.

Romfrey would form of the matter from the point of view of his horses.

'It was Nevil's wish,' said Cecilia.

'Yes? and you went with him,' Rosamund encouraged her to proceed,

gladdened at hearing her speak of Nevil by that name; 'you have not been

on the downs at all?'

Cecilia mentioned a junction railway station they had ridden to; and

thence, boxing the horses, by train to Bevisham. Rosamund understood

that some haunting anxiety had fretted Nevil during the night; in the

morning he could not withstand it, and he begged Cecilia to change their

destination, apparently with a vehemence of entreaty that had been

irresistible, or else it was utter affection for him had reduced her to

undertake the distasteful journey. She admitted that she was not the

most sympathetic companion Nevil could have had on the way, either going

or coming. She had not entered Dr. Shrapnel's cottage. Remaining on

horseback she had seen the poor man reclining in his garden chair. Mr.

Lydiard was with him, and also his ward Miss Denham, who had been

summoned by telegraph by one of the servants from Switzerland. And

Cecilia had heard Nevil speak of his uncle to her, and too humbly, she

hinted. Nor had the expression of Miss Denham's countenance in listening

to him pleased her; but it was true that a heavily burdened heart cannot

be expected to look pleasing. On the way home Cecilia had been compelled

in some degree to defend Mr. Romfrey. Blushing through her tears at the

remembrance of a past emotion that had been mixed with foresight, she

confessed to Rosamund she thought it now too late to prevent a rupture

between Nevil and his uncle. Had some one whom Nevil trusted and cared

for taken counsel with him and advised him before uncle and nephew met to

discuss this most unhappy matter, then there might have been hope. As it

was, the fate of Dr. Shrapnel had gained entire possession of Nevil.

Every retort of his uncle's in reference to it rose up in him: he used

language of contempt neighbouring abhorrence: he stipulated for one sole

thing to win back his esteem for his uncle; and that was, the apology to

Dr. Shrapnel.

'And to-night,' Cecilia concluded, 'he will request Mr. Romfrey to

accompany. him to Bevisham to-morrow morning, to make the apology in

person. He will not accept the slightest evasion. He thinks Dr.

Shrapnel may die, and the honour of the family--what is it he says of

it?' Cecilia raised her eyes to the ceiling, while Rosamund blinked in

impatience and grief, just apprehending the alien state of the young

lady's mind in her absence of recollection, as well as her bondage in the

effort to recollect accurately.

'Have you not eaten any food to-day, Miss Halkett?' she said; for it

might be the want of food which had broken her