the egoist-第42部分

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to　her　loathing。　From　her　loathing；　as　soon　as　her　sensations　had
quickened　to　realize　it；　she　was　hurled　on　her　weakness。　She　was
graceless；　she　was　inconsistent；　she　was　volatile；　she　was
unprincipled；　she　was　worse　than　a　prey　to　wickednesscapable
of　it；　she　was　only　waiting　to　be　misled。　Nay；　the　idea　of　being
misled　suffused　her　with　languor；　for　then　the　battle　would　be
over　and　she　a　happy　weed　of　the　sea　no　longer　suffering　those
tugs　at　the　roots；　but　leaving　it　to　the　sea　to　heave　and　contend。
She　would　he　like　Constantia　then：　like　her　in　her　fortunes：　never
so　brave；　she　feared。

Perhaps　very　like　Constantia　in　her　fortunes！

Poor　troubled　bodies　waking　up　in　the　night　to　behold　visually　the
spectre　cast　forth　from　the　perplexed　machinery　inside　them；　stare
at　it　for　a　space；　till　touching　consciousness　they　dive　down
under　the　sheets　with　fish…like　alacrity。　Clara　looked　at　her
thought；　and　suddenly　headed　downward　in　a　crimson　gulf。

She　must　have　obtained　absolution；　or　else　it　was　oblivion；　below。
Soon　after　the　plunge　her　first　object　of　meditation　was　Colonel
De　Craye。　She　thought　of　him　calmly：　he　seemed　a　refuge。　He　was
very　nice；　he　was　a　holiday　character。　His　lithe　figure；　neat　firm
footing　of　the　stag；　swift　intelligent　expression；　and　his　ready
frolicsomeness；　pleasant　humour；　cordial　temper；　and　his　Irishry；
whereon　he　was　at　liberty　to　play；　as　on　the　emblem　harp　of　the
Isle；　were　soothing　to　think　of。　The　suspicion　that　she　tricked
herself　with　this　calm　observation　of　him　was　dismissed。　Issuing
out　of　torture；　her　young　nature　eluded　the　irradiating　brain　in
search　of　refreshment；　and　she　luxuriated　at　a　feast　in
considering　himshower　on　a　parched　land　that　he　was！　He　spread
new　air　abroad。　She　had　no　reason　to　suppose　he　was　not　a　good
man：　she　could　securely　think　of　him。　Besides　he　was　bound　by　his
prospective　office　in　support　of　his　friend　Willoughby　to　be　quite
harmless。　And　besides　（you　are　not　to　expect　logical　sequences）
the　showery　refreshment　in　thinking　of　him　lay　in　the　sort　of
assurance　it　conveyed；　that　the　more　she　thought；　the　less　would
he　be　likely　to　figure　as　an　obnoxious　officialthat　is；　as　the
man　to　do　by　Willoughby　at　the　altar　what　her　father　would；　under
the　supposition；　be　doing　by　her。　Her　mind　reposed　on　Colonel　De
Craye。

His　name　was　Horace。　Her　father　had　worked　with　her　at　Horace。　She
knew　most　of　the　Odes　and　some　of　the　Satires　and　Epistles　of　the
poet。　They　reflected　benevolent　beams　on　the　gentleman　of　the
poet's　name。　He　too　was　vivacious；　had　fun；　common　sense；
elegance；　loved　rusticity；　he　said；　sighed　for　a　country　life；
fancied　retiring　to　Canada　to　cultivate　his　own　domain；　〃modus
agri　non　ita　magnus：〃　a　delight。　And　he；　too；　when　in　the
country；　sighed　for　town。　There　were　strong　features　of
resemblance。　He　had　hinted　in　fun　at　not　being　rich。　〃Quae　virtus
et　quanta　sit　vivere　parvo。〃　But　that　quotation　applied　to　and
belonged　to　Vernon　Whitford。　Even　so　little　disarranged　her
meditations。

She　would　have　thought　of　Vernon；　as　her　instinct　of　safety
prompted；　had　not　his　exactions　been　excessive。　He　proposed　to
help　her　with　advice　only。　She　was　to　do　everything　for　herself；
do　and　dare　everything；　decide　upon　everything。　He　told　her　flatly
that　so　would　she　learn　to　know　her　own　mind；　and　flatly；　that　it
was　her　penance。　She　had　gained　nothing　by　breaking　down　and
pouring　herself　out　to　him。　He　would　have　her　bring　Willoughby　and
her　father　face　to　face；　and　be　witness　of　their　interview
herself　the　theme。　What　alternative　was　there？obedience　to　the
word　she　had　pledged。　He　talked　of　patience；　of　self…examination
and　patience。　But　all　of　hershe　was　all　marked　urgent。　This
house　was　a　cage；　and　the　worldher　brain　was　a　cage；　until　she
could　obtain　her　prospect　of　freedom。

As　for　the　house；　she　might　leave　it；　yonder　was　the　dawn。

She　went　to　her　window　to　gaze　at　the　first　colour　along　the　grey。
Small　satisfaction　came　of　gazing　at　that　or　at　herself。　She
shunned　glass　and　sky。　One　and　the　other　stamped　her　as　a　slave　in
a　frame。　It　seemed　to　her　she　had　been　so　long　in　this　place　that
she　was　fixed　here：　it　was　her　world；　and　to　imagine　an　Alp　was
like　seeking　to　get　back　to　childhood。　Unless　a　miracle　intervened
here　she　would　have　to　pass　her　days。　Men　are　so　little　chivalrous
now　that　no　miracle　ever　intervenes。　Consequently　she　was　doomed。

She　took　a　pen　and　began　a　letter　to　a　dear　friend；　Lucy　Darleton；
a　promised　bridesmaid；　bidding　her　countermand　orders　for　her
bridal　dress；　and　purposing　a　tour　in　Switzerland。　She　wrote　of
the　mountain　country　with　real　abandonment　to　imagination。　It
became　a　visioned　loophole　of　escape。　She　rose　and　clasped　a
shawl　over　her　night…dress　to　ward　off　chillness；　and　sitting　to
the　table　again；　could　not　produce　a　word。　The　lines　she　had
written　were　condemned：　they　were　ludicrously　inefficient。　The
letter　was　torn　to　pieces。　She　stood　very　clearly　doomed。

After　a　fall　of　tears；　upon　looking　at　the　scraps；　she　dressed
herself；　and　sat　by　the　window　and　watched　the　blackbird　on　the
lawn　as　he　hopped　from　shafts　of　dewy　sunlight　to　the
long…stretched　dewy　tree…shadows；　considering　in　her　mind　that
dark　dews　are　more　meaningful　than　bright；　the　beauty　of　the　dews
of　woods　more　sweet　than　meadow…dews。　It　signified　only　that　she
was　quieter。　She　had　gone　through　her　crisis　in　the　anticipation
of　it。　That　is　how　quick　natures　will　often　be　cold　and　hard；　or
not　much　moved；　when　the　positive　crisis　arrives；　and　why　it　is
that　they　are　prepared　for　astonishing　leaps　over　the　gradations
which　should　render　their　conduct　comprehensible　to　us；　if　not
excuseable。　She　watched　the　blackbird　throw　up　his　head　stiffly；
and　peck　to　right　and　left；　dangling　the　worm　on　each　side　his
orange　beak。　Specklebreasted　thrushes　were　at　work。　and　a　wagtail
that　ran　as　with　Clara's　own　rapid　little　steps。　Thrush　and
blackbird　flew　to　the　nest。　They　had　wings。　The　lovely　morning
breathed　of　sweet　earth　into　her　open　window；　and　made　it　painful；
in　the　dense　twitter；　chirp；　cheep；　and　song　of　the　air；　to　resist
the　innocent　intoxication。　O　to　love！　was　not　said　by　her；　but　if
she　had　sung；　as　her　nature　prompted；　it　would　have　been。　Her　war
with　Willoughby　sprang　of　a　desire　to　love　repelled　by　distaste。　
Her　cry　for　freedom　was　a　cry　to　be　free　to　love：　she　discovered
it；　half　shuddering：　to　love；　oh！　nono　shape　of　man；　nor
impalpable　nature　either：　but　to　love　unselfishness；　and
helpfulness；　and　planted　strength　in　something。　Then；　loving　and
being　loved　a　little；　what　strength　would　be　hers！　She　could　utter
all　the　words　needed　to　Willoughby　and　to　her　father；　locked　in
her　love：　walking　in　this　world；　living　in　that。

Previously　she　had　cried；　despairing：　If　I　were　loved！　Jealousy　of
Constantia's　happiness；　envy　of　her　escape；　ruled　her　then：　and
she　remembered　the　cry；　though　not　perfectly　her　plain…speaking　to
herself：　she　chose　to　think　she　had　meant：　If　Willoughby　were
capable　of　truly　loving！　For　now　the　fire　of　her　brain　had　sunk；
and　refuges　and　subterfuges　were　round　about　it。　The　thought　of
personal　love　was　encouraged；　she　chose　to　think；　for　the　sake　of
the　strength　it　lent　her　to　carve　her　way　to　freedom。　She　had　just
before　felt　rather　the　reverse；　but　she　could　not　exist　with　that
feeling；　and　it　was　true　that　freedom　was　not　so　indistinct　in　her
fancy　as　the　idea　of　love。

Were　men；　when　they　were　known；　like　him　she　knew　too　well？

The　arch…tempter's　question　to　her　was　there。

She　put　it　away。　Wherever　she　turned　it　stood　observing　her。　She
knew　so　much　of　one　man；　nothing　of　the　rest：　naturally　she　was
curious。　Vernon　might　be　sworn　to　be　unlike。　But　he　was
exceptional。　What　of　the　other　in　the　house？

Maidens　are　commonly　reduced　to　read　the　masters　of　their
destinies　by　their　instincts；　and　when　these　have　been　edged　by
over…activity　they　must　hoodwink　their　maidenliness　to　suffer
themselves　to　read；　and　then　they　must　dupe　their　minds；　else　men
would　soon　see　they　were　gifted　to　discern。　Total　ignorance　being
their　pledge　of　purity　to　men；　they　have　to　expunge　the　writing　of
their　perceptives　on　the　tablets　of　the　brain：　they　have　to　know
not　when　they　do　know。　The　instinct　of　seeking　to　know；　crossed　by
the　task　of　blotting　knowledge　out；　creates　that　conflict　of　the
natural　with　the　artificial　creature　to　which　their　ultimately
revealed　double…face；　complained　of　by　ever…dissatisfied　men；　is
owing。　Wonder　in　no　degree　that　they　indulge　a　craving　to　be
fools；　or　that　many　of　them　act　the　character。　Jeer　at　them　as
little　for　not　showing　growth。　You　have　reared　them　to　this　pitch；
and　at　this　pitch　they　have　partly　civilized　you。　Supposing　you　to
want　it　done　wholly；　you　must　yield　just　as　many　points　in　your
requisitions　as　are　needed　to　let　the　wits　of　young　women　reap
their　due　harvest　and　be　of　good　use　to　their　souls。　You　will　then
have　a　fair　battle；　a　braver；　with　better　results。

Clara's　inner　eye　traversed　Colonel　De　Craye　at　a　shot。

She　had　immediately　to　blot　out　the　vision　of　Captain　Oxford　in
him；　the　revelation　of　his　laughing　contempt　for　Willoughby；　the
view　of　mercurial　principles；　the　scribbled　histories　of　light
love…passages。

She　blotted　it　out；　kept　it　from　her　mind：　so　she　knew　him；　knew
him　to　be　a　sweeter　and　a　variable　Willoughby；　a　generous　kind　of
Willoughby；　a　Willoughby…butterfly；　without　having　the　free　mind
to　summarize　him　and　picture　him　for　a　warning。　Scattered　features
of　him；　such　as　the　instincts　call　up；　were　not　sufficiently
impressive。　Besides；　the　clouded　mind　was　opposed　to　her　receiving
impressions。

Young　Crossjay's　voice　in　the　still　morning　air　came　to　her　cars。
The　dear　guileless　chatter　of　the　boy's　voice。　Why；　assuredly　it
was　young　Crossjay　who　was　the　man　she　loved。　And　he　loved　her。
And　he　was　going　to　be　an　unselfish；　sustaining；　true；　strong　man；
the　man　she　longed　for；　for　anchorage。　Oh；　the　dear　voice！
woodpecker　and　thrush　in　one。　He　never　ceased　to　chatter　to　Vernon
Whitford　walking　beside　him　with　a　swinging　stride　off　to　the　lake
for　their　morning　swim。　Happy　couple！　The　morning　gave　them　bo