Sandra Belloni by George Meredith, v2

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SANDRA BELLONI

By George Meredith

BOOK 2

XI. IN WHICH WE SEE THE MAGNANIMITY THAT IS IN BEER
XII. SHOWING HOW SENTIMENT AND PASSION TAKE
THE DISEASE OF LOVE
XIII. CONTAINS A SHORT DISCOURSE ON PUPPETS
XIV. THE BESWORTH QUESTION
XV. WILFRID'S EXHIBITION OF TREACHERY
XVI. HOW THE LADIES OF BROOKFIELD CAME TO THEIR RESOLVE
XVII. IN THE WOODS

CHAPTER XI

At half-past nine of the clock on the evening of this memorable day, a
body of five-and-twenty stout young fellows, prize-winners, wrestlers,
boxers, and topers, of the Hillford Club, set forth on a march to Ipley
Common.

Now, a foreigner, hearing of their destination and the provocation they
had endured, would have supposed that they were bent upon deeds of
vengeance; and it requires knowledge of our countrymen to take it as a
fact that the idea and aim of the expedition were simply to furnish the
offending Ipley boys a little music. Such were the idea and the aim.
Hillford had nothing to do with consequences: no more than our England is
responsible when she sails out among the empires and hemispheres, saying,
'buy' and 'sell,' and they clamour to be eaten up entire. Foreigners
pertinaciously misunderstand us. They have the barbarous habit of
judging by results. Let us know ourselves better. It is melancholy to
contemplate the intrigues, and vile designs, and vengeances of other
nations; and still more so, after we have written so many pages of
intelligible history, to see them attributed to us. Will it never be
perceived that we do not sow the thing that happens? The source of the
flooding stream which drinks up those rich acres of low flat land is not
more innocent than we. If, as does seem possible, we are in a sort of
alliance with Destiny, we have signed no compact, and accomplish our work
as solidly and merrily as a wood-hatchet in the hands of the woodman.
This arrangement to give Ipley a little music, was projected as a return
for the favours of the morning: nor have I in my time heard anything
comparable to it in charity of sentiment, when I consider the detestable
outrage Hillford suffered under.

The parading of the drum, the trombone, a horn, two whistles, and a fife,
in front of Hillford booth, caught the fancy of the Clubmen, who roared
out parting adjurations that the music was not to be spared; and that Tom
Breeks was a musical fellow, with a fine empty pate, if any one of the
instruments should fail perchance. They were to give Ipley plenty of
music: for Ipley wanted to be taught harmony. Harmony was Ipley's weak
point. "Gie 'em," said one jolly ruddy Hillford man, "gie 'em whack fol,
lol!" And he smacked himself, and set toward an invisible partner. Nor,
as recent renowned historians have proved, are observations of this
nature beneath the dignity of chronicle. They vindicate, as they
localize, the sincerity of Hillford.

Really, to be an islander full of ale, is to be the kindest creature on
or off two legs. For that very reason, it may be, his wrath at bad blood
is so easily aroused. In our hot moods we would desire things like unto
ourselves, and object violently to whatsoever is unlike. And also we
desire that the benefits we shed be appreciated. If Ipley understands
neither our music nor our intent, haply we must hold a performance on the
impenetrable sconce of Ipley.

At the hour named, the expedition, with many a promise that the music
should be sweet, departed hilariously: Will Burdock, the left-handed
cricketer and hard-hitter, being leader; with Peter Bartholomew, potboy,
John Girling, miller's man, and Ned Thewk, gardener's assistant, for
lieutenants. On the march, silence was proclaimed, and partially
enforced, after two fights against authority. Near the sign of King
William's Head, General Burdock called a halt, and betrayed irresolution
with reference to the route to be adopted; but as none of his troop could
at all share such a condition of mind in the neighbourhood of an inn, he
was permitted to debate peacefully with his lieutenants, while the rest
burst through the doors and hailed the landlord: a proceeding he was
quickly induced to imitate. Thus, when the tail shows strongest decision
of purpose, the head must follow.

An accurate oinometer, or method of determining what shall be the
condition of the spirit of man according to the degrees of wine or beer
in him, were surely of priceless service to us. For now must we, to be
certain of our sanity and dignity, abstain, which is to clip, impoverish,
imprison the soul: or else, taking wings of wine, we go aloft over capes,
and islands, and seas, but are even as balloons that cannot make for any
line, and are at the mercy of the winds--without a choice, save to come
down by virtue of a collapse. Could we say to ourselves, in the great
style, This is the point where desire to embrace humanity is merged in
vindictiveness toward individuals: where radiant sweet temper culminates
in tremendous wrath: where the treasures of anticipation, waxing riotous,
arouse the memory of wrongs: in plain words, could we know positively,
and from the hand of science, when we have had enough, we should stop.
There is not a doubt that we should stop. It is so true we should stop,
that, I am ready to say, ladies have no right to call us horrid names,
and complain of us, till they have helped us to some such trustworthy
scientific instrument as this which I have called for. In its absence, I
am persuaded that the true natural oinometer is the hat. Were the hat
always worn during potation; were ladies when they retire to place it on
our heads, or, better still, chaplets of flowers; then, like the wise
ancients, we should be able to tell to a nicety how far we had advanced
in our dithyramb to the theme of fuddle and muddle. Unhappily the hat
does not forewarn: it is simply indicative. I believe, nevertheless,
that science might set to work upon it forthwith, and found a system.
When you mark men drinking who wear their hats, and those hats are seen
gradually beginning to hang on the backs of their heads, as from pegs, in
the fashion of a fez, the bald projection of forehead looks jolly and
frank: distrust that sign: the may-fly of the soul is then about to be
gobbled up by the chub of the passions. A hat worn fez-fashion is a
dangerous hat. A hat on the brows shows a man who can take more, but
thinks he will go home instead, and does so, peaceably. That is his
determination. He may look like Macduff, but he is a lamb. The vinous
reverses the non-vinous passionate expression of the hat. If I am
discredited, I appeal to history, which tells us that the hats of the
Hillford five-and-twenty were all exceedingly hind-ward-set when the
march was resumed. It followed that Peter Bartholomew, potboy, made
irritable objections to that old joke which finished his name as though
it were a cat calling, and the offence being repeated, he dealt an
impartial swing of his stick at divers heads, and told them to take that,
which they assured him they had done by sending him flying into a hedge.
Peter, being reprimanded by his commanding officer, acknowledged a hot
desire to try his mettle, and the latter responsible person had to be
restrained from granting the wish he cherished by John Girling, whom he
threw for his trouble and as Burdock was the soundest hitter, numbers
cried out against Girling, revolting him with a sense of overwhelming
injustice that could be appeased only by his prostrating two stout lads
and squaring against a third, who came up from a cross-road. This one
knocked him down with the gentleness of a fist that knows how Beer should
be treated, and then sang out, in the voice of Wilfrid Pole: "Which is
the nearest way to Ipley, you fellows?"

"Come along with us, sir, and we'll show you," said Burdock.

"Are you going there?"

"Well, that's pretty clear."

"Hillford men, are you?"

"We've left the women behind."

"I'm in a hurry, so, good night."

"And so are we in a hurry, sir. But, you're a gentleman, and we want to
give them chaps at Ipley a little surprise, d'ye see, in the way of a
dollop o' music: and if you won't go givin' 'em warning, you may trot;
and that road'll take you."

"All right," said Wilfrid, now fairly divided between his jealousy of
Gambier and anxiety for Emilia.

Could her artist nature, of which he had heard perplexing talk, excuse
her and make her heart absolutely guiltless (what he called 'innocent'),
in trusting herself to any man's honour? I regret to say that the dainty
adorers of the sex are even thus grossly suspicious of all women when
their sentiment is ever so triflingly offended.

Lights on Ipley Common were seen from a rise of the hilly road. The moon
was climbing through drifts of torn black cloud. Hastening his pace, for
a double reason now, Wilfrid had the booth within hearing, listened a
moment; and then stood fast. His unconscious gasp of the words: "Thank
God; there she is!" might have betrayed him to another.

She was sitting near one end of the booth, singing as Wilfrid had never
yet heard her sing: her dark eyes flashing. Behind her stood Captain
Gambier, keeping guard with all the composure of a gentleman-usher at a
royal presentation. Along the tables, men and women were ranged facing
her; open-mouthed, some of them but for the most part wearing a
predetermined expression of applausive judgement, as who should say,
"Queer, but good." They gave Emilia their faces, which was all she
wanted! and silence, save for an intermingling soft snore, here and
there, the elfin trumpet of silence. To tell truth, certain heads had
bowed low to the majesty of beer, and were down on the table between
sprawling doubled arms. No essay on the power of beer could exhibit it
more convincingly than, the happy indifference with which they received
admonishing blows from quart-pots, salutes from hot pipe-bowls, pricks
from pipe-ends, on nose, and cheek, and pate; as if to vindicate for
their beloved beverage a right to rank with that old classic drink
wherewith the fairest of women vanquished human ills. The majority,
however, had been snatched out of this bliss by the intrusion of their
wives, who sat beside them like Consciences in petticoats; and it must be
said that Emilia was in favour with the married men, for one reason,
because she gave these broad-ribboned ladies a good excuse for allowing
their lords to stop where they were so comfortable, a continually-
extending five minutes longer.

Yet, though the words were foreign and the style of the song and the
singer were strange, many of the older fellows' eyes twinkled, and their
mouths pursed with a kind of half-protesting pleasure. All were reverent
to the compliment paid them by Emilia's presence. The general expression
was much like that seen when the popular ear is given to the national
anthem. Wilfrid hung at the opening of the booth, a cynical spectator.
For what on earth made her throw such energy, and glory of music, into a
song before fellows like these? He laughed dolorously. "she hasn't a
particle of any sense of ridicule," he said to himself. Forthwith her
voice took hold of him, and led him as heroes of old were led unwillingly
into enchanted woods. If she had been singing things holy, a hymn, a
hallelujah, in this company, it struck him that somehow it would have
seemed appropriate; not objectionable; at any rate, not ridiculous. Dr.
Watts would have put a girdle about her; but a song of romance sung in
this atmosphere of pipes and beer and boozy heads, chagrined Wilfrid in
proportion as the softer half of him began to succumb to the
deliciousness of her voice.

Emilia may have had some warning sense that admiration is only one
ingredient of homage, that to make it fast and true affection must be
won. Now, poor people, yokels, clods, cannot love what is
incomprehensible to them. An idol must have their attributes: a king
must show his face now and then: a song must appeal to their
intelligence, to subdue them quite. This, as we know, is not the case in
the higher circles. Emilia may have divined it: possibly from the very
great respect with which her finale was greeted. Vigorous as the
"Brayvos" were, they sounded abashed: they lacked abandonment. In fact,
it was gratitude that applauded, and not enthusiasm. "Hillford don't
hear stuff like that, do 'em?" which was the main verbal encomium passed,
may be taken testificatorily as to this point.

"Dame! dame!" cried Emilia, finding her way quickly to one of the more
decently-bonneted women; "am I not glad to see you here! Did I please
you? And you, dear Farmer Wilson? I caught sight of you just as I was
finishing. I remember the song you like, and I want to sing it. I know
the tune, but the words! the words! what are the words? Humming won't
do."

"Ah, now!" quoth Farmer Wilson, pointing out the end of his pipe, "that's
what they'll swallow down; that's the song to make 'em kick. Sing that,
miss. Furrin songs 's all right enough; but 'Ale it is my tipple, and
England is my nation!' Let's have something plain and flat on the
surface, miss."

Dame Wilson jogged her husband's arm, to make him remember that talking
was his dangerous pastime, and sent abroad a petition for a song-book;
and after a space a very doggy-eared book, resembling a poodle of that
genus, was handed to her. Then uprose a shout for this song and that;
but Emilia fixed upon the one she had in view, and walked back to her
harp, with her head bent, perusing it attentively all the way. There,
she gave the book to Captain Gambier, and begged him to hold it open
before her, with a passing light of eyes likely to be rather disturbing
to a jealous spectator. The Captain seized the book without wincing, and
displayed a remarkable equanimity of countenance as he held it out,
according to direction. No sooner had Emilia struck a prelude of the
well-known air, than the interior of the booth was transfigured; legs
began to move, elbows jerked upward, fingers fillipped: the whole body of
them were ready to duck and bow, dance, and do her bidding she had fairly
caught their hearts. For, besides the pleasure they had in their own
familiar tune, it was wonderful to them that Emilia should know what they
knew. This was the marvel, this the inspiration. She smiled to see how
true she had struck, and seemed to swim on the pleasure she excited.
Once, as her voice dropped, she looked up at Captain Gambier, so very
archly, with the curving line of her bare throat, that Wilfrid was
dragged down from his cynical observatory, and made to feel as a common
man among them all.

At the "thrum-thrum" on the harp-strings, which wound up the song,
frenzied shouts were raised for a repetition. Emilia was perfectly
willing to gratify them; Captain Gambier appeared to be remonstrating
with her, but she put up her joined hands,
mock-petitioningly, and he with great affability held out the book anew.
Wilfrid was thinking of moving to her to take her forcibly away when she
recommenced.

At the same instant--but who, knowing that a house of glass is about to
be shattered, can refrain from admiring its glitter in the beams?--Ipley
crooned a ready accompaniment: the sleepers had been awakened: the women
and the men were alive, half-dancing, half-chorusing here a baby was
tossed, and there an old fellow's elbow worked mutely, expressive of the
rollicking gaiety within him: the whole length of the booth was in a
pleasing simmer, ready to overboil with shouts humane and cheerful, while
Emilia pitched her note and led; archly, and quite one with them all, and
yet in a way that critical Wilfrid could not object to, so plainly did
she sing to give happiness.

I cannot delay; but I request you, that are here privileged to soar aloft
with the Muse, to fix your minds upon one point in this flight. Let not
the heat and dust of the ensuing fray divert your attention from the
magnanimity of Beer. It will be vindicated in the end but be worthy of
your seat beside the Muse, who alone of us all can take one view of the
inevitable two that perplex mortal judgements.

For, if Ipley had jumped jovially up, and met the Hillford alarum with
laughter,--how then? Why, then I maintain that the magnanimity of Beer
would have blazed effulgent on the spot: there would have been louder
laughter and fraternal greetings. As it was, the fire on the altar of
Wisdom was again kindled by Folly, and the steps to the altar were broken
heads, after the antique fashion.

In dismay, Ipley started. The members of the Club stared. Emilia
faltered in horror.

A moment her voice swam stemming the execrable concert, but it was
overwhelmed. Wilfrid pressed forward to her. They could hear nothing
but the din. The booth raged like an insurgent menagerie. Outside it
sounded of brazen beasts, and beasts that whistled, beasts that boomed.
A whirlwind huddled them, and at last a cry, "We've got a visit from
Hillford," told a tale. At once the stoutest hearts pressed to the
opening. "My harp!" Emilia made her voice reach Wilfrid's ear.
Unprovided with weapons, Ipley parleyed. Hillford howled in reply. The
trombone brayed an interminable note, that would have driven to madness
quiescent cats by steaming kettles, and quick, like the springing pulse
of battle, the drum thumped and thumped. Blood could not hear it and
keep from boiling. The booth shook violently. Wilfrid and Gambier threw
over half-a-dozen chairs, forms, and tables, to make a barrier for the
protection of the women.

"Come," Wilfrid said to Emilia, "leave the harp, I will get you another.
Come."

"No, no," she cried in her nervous fright.

"For God's sake, come!" he reiterated, she, stamping her foot, as to
emphasize "No! no! no!"

"But I will buy you another harp;" he made audible to her through the
hubbub.

"This one!" she gasped with her hand on it. "What will he think if he
finds that I forsook it?"

Wilfrid knew her to allude to the unknown person who had given it to her.

"There--there," said he. "I sent it, and I can get you another. So,
come. Be good, and come."

"It was you!"

Emilia looked at him. She seemed to have no senses for the uproar about
her.

But now the outer barricade was broken through, and the rout pressed on
the second line. Tom Breeks, the orator, and Jim, transformed from a
lurching yokel to a lithe dog of battle, kept the retreat of Ipley,
challenging any two of Hillford to settle the dispute. Captain Gambier
attempted an authoritative parley, in the midst of which a Hillford man
made a long arm and struck Emilia's harp, till the strings jarred loose
and horrid. The noise would have been enough to irritate Wilfrid beyond
endurance. When he saw the fellow continuing to strike the harp-frame
while Emilia clutched it, in a feeble defence, against her bosom, he
caught a thick stick from a neighbouring hand and knocked that Hillford
man so clean to earth that Hillford murmured at the blow. Wilfrid then
joined the front array.

"Half-a-dozen hits like that a-piece, sir," nodded Tom Breeks.

"There goes another!" Jim shouted.

"Not quite, my lad," interposed Ned Thewk, though Peter Bartholomew was
reeling in confirmation.

His blow at Jim missed, but came sharply in the swing on Wilfrid's cheek-
bone.

Maddened at the immediate vision of that feature swollen, purple, even as
a plum with an assiduous fly on it, certifying to ripeness:--Says the
philosopher, "We are never up to the mark of any position, if we are in a
position beneath our own mark;" and it is true that no hero in conflict
should think of his face, but Wilfrid was all the while protesting
wrathfully against the folly of his having set foot in such a place:--
Maddened, I say, Wilfrid, a keen swordman, cleared a space. John Girling
fell to him: Ned Thewk fell to him, and the sconce of Will Burdock rang.

"A rascally absurd business!" said Gambier, letting his stick do the part
of a damnatory verb on one of the enemy, while he added, "The drunken
vagabonds!"

All the Hillford party were now in the booth. Ipley, meantime, was not
sleeping. Farmer Wilson and a set of the Ipley men whom age had
sagaciously instructed to prefer stratagem to force, had slipped outside,
and were labouring as busily as their comrades within: stooping to the
tent-pegs, sending emissaries to the tent-poles.

"Drunk!" roared Will Burdock. "Did you happen to say 'drunk?'" And
looking all the while at Gambier, he, with infernal cunning, swung at
Wilfrid's fated cheekbone. The latter rushed furiously into the press of
them, and there was a charge from Ipley, and a lock, from which Wilfrid
extricated himself to hurry off Emilia. He perceived that bad blood was
boiling up.

"Forward!" cried Will Burdock, and Hillford in turn made a tide.

As they came on in numbers too great for Ipley to stand against, an
obscuration fell over all. The fight paused. Then a sensation as of
some fellows smoothing their polls and their cheeks, and leaning on their
shoulders with obtrusive affection, inspirited them to lash about
indiscriminately. Whoops and yells arose; then peals of laughter.
Homage to the cleverness of Ipley was paid in hurrahs, the moment
Hillford understood the stratagem by which its men of valour were lamed
and imprisoned. The truth was, that the booth was down on them, and they
were struggling entangled in an enormous bag of canvas.

Wilfrid drew Emilia from under the drooping folds of the tent. He was
allowed, on inspection of features, to pass. The men of Hillford were
captured one by one like wild geese, as with difficulty they emerged,
roaring, rolling with laughter, all.

Yea; to such an extent did they laugh that they can scarce be said to
have done less than make the joke of the foe their own. And this proves
the great and amazing magnanimity of Beer.

CHAPTER XII

A pillar of dim silver rain fronted the moon on the hills. Emilia walked
hurriedly, with her head bent, like a penitent: now and then peeping up
and breathing to the keen scent of the tender ferns. Wilfrid still
grasped her hand, and led her across the common, away from the rout.

When the uproar behind them had sunk, he said "You'll get your feet wet.
I'm sorry you should have to walk. How did you come here?"

She answered: "I forget."

"You must have come here in some conveyance. Did you walk?"

Again she answered: "I forget;" a little querulously; perhaps wilfully.

"Well!" he persisted: "You must have got your harp to this place by some
means or other?"

"Yes, my harp!" a sob checked her voice.

Wilfrid tried to soothe her. "Never mind the harp. It's easily
replaced."

"Not that one!" she moaned.

"We will get you another."

"I shall never love any but that."

"Perhaps we may hear good news of it to-morrow."

"No; for I felt it die in my hands. The third blow was the one that
killed it. It's broken."

Wilfrid could not reproach her, and he had not any desire to preach. So,
as no idea of having done amiss in coming to the booth to sing illumined
her, and she yet knew that she was in some way guilty, she accused
herself of disregard for that dear harp while it was brilliant and
serviceable. "Now I remember what poor music I made of it! I touched it
with cold fingers. The sound was thin, as if it had no heart. Tick-
tick!--I fancy I touched it with a dead man's finger-nails."

She crossed her wrists tight at the clasp of her waist, and letting her
chin fall on her throat, shook her body fretfully, much as a pettish
little girl might do. Wilfrid grimaced. "Tick-tick" was not a pathetic
elegy in his ears.

"The only thing is, not to think about it," said he. "It's only an
instrument, after all."

"It's the second one I've seen killed like a living creature," replied
Emilia.

They walked on silently, till Wilfrid remarked, that he wondered where
Gambier was. She gave no heed to the name. The little quiet footing and
the bowed head by his side, moved him to entreat her not to be unhappy.
Her voice had another tone when she answered that she was not unhappy.

"No tears at all?" Wilfrid stooped to get a close view of her face. "I
thought I saw one. If it's about the harp, look!--you shall go into that
cottage where the light is, sit there, and wait for me, and I will bring
you what remains of it. I dare say we can have it mended."

Emilia lifted her eyes. "I am not crying for the harp. If you go back I
must go with you."

"That's out of the question. You must never be found in that sort of
place again."

"Let us leave the harp," she murmured. "You cannot go without me. Let
me sit here for a minute. Sit with me."

She pointed to a place beside herself on the fork of a dry log under
flowering hawthorn. A pale shadowy blue centre of light among the clouds
told where the moon was. Rain had ceased, and the refreshed earth smelt
all of flowers, as if each breeze going by held a nosegay to their
nostrils.

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