This etext was produced by Pat Castevans <patcat@ctnet.net>
and David Widger <widger@cecomet.net>
By George Meredith
Meantime Wilfrid was leading a town-life and occasionally visitingStornley. He was certainly not in love with Lady CharlotteChillingworth, but he was in harness to that lady. In love we have someidea whither we would go: in harness we are simply driven, and thedestination may be anywhere. To be reduced to this condition (which willhappen now and then in the case of very young men who are growing up tosomething, and is, if a momentary shame to them, rather a sign of promisethan not) the gentle male need not be deeply fascinated. Lady Charlottewas not a fascinating person. She did not lay herself out to attract.Had she done so, she would have failed to catch Wilfrid, whose soulthirsted for poetical refinement and filmy delicacies in a woman. Whatshe had, and what he knew that he wanted, and could only at intervalsassume by acting as if he possessed it, was a victorious aplomb, whichgave her a sort of gallant glory in his sight. He could act it wellbefore his sisters, and here and there a damsel; and coming fresh fromLady Charlotte's school, he had recently done so with success, and hadseen the ladies feel toward him, as he felt under his instructress in theart. Some nature, however, is required for every piece of art. Wilfridknew that he had been brutal in his representation of the part, and theretrospect of his conduct at Brookfield did not satisfy his remorselesscritical judgement. In consequence, when he again saw Lady Charlotte,his admiration of that one prized characteristic of hers paralyzed him.She looked, and moved, and spoke, as if the earth were her own. She wasa note of true music, and he felt himself to be an indecisive chord;capable ultimately of a splendid performance, it might be, but at presentcrying out to be played upon. This is the condition of a man in harness,whom witlings may call what they will. He is subjugated: not won. Inthis state of subjugation he will joyfully sacrifice as much as a man inlove. For, having no consolatory sense of happiness, such as encirclesand makes a nest for lovers, he seeks to attain some stature, at least,by excesses of apparent devotion. Lady Charlotte believed herselfbeloved at last. She was about to strike thirty; and Rumour, stalkingwith a turban of cloud on her head,—enough that this shocking oldcelestial dowager, from condemnation had passed to pity of the dashinglady. Beloved at last! After a while there is no question of ourloving; but we thirst for love, if we have not had it. The key of LadyCharlotte will come in the course of events. She was at the doubtfulhour of her life, a warm-hearted woman, known to be so by few, generallyconsigned by devout-visaged Scandal (for who save the devout will dare tosit in the chair of judgement?) as a hopeless rebel against conventionallaws; and worse than that, far worse,—though what, is not said.
At Stornley the following letter from Emilia hit its mark:—
Dear Mr. Wilfrid,
"It is time for me to see you. Come when you have read this letter. Icannot tell you how I am, because my heart feels beating in another body.Pray come; come now. Come on a swift