CHAPTER X.

_1st Gent._ What woman should be? Sir, consult the taste
Of marriageable men. This planet's store
In iron, cotton, wool, or chemicals--
All matter rendered to our plastic skill,
Is wrought in shapes responsive to demand;
The market's pulse makes index high or low,
By rule sublime. Our daughters must be wives,
And to the wives must be what men will choose;
Men's taste is woman's test. You mark the phrase?
'Tis good, I think?--the sense well-winged and poised
With t's and s's.
_2nd Gent._ Nay, but turn it round;
Give us the test of taste. A fine _menu_--
Is it to-day what Roman epicures
Insisted that a gentleman must eat
To earn the dignity of dining well?


Brackenshaw Park, where the Archery Meeting was held, looked out from its
gentle heights far over the neighboring valley to the outlying eastern
downs and the broad, slow rise of cultivated country, hanging like a vast
curtain toward the west. The castle which stood on the highest platform of
the clustered hills, was built of rough-hewn limestone, full of lights and
shadows made by the dark dust of lichens and the washings of the rain.
Masses of beech and fir sheltered it on the north, and spread down here
and there along the green slopes like flocks seeking the water which
gleamed below. The archery-ground was a carefully-kept enclosure on a bit
of table-land at the farthest end of the park, protected toward the
southwest by tall elms and a thick screen of hollies, which kept the
gravel walk and the bit of newly-mown turf where the targets were placed
in agreeable afternoon shade. The Archery Hall with an arcade in front
showed like a white temple against the greenery on the north side.

What could make a better background for the flower-groups of ladies,
moving and bowing and turning their necks as it would become the leisurely
lilies to do if they took to locomotion. The sounds too were very pleasant
to hear, even when the military band from Wanchester ceased to play:
musical laughs in all the registers and a harmony of happy, friendly
speeches, now rising toward mild excitement, now sinking to an agreeable
murmur.

No open-air amusement could be much freer from those noisy, crowding
conditions which spoil most modern pleasures; no Archery Meeting could be
more select, the number of friends accompanying the members being
restricted by an award of tickets, so as to keep the maximum within the
limits of convenience for the dinner and ball to be held in the castle.
Within the enclosure no plebeian spectators were admitted except Lord
Brackenshaw's tenants and their families, and of these it was chiefly the
feminine members who used the privilege, bringing their little boys and
girls or younger brothers and sisters. The males among them relieved the
insipidity of the entertainment by imaginative betting, in which the stake
was "anything you like," on their favorite archers; but the young maidens,
having a different principle of discrimination, were considering which of
those sweetly-dressed ladies they would choose to be, if the choice were
allowed them. Probably the form these rural souls would most have striven
for as a tabernacle, was some other than Gwendolen's--one with more pink
in her cheeks and hair of the most fashionable yellow; but among the male
judges in the ranks immediately surrounding her there was unusual
unanimity in pronouncing her the finest girl present.

No wonder she enjoyed her existence on that July day. Pre-eminence is
sweet to those who love it, even under mediocre circumstances. Perhaps it
was not quite mythical that a slave has been proud to be bought first; and
probably a barn-door fowl on sale, though he may not have understood
himself to be called the best of a bad lot, may have a self-informed
consciousness of his relative importance, and strut consoled. But for
complete enjoyment the outward and the inward must concur. And that
concurrence was happening to Gwendolen.

Who can deny that bows and arrows are among the prettiest weapons in the
world for feminine forms to play with? They prompt attitudes full of grace
and power, where that fine concentration of energy seen in all
markmanship, is freed from associations of bloodshed. The time-honored
British resources of "killing something" is no longer carried on with bow
and quiver; bands defending their passes against an invading nation fight
under another sort of shade than a cloud of arrows; and poisoned darts are
harmless survivals either in rhetoric or in regions comfortably remote.
Archery has no ugly smell of brimstone; breaks nobody's shins, breeds no
athletic monsters; its only danger is that of failing, which for generous
blood is enough to mould skilful action. And among the Brackenshaw archers
the prizes were all of the nobler symbolic kind; not properly to be
carried off in a parcel, degrading honor into gain; but the gold arrow and
the silver, the gold star and the silver, to be worn for a long time in
sign of achievement and then transferred to the next who did excellently.
These signs of pre-eminence had the virtue of wreaths without their
inconveniences, which might have produced a melancholy effect in the heat
of the ball-room. Altogether the Brackenshaw Archery Club was an
institution framed with good taste, so as not to have by necessity any
ridiculous incidents.

And to-day all incalculable elements were in its favor. There was mild
warmth, and no wind to disturb either hair or drapery or the course of the
arrow; all skillful preparation had fair play, and when there was a
general march to extract the arrows, the promenade of joyous young
creatures in light speech and laughter, the graceful movement in common
toward a common object, was a show worth looking at. Here Gwendolen seemed
a Calypso among her nymphs. It was in her attitudes and movements that
every one was obliged to admit her surpassing charm.

"That girl is like a high-mettled racer," said Lord Brackenshaw to young
Clintock, one of the invited spectators.

"First chop! tremendously pretty too," said the elegant Grecian, who had
been paying her assiduous attention; "I never saw her look better."

Perhaps she had never looked so well. Her face was beaming with young
pleasure in which there was no malign rays of discontent; for being
satisfied with her own chances, she felt kindly toward everybody and was
satisfied with the universe. Not to have the highest distinction in rank,
not to be marked out as an heiress, like Miss Arrowpoint, gave an added
triumph in eclipsing those advantages. For personal recommendation she
would not have cared to change the family group accompanying her for any
other: her mamma's appearance would have suited an amiable duchess; her
uncle and aunt Gascoigne with Anna made equally gratifying figures in
their way; and Gwendolen was too full of joyous belief in herself to feel
in the least jealous though Miss Arrowpoint was one of the best
archeresses.

Even the reappearance of the formidable Herr Klesmer, which caused some
surprise in the rest of the company, seemed only to fall in with
Gwendolen's inclination to be amused. Short of Apollo himself, what great
musical _maestro_ could make a good figure at an archery meeting? There
was a very satirical light in Gwendolen's eyes as she looked toward the
Arrowpoint party on their first entrance, when the contrast between
Klesmer and the average group of English country people seemed at its
utmost intensity in the close neighborhood of his hosts--or patrons, as
Mrs. Arrowpoint would have liked to hear them called, that she might deny
the possibility of any longer patronizing genius, its royalty being
universally acknowledged. The contrast might have amused a graver
personage than Gwendolen. We English are a miscellaneous people, and any
chance fifty of us will present many varieties of animal architecture or
facial ornament; but it must be admitted that our prevailing expression is
not that of a lively, impassioned race, preoccupied with the ideal and
carrying the real as a mere make-weight. The strong point of the English
gentleman pure is the easy style of his figure and clothing; he objects to
marked ins and outs in his costume, and he also objects to looking
inspired.

Fancy an assemblage where the men had all that ordinary stamp of the well-
bred Englishman, watching the entrance of Herr Klesmer--his mane of hair
floating backward in massive inconsistency with the chimney-pot hat, which
had the look of having been put on for a joke above his pronounced but
well-modeled features and powerful clear-shaven mouth and chin; his tall,
thin figure clad in a way which, not being strictly English, was all the
worse for its apparent emphasis of intention. Draped in a loose garment
with a Florentine _berretta_ on his head, he would have been fit to stand
by the side of Leonardo de Vinci; but how when he presented himself in
trousers which were not what English feeling demanded about the knees?--
and when the fire that showed itself in his glances and the movements of
his head, as he looked round him with curiosity, was turned into comedy by
a hat which ruled that mankind should have well-cropped hair and a staid
demeanor, such, for example, as Mr. Arrowsmith's, whose nullity of face
and perfect tailoring might pass everywhere without ridicule? One feels
why it is often better for greatness to be dead, and to have got rid of
the outward man.

Many present knew Klesmer, or knew of him; but they had only seen him on
candle-light occasions when he appeared simply as a musician, and he had
not yet that supreme, world-wide celebrity which makes an artist great to
the most ordinary people by their knowledge of his great expensiveness. It
was literally a new light for them to see him in--presented unexpectedly
on this July afternoon in an exclusive society: some were inclined to
laugh, others felt a little disgust at the want of judgment shown by the
Arrowpoints in this use of an introductory card.

"What extreme guys those artistic fellows usually are?" said young
Clintock to Gwendolen. "Do look at the figure he cuts, bowing with his
hand on his heart to Lady Brackenshaw--and Mrs. Arrowpoint's feather just
reaching his shoulder."

"You are one of the profane," said Gwendolen. "You are blind to the
majesty of genius. Herr Klesmer smites me with awe; I feel crushed in his
presence; my courage all oozes from me."

"Ah, you understand all about his music."

"No, indeed," said Gwendolen, with a light laugh; "it is he who
understands all about mine and thinks it pitiable." Klesmer's verdict on
her singing had been an easier joke to her since he had been struck by her
_plastik_.

"It is not addressed to the ears of the future, I suppose. I'm glad of
that: it suits mine."

"Oh, you are very kind. But how remarkably well Miss Arrowpoint looks to-
day! She would make quite a fine picture in that gold-colored dress."

"Too splendid, don't you think?"

"Well, perhaps a little too symbolical--too much like the figure of Wealth
in an allegory."

This speech of Gwendolen's had rather a malicious sound, but it was not
really more than a bubble of fun. She did not wish Miss Arrowpoint or any
one else to be out of the way, believing in her own good fortune even more
than in her skill. The belief in both naturally grew stronger as the
shooting went on, for she promised to achieve one of the best scores--a
success which astonished every one in a new member; and to Gwendolen's
temperament one success determined another. She trod on air, and all
things pleasant seemed possible. The hour was enough for her, and she was
not obliged to think what she should do next to keep her life at the due
pitch.

"How does the scoring stand, I wonder?" said Lady Brackenshaw, a gracious
personage who, adorned with two little girls and a boy of stout make, sat
as lady paramount. Her lord had come up to her in one of the intervals of
shooting. "It seems to me that Miss Harleth is likely to win the gold
arrow."

"Gad, I think she will, if she carries it on! she is running Juliet Fenn
hard. It is wonderful for one in her first year. Catherine is not up to
her usual mark," continued his lordship, turning to the heiress's mother
who sat near. "But she got the gold arrow last time. And there's a luck
even in these games of skill. That's better. It gives the hinder ones a
chance."

"Catherine will be very glad for others to win," said Mrs. Arrowpoint,
"she is so magnanimous. It was entirely her considerateness that made us
bring Herr Klesmer instead of Canon Stopley, who had expressed a wish to
come. For her own pleasure, I am sure she would rather have brought the
Canon; but she is always thinking of others. I told her it was not quite
_en regle_ to bring one so far out of our own set; but she said, 'Genius
itself is not _en regle_; it comes into the world to make new rules.' And
one must admit that."

"Ay, to be sure," said Lord Brackenshaw, in a tone of careless dismissal,
adding quickly, "For my part, I am not magnanimous; I should like to win.
But, confound it! I never have the chance now. I'm getting old and idle.
The young ones beat me. As old Nestor says--the gods don't give us
everything at one time: I was a young fellow once, and now I am getting an
old and wise one. Old, at any rate; which is a gift that comes to
everybody if they live long enough, so it raises no jealousy." The Earl
smiled comfortably at his wife.

"Oh, my lord, people who have been neighbors twenty years must not talk to
each other about age," said Mrs. Arrowpoint. "Years, as the Tuscans say,
are made for the letting of houses. But where is our new neighbor? I
thought Mr. Grandcourt was to be here to-day."

"Ah, by the way, so he was. The time's getting on too," said his lordship,
looking at his watch. "But he only got to Diplow the other day. He came to
us on Tuesday and said he had been a little bothered. He may have been
pulled in another direction. Why, Gascoigne!"--the rector was just then
crossing at a little distance with Gwendolen on his arm, and turned in
compliance with the call--"this is a little too bad; you not only beat us
yourself, but you bring up your niece to beat all the archeresses."

"It _is_ rather scandalous in her to get the better of elder members,"
said Mr. Gascoigne, with much inward satisfaction curling his short upper
lip. "But it is not my doing, my lord. I only meant her to make a
tolerable figure, without surpassing any one."

"It is not my fault, either," said Gwendolen, with pretty archness. "If I
am to aim, I can't help hitting."

"Ay, ay, that may be a fatal business for some people," said Lord
Brackenshaw, good-humoredly; then taking out his watch and looking at Mrs.
Arrowpoint again--"The time's getting on, as you say. But Grandcourt is
always late. I notice in town he's always late, and he's no bowman--
understands nothing about it. But I told him he must come; he would see
the flower of the neighborhood here. He asked about you--had seen
Arrowpoint's card. I think you had not made his acquaintance in town. He
has been a good deal abroad. People don't know him much."

"No; we are strangers," said Mrs. Arrowpoint. "But that is not what might
have been expected. For his uncle Sir Hugo Mallinger and I are great
friends when we meet."

"I don't know; uncles and nephews are not so likely to be seen together as
uncles and nieces," said his lordship, smiling toward the rector. "But
just come with me one instant, Gascoigne, will you? I want to speak a word
about the clout-shooting."

Gwendolen chose to go too and be deposited in the same group with her
mamma and aunt until she had to shoot again. That Mr. Grandcourt might
after all not appear on the archery-ground, had begun to enter into
Gwendolen's thought as a possible deduction from the completeness of her
pleasure. Under all her saucy satire, provoked chiefly by her divination
that her friends thought of him as a desirable match for her, she felt
something very far from indifference as to the impression she would make
on him. True, he was not to have the slightest power over her (for
Gwendolen had not considered that the desire to conquer is itself a sort
of subjection); she had made up her mind that he was to be one of those
complimentary and assiduously admiring men of whom even her narrow
experience had shown her several with various-colored beards and various
styles of bearing; and the sense that her friends would want her to think
him delightful, gave her a resistant inclination to presuppose him
ridiculous. But that was no reason why she could spare his presence: and
even a passing prevision of trouble in case she despised and refused him,
raised not the shadow of a wish that he should save her that trouble by
showing no disposition to make her an offer. Mr. Grandcourt taking hardly
any notice of her, and becoming shortly engaged to Miss Arrowpoint, was
not a picture which flattered her imagination.

Hence Gwendolen had been all ear to Lord Brackenshaw's mode of accounting
for Grandcourt's non-appearance; and when he did arrive, no consciousness
--not even Mrs. Arrowpoint's or Mr. Gascoigne's--was more awake to the
fact than hers, although she steadily avoided looking toward any point
where he was likely to be. There should be no slightest shifting of angles
to betray that it was of any consequence to her whether the much-talked-of
Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt presented himself or not. She became again
absorbed in the shooting, and so resolutely abstained from looking round
observantly that, even supposing him to have taken a conspicuous place
among the spectators, it might be clear she was not aware of him. And all
the while the certainty that he was there made a distinct thread in her
consciousness. Perhaps her shooting was the better for it: at any rate, it
gained in precision, and she at last raised a delightful storm of clapping
and applause by three hits running in the gold--a feat which among the
Brackenshaw arches had not the vulgar reward of a shilling poll-tax, but
that of a special gold star to be worn on the breast. That moment was not
only a happy one to herself--it was just what her mamma and her uncle
would have chosen for her. There was a general falling into ranks to give
her space that she might advance conspicuously to receive the gold star
from the hands of Lady Brackenshaw; and the perfect movement of her fine
form was certainly a pleasant thing to behold in the clear afternoon light
when the shadows were long and still. She was the central object of that
pretty picture, and every one present must gaze at her. That was enough:
she herself was determined to see nobody in particular, or to turn her
eyes any way except toward Lady Brackenshaw, but her thoughts undeniably
turned in other ways. It entered a little into her pleasure that Herr
Klesmer must be observing her at a moment when music was out of the
question, and his superiority very far in the back-ground; for vanity is
as ill at ease under indifference as tenderness is under a love which it
cannot return; and the unconquered Klesmer threw a trace of his malign
power even across her pleasant consciousness that Mr. Grandcourt was
seeing her to the utmost advantage, and was probably giving her an
admiration unmixed with criticism. She did not expect to admire _him_, but
that was not necessary to her peace of mind.

Gwendolen met Lady Brackenshaw's gracious smile without blushing (which
only came to her when she was taken by surprise), but with a charming
gladness of expression, and then bent with easy grace to have the star
fixed near her shoulder. That little ceremony had been over long enough
for her to have exchanged playful speeches and received congratulations as
she moved among the groups who were now interesting themselves in the
results of the scoring; but it happened that she stood outside examining
the point of an arrow with rather an absent air when Lord Brackenshaw came
up to her and said:

"Miss Harleth, here is a gentleman who is not willing to wait any longer
for an introduction. He has been getting Mrs. Davilow to send me with him.
Will you allow me to introduce Mr. Mallinger Grandcourt?"