Chapter Twenty Six.
“In my own heart love had not been made wise
To trace love’s faint beginnings in mankind,
To know even hate is but a mask of love’s,
To see a good in evil, and a hope
In ill-success.”
Paracelsus.
Ada’s frame of mind at this time was one of thorough content and satisfaction. She had always taken life smoothly and with a certain ease, perhaps inherited from her aunt, and she could manage either to slip round its little angles and roughnesses, or else to exert a faculty of not perceiving or comprehending them, to a really remarkable extent. She was so well satisfied with herself that it never appeared possible that others should not share the satisfaction to the full; and this armour, call it amiability or self-complacency or what you will, made her absolutely impervious to the darts which prick and goad more thin-skinned victims. Even to good-natured Mrs Bennett it had sometimes become apparent that Anthony was not so ardent a lover as might have been expected, that he expressed no anxiety about the wedding-day, that he was often late in coming, and not infrequently stayed away when there was no reason to account for his absence; but Ada was never ruffled by such reflections. It was a matter of course that Anthony should be most happy when he was by her side, and if he were obliged to stay away, she expressed a little contented pity, and smiled, worked, and talked, with a serene absence of misgivings. Hers was not a nature to be quickened into rare moments of deep delight; Anthony was simply one of the things which had been sent to make her life what she had always expected; it was a good match, as her uncle had repeatedly assured her, they would have money, comforts, an excellent position; but she had never been troubled with any doubt that in due time all these would naturally come to her, and everything seemed only moving in the sequence that was to be expected. Of any unfulfilled dream, or sense of dissatisfaction in the relations between herself and Anthony, she was unconscious, for the reason that it never entered her mind to conceive of herself as other than she was.
Nevertheless, although her reflections could not so much as touch the possibility of discontent on her lover’s part, she was aware now and then that he was both dull and moody, and it was in her eyes one of the appointed pleasures of her lot that Mr Warren should be more attentive and bent upon displaying his devotion than in the days which preceded her engagement Mr Bennett used to laugh, and declare that Miles would be jealous; but he was an honourable and unsuspicious man, more pleased at an occasion for a joke than troubled by fear of mischief-making, nor indeed had the thought of an actual preference to Anthony—Anthony, be it observed, comprising all that he could give—entered further into Ada’s head than her uncle’s. It was simply that Mr Warren’s attentions and little compliments were agreeable to her, and she had never been accustomed to deny herself what she liked. Anthony himself was indifferent about the matter, considering young Warren an empty-pated and harmless youth, and wondering a little that Ada should make him welcome to the house, but beyond that not troubling his head. The Bennetts were so hospitable, their house so open, that it was hardly possible to conceive a shutting of doors upon any one; and if such a thing were needed, there was a natural solution in the kindly interest Mr Bennett was known to show towards the young men who worked with him. Both Mr Bennett and Anthony were ignorant of a good deal that passed, such as meetings which were certainly not the result of chance, and which Underham discussed actively. But after what has been told, Anthony Miles could scarcely have borne to have found fault with Ada, even if he had known the utmost. He was oppressed with a terrible sense of wronging her, which, though it often produced intense nervous irritation, made him the more scrupulously polite in every word and action. Moreover, he was hesitating between two courses, and rather bent upon dissection of his own motives than upon weighing Adas merits and demerits, from which, with an instinctive generosity, he recoiled at such a time. Since the discovery of his own feelings, it was impossible for him not to realise the question of right or wrong involved, that there were conflicting claims; he tried to think of it with cold words, to force himself to judge as if from the outside, but more often he felt with a blank despair that he could do nothing except let matters drift on where the current carried them. Men sometimes call that resignation which is no more than a fear of facing pain, and the deception may be so subtle that it evades discovery until too late.
There had been an idea, on Anthony Miles’s part, of his spending three months of the early winter in London; for although his dreams had lost their brilliancy, there are other motive-powers besides enthusiasm, and he was feeling the need of work as a refuge from thought, and talked of seeking occupation of some sort with more determination than he had yet employed. But the days went on and he remained at Thorpe. To a certain extent he had resumed his old position. He no longer avoided his neighbours, and if he kept up any coldness towards the brothers at the Red House, it was only now and then shown by an increase of the reserve which had grown on him. To Hardlands he went by fits and starts, sometimes finding one or another pretext for a daily visit, sometimes absenting himself for a week at a time. Mrs Orde, the Squire’s sister, was for the present remaining at Hardlands, Mr Chesters will having expressed a desire to that effect; and Bessie’s despair at the idea of leaving was sufficient to reconcile Winifred to the arrangement, although she herself had a longing to go away. But she was happier in Anthony’s return to friendliness; of any other feelings on his part she was spared the knowledge, since her own peculiar loyalty and faithfulness prevented her from thinking such feelings possible. Unfortunately, he had caught the trick of comparing her with Ada, and there was but one end to all such comparisons, for although, had he only known the one after the other, things might have seemed different, the pang was very acute of perceiving to what he had wilfully blinded himself; and every fresh instance of Winifred’s sweet nobility of nature came to him like a revelation. Perceiving his continued gloom, people began to talk curiously again. Mr Robert could not feel as kindly towards him as in the old days, yet Anthony’s looks worried him; and had he not unfortunately begun by getting hold of the wrong end of the string, or had Anthony been magnanimous enough to understand and forgive the error, he might have been the young man’s best counsellor. As it was, Anthony had to meet this second complication, which had grown out of the first, with a sore perplexed heart, and no friend to help him. He felt utterly humiliated as well as miserable, for although a happy love is not the one thing needful to a man, and if it is denied him there are other things worth living for, such a mistake as he had made is apt for a time at least to destroy the spring of energy and doing.
Frank Orde soon followed his step-mother to Hardlands. He had taken his long leave before Christmas, with the intention of spending it at Thorpe. Anthony had never liked the thought of this arrangement, and when he arrived there was something so attractive about him that he felt all his prejudices confirmed. It was like a breath of fresh air coming into the midst of the little household who were moving about with saddened quiet faces, and already falling into the little feminine ways which mark the absence of the more vigorous race. Captain Orde had the physical activity which made him send his luggage in the carriage, and himself walk from Underham on the day of his arrival; he had also a taste for exploring and geological theories, the enthusiasm of which roused his cousins into interest; indeed he was so full of energy, so open-hearted, and so secure of sympathy, that to withhold it was as difficult as to avoid being warmed by the sun of midsummer.
They were all at dinner one evening when the day had been so persistently rainy that only Captain Orde, to whom weather was apparently a matter of indifference, had faced it, coming in just in time to avoid breaking the punctual routine which the Squire had established at Hardlands. Mrs Orde sat with her back to the fire: a thin woman, with a plain pleasant face, high cheek-bones, rugged features, and an upper lip too long for proportion, but curving in to a well-closed mouth; there were the two girls in their black dresses, and Captain Orde, unlike them all with his dark twinkling eyes and a fresh look of unbroken health. He had been telling them, with the vivid enjoyment that characterised his talk, his adventures in the muddy lanes round Thorpe, and of the difficulties he had met with in the way of extracting information; but it was not until the old butler had left the room, and they had drawn their chairs after a pleasant old-fashioned winter custom round the fire, that he said,—
“By the way, I fell in again to-day with my friend the local Wesleyan, as he tells me he calls himself. You haven’t any of you taken to him more kindly, have you?”
“Do you mean that dreadful David Stephens?” Bessie said, setting a chestnut on the bar of the grate, and holding up her hand to screen herself.
“It has been hard to do anything for him,” said Winifred, thinking of Captain Orde’s old words, “almost impossible, although I dare say you cannot believe it. How can one help him?”
“He would say, build him a chapel.”
“Frank!” Bessie said indignantly, from her knees before the fire.
“I thought you were in earnest,” said Winifred with a touch of disappointment.
“I only say that is what he would choose. I don’t recommend you to do it. There is something he really wants a good deal more.”
“Tell us what you mean,” said Bessie, tossing a hot chestnut into his lap.
“Never mind. It is nothing you will ever give, my dear,” said Frank, who was looking at Winifred, while his mother looked at him.
“I should think not, if it is for that man,” said Bessie defiantly, “and the sooner he goes away the better. We were all as glad as could be when Anthony put a stop to his horrid plans.”
But Winifred asked no more questions. Perhaps there had come to her already, through the patient teaching of life, perceptions of a broader, kindlier horizon than used to bound her view. Perhaps she saw dimly what once seen can no more cease to grow upon our sight than the daylight which from the first eastern flush grows into the glory of the great day, that the blessed good in our fellow-man is that which we must look for, and help, and nourish; that so best wrong may be made right, and evil conquered, and weakness strengthened.
Bessie was not satisfied. “What did he mean?” she said in the drawing-room, nestling against Mrs Orde, of whom she was fond by fits and starts. “What did Frank think that I should never give?”
“I suppose he was talking about sympathy, my dear,” said Mrs Orde, dryly. She was a kind-hearted woman herself, but a little timid over other people’s kind-heartedness. I am not certain that she did not consider it a dangerous doctrine, at any rate for young men.
“He had no business to say so,” Bessie replied petulantly. “I am sure I am as sorry as can be when any one is ill or anything. No sympathy, indeed! What does he know about it?”
“What do you know about it,” Mrs Orde said decidedly, “a young thing like you? Frank was quite right. Go and play that sonata: I don’t believe you have practised it at all, and your lesson is to-morrow.”
“There’s a ring,” Bessie announced, going slowly. “It must be Anthony, for no one else comes at this time of night.”
Captain Orde had also heard the ring, and the young men met in the passage and came in together, making a contrast, more marked than usual, as they stood side by side. Frank dark, high-shouldered, keen-eyed, and Anthony with his slight, wiry, nervous build, and a face depending for all beauty upon the expression which happened to be uppermost. It was not at its best now, for he was angry with himself for coming, and therefore, by a not unusual consequence, angry with those among whom he had come. His own heart was warning him. And yet he would not listen to his heart, lest it should shut him out from this haven. Other things made it only too easy. Mrs Orde liked him. She knew nothing—having so lately arrived, and from the circumstances having entered not at all into society—of the story of the letter, which might have influenced her judgment; but she knew that he was engaged to be married, and perceiving that he was unhappy, which, indeed, he took no pains to hide from the world, she mentally put two and two together, as she said, and drew her own conclusions. Sensible, steady-going people are the most romantic of all. Mrs Orde, who never did a foolish thing, began to reflect what would be Frank’s case if he were engaged to a woman who was not worthy of him,—a supposition so possible that she could only shudder, and be kinder than ever to Anthony. As for Winifred, she saw quickly enough that he was gloomy and unhappy, and had not the heart to put obstacles in the way. If anything were worrying him, it seemed only natural that he should come back to his oldest friends, and it was a sign of that reconciliation which she liked to think death had not really hindered. Her own burden was made the heavier, but a woman does not think of this. Anthony, who knew what Winifred did not, should not have come, but—he was there. And he used to get hurt and sulky with Captain Orde. That night Bessie, who was affronted with her cousin, and anxious for an ally, began in the intervals of a little idle running up and down on the keys of the piano,—
“What do you think, Anthony? Frank has struck up an acquaintance with David Stephens. He is going to help him to build a chapel, and then to hear him preach.”
“Really!”
There was a good deal not very pleasant in the “really,” and Frank looked up from the newspaper he was turning over as he stood before the fire, and laughed.
“Bessie’s facts are indisputable,” he said. “It is all true, of course. By the way, I am afraid my ally is no ally of yours?”
“I’ve done my best to keep him out of the place,” said Anthony, with some bitterness. “The fellow is a rank dissenter to begin with, and does a great deal of underground mischief of other kinds. I say nothing against his character; I believe he deludes himself with the belief he is in the right, and I dare say makes a good enough clerk, though it’s a pity he should have found an employment to keep him here. But I do not consider it advisable to listen to his talk.”
Frank took no notice of Anthony’s tone, which had in it an imperious touch. He said as if he were replying to a calmly conducted argument,—
“The question is scarcely whether or no one will listen. Merely as a matter of cold prudence, it is surely better policy to help a stream to find safe channels than to refuse it a passage through your land.”
“That is the talk which will ruin the country,” Anthony said coldly. “Every doctrine nowadays has but one basis,—expediency.”
“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” said Bessie, who was playing, a gigue with quaint trills and turns in an undertone, “but I am quite sure that Anthony is right.”
“Yes, I think he is right,” said Mrs Orde, sighing. She was looking at her son, and admiring his sweet temper, but for all that she thought it was necessary to oppose his opinions, lest they should carry him too far. Winifred was glancing from one to the other, with her eyes dilating and then melting.
“Well,” Frank said good-humouredly, “it sometimes requires greater courage to stick to the popular side than to go against it. If my doctrine is ruining the country, the want of it is injuring David Stephens, unless I am much mistaken.”
“All the better,—if it drives him out of the place.”
“O Anthony!” said Winifred, in a low tone of hurt reproach. He looked round and saw she was on the other side, and grew a little white. Frank looked at the same moment and brightened.
“It is wiser not to mix one’s self up with such persons,” said Mrs Orde, talking exactly contrary to what she would have done, as people often do.
“No, mother,” said Captain Orde, becoming grave, “that is a very helpless receipt. I suppose you don’t want me to say that I don’t agree with the end to which this man’s thoughts have led him? But they have surely in some measure been forced upon him, and I hold that we are to blame for it, and are responsible. I should be very glad to convince him that we have a common interest, instead of dwelling with such persistence upon our points of antagonism.”
“You must excuse my doubting the wisdom of your plan,” Anthony said in the tone the conversation seemed to have awakened in him. “My own conviction is that, for the sake of others, these men should be put down with a strong hand.”
He was too bitter to be anything but unjust, and Winifred looked sadly at him, thinking of his own troubles, and the misjudging which she had thought might have softened him towards others. She knew nothing of that other trouble which had its grip upon his heart as he glanced round at the bright room with its warm lights, and at Winifred and Frank, thinking angrily that he had cut himself off from her, and another had come in and filled his place. Nobody knew the wild, mad thoughts that were battling with him that night. All that could be seen were four or five people smiling and chatting, the fire crackling and leaping round a log of wood, and throwing dancing shadows on the pretty chintzes, and the bits of quaint old china, and the piano where Bessie was playing soft visionary music with tears in her eyes; for the Squire had liked the dreamy chords, and the girl had gone back to him, as she did more often than they fancied. And yet to one of the number the pleasant and kindly harmony of the hour was full of sharp discords, of things that fretted and jarred him. He made up his mind that he would not come again. He looked reproachfully at Winifred.
And yet, as he walked home across the silent fields, on which the moon was casting cold silvery streaks, he felt as he had never felt before, as if he could not marry Ada Lovell.