A QUIXOTIC RESOLUTION.
"Thine were the weak, slight hands
That might have taken this strong soul, and bent
Its stubborn substance to thy soft intent."
Watson.
For the first time in his life Thorold Chaytor's conscience felt ill at ease; and, though his nature was by no means introspective or over-scrupulous, he tormented himself and suffered keen twinges of remorse, for what he called his unpardonable want of self-control.
Thorold's sense of honour was exceptionally high; in spite of his cold, reserved manner, he was extremely sensitive; the thought that he had been over-mastered and carried away by passion, even though it had been momentary, humiliated and shocked him.
In some of his ideas Thorold was somewhat behind his generation, and different from other men. He held old-fashioned and somewhat obsolete views on the subject of love, and his reverence for women savoured of the old days of chivalry.
In his hard-working life he had been brought little into contact with them. He had no time for society. An evening at the Red House with his old friends, Althea and Doreen, was the only relaxation he had allowed himself. But, in spite of his self-repression, Thorold Chaytor was intensely human, and, like other men, he yearned for the joys of wife and child.
"Man is not made to live alone," he would say to himself, drearily, as he sat late at night by his solitary fireside; and, though no visionary, the thought of some fair young face would haunt him persistently. "I wonder if I ever shall have a wife?" he would say to himself, as he looked into the red, glowing caverns before him. "I shall be hard to please. I should like her to be a younger and prettier Althea. Oh, she is a noble creature, Althea! She would have been a treasure to any man, but I fancy—I have always fancied—that she gave away her heart to Everard Ward. Well, who knows what may happen, when I have earned my fortune?" And then he smiled a little bitterly, as he opened his books again. Thorold's strong, intense nature took nothing lightly. If he loved, it was with his whole heart and soul. Alas! for him, the small, pale face and dark, spirituelle eyes of his little Undine were now all the world to him. From the first he had recognised her sweetness and intelligence.
How he had longed to hold her to his heart, and comfort her with the assurance of his great love! How his nerves had thrilled with passionate tenderness as he ministered to her, as though she were a little helpless child! And all the time his heart had, with mute reverence, worshipped her.
"I must not think of myself or my own happiness," he said to himself, as he walked down the hill in the darkness that night. "My days have been always joyless, and what does a little more pain matter? It is of her I am thinking. God forbid that I should cloud her bright young life with any of my cares or perplexity. My little Waveney, I would suffer a hundred-fold more willingly than see you bearing my burdens."
Poor Thorold! In his generous self-renunciation he was making a grievous mistake, though he little guessed it; for woman's nature was terra incognita to him. Generosity and self-abnegation are not solely masculine virtues, and there are women to whom any form of self-sacrifice for the sake of a beloved object is simply joy and happiness; who care nothing for waiting and poverty, if they can only lean on some strong arm and be at rest.
But Thorold was not wise enough to know this, so he formed a singular resolution. He would see Waveney again. He would watch her closely. Ah! he loved her so dearly that he felt he could almost read her thoughts. If she received him with her old frankness of manner, if there were no trace of consciousness in look or tone, he would know that his impulsive speech had not reached her ear, and he would content himself with being more guarded for the future.
But if, as some subtle instinct told him, there should be some undefinable change in her, some new veil of shyness, he would be certain that she had heard him too well, and in this case it was his full intention to make her understand in some way the difficulty of his position. "It is impossible for me to marry for a great many years. I am too heavily handicapped." Some such words as these he would say, and then he would leave her, but not until he had apologized to her with all the humility of which he was capable. And when he had arrived at this quixotic resolution Thorold was more at peace.
They would not meet just yet, for Waveney was unable to leave her room for some days, and spent most of her time, as Althea informed Thorold when he came in one evening, in sleeping like a baby.
"And she looks like one," observed Doreen, who had just come down from the Pansy Room. "I was watching her just now before she woke up, and I never saw such a baby face. I think it must be her short, curly hair that gives one the impression. I wonder why it has never grown long? Mollie Ward has such lovely hair!"
"Waveney told me once that it had never grown since some childish illness," returned Althea, "but that she did not mind it, as it gave her so little trouble. Why, Thorold, you are never going?" as he rose from his chair. "What nonsense! You must stay to dinner. You have not dined with us for an age."
"Not this evening," he returned, hurriedly, "or I should have to sit up all night working. I am glad to hear that Miss Ward is better," he continued, rather formally; "but she seems very weak, still. I suppose you have had Dr. Hilton."
"Oh, no, it was not necessary," returned Althea. "Waveney is not really ill. She is only worn out, body and mind. A few days' rest and feeding up, and plenty of Nurse Marks' cosseting will soon put her to rights. And now her mind is at rest about Mollie, she will soon be her cheerful little self again."
"I hope so," was Thorold's sole answer. And then, seeing that he was in one of his grave, silent moods, Althea did not press him to stay—only accompanied him to the door, and bade him a friendly good-night.
"Poor old Thorold, he does not look quite happy," observed Doreen, as her sister re-entered the room. "I wonder if he has anything on his mind?" And though Althea made no reply to this, the same thought had crossed her mind more than once.
When Waveney heard that Thorold had called to inquire after her the previous evening, she merely observed that it was very kind. But an hour or two later she insisted on dressing herself, and making an attempt to go downstairs.
Althea remonstrated at first; but Waveney was so bent on trying her strength, that she thought it wiser to let her have her way, and actually forbore to triumph when Waveney, with rather a piteous face, subsided weakly on the couch.
"Perhaps I had better wait until to morrow," she panted; "dressing has tired me so." And then, as Althea brought her another pillow, and covered her up snugly, she continued in a weak voice, jestingly, "I feel as though I had the corporal's wooden legs, instead of my own. They do move so stiffly; but then, wooden legs don't ache. Never mind; anything is better than the heartache." And to this Althea cordially agreed.
Everard Ward paid them another visit while Waveney was still in her room. When he came again he found her cosily established in the library, and, though looking still rather weak and pale, in excellent spirits.
For every day the good news was verified, and Mollie made slow but steady progress to recovery. Only once had there been a return of anxiety, when, for one long half-hour, Mollie's weakness was so great that Nurse Helena feared sudden collapse. Everard did not tell Waveney this. But he kept her well acquainted with every little detail of the sick room—what nourishment Mollie took, and how many hours she slept, and even a speech or two, repeated by her nurses.
Once she sent her dear love to Waveney. And another time she asked if Mr. Ingram ever came to the house, and had looked both pleased and surprised when she heard he had been daily. "Twice or three times a day" would have been no exaggeration of the truth. But Nurse Helena wisely kept this to herself. For, of all things, she dreaded any agitation or excitement for her patient.
When Waveney grew stronger she drove daily with one or other of the sisters. And when the February sunshine tempted her, she took short strolls over the Common, with Fuss and Fury.
One Sunday afternoon, when Althea and Doreen were occupied as usual, Waveney put on her hat and went out. There had been rain the previous night, and the garden paths were damp. And at luncheon Althea had recommended her to take a little walk, in the direction of the golf links, as it would be higher and dryer there.
"Do not go too far, and tire yourself," had been her parting words. "Remember Thursday." As though Waveney could have forgotten it, for a moment! For that day she was to see her dear Mollie again.
It was a lovely afternoon. The air was soft and balmy, and full of the promise of spring, and thrushes and blackbirds were singing for joy, because the dark, wintry days were over.
Waveney could have sung with them, out of very gratitude and happiness. Oh, how sweet life was! After all, Mollie was getting well, and——But here Waveney flushed and walked on more rapidly; for there were certain thoughts that made her heart beat too quickly.
"I am very faithless," she was saying to herself, as she came in sight of her favourite seat. It was in a little hollow, and in the summer the larches and willows made a pleasant shade. There was a pond near, where children loved to sail their little boats, or throw sticks in the water for some excited dog.
In her letters to Mollie, she had called it "her green parlour."
She would have rested there for a few minutes, but she saw it was occupied by a gentleman, so she walked on slowly. The next moment, however, she heard her name pronounced, and Thorold Chaytor stood beside her.
"You are tired. You wanted to sit down," he said, abruptly, as they shook hands. "Please come back and rest a moment. It is so warm and sheltered in the hollow."
"I was not really tired," returned Waveney, nervously; but she avoided looking at him as she spoke. "It is rather a favourite seat of mine, and the view is so pretty."
"Yes, I was admiring it just now," replied Thorold; "but you will sit down for five minutes, will you not?" Then Waveney, shy and confused, accompanied him a little reluctantly across the grass. But as Thorold walked silently beside her, under his quiet manner there raged a perfect tempest of conflicting feelings.
His sudden and unexpected appearance had taken Waveney by surprise, and her startled blush, and confusion, betrayed her agitation at the meeting. Her new timidity, the faltering of her voice, and her avoidance of his eyes, all told the same tale to Thorold: she had understood, and she was not indifferent to him!
A spasm of joy shot through Thorold's heart at this thought; then he remembered his resolution, and crushed down his rising happiness.
"I must think of her, and not of myself," he said to himself, as he took the seat beside her.
"I am glad to see you are so much better," he began, after a long pause, that neither knew how to break. "But you are not quite strong yet; your step has lost its old spring." Then he interrupted himself, as though he feared to say so much. "But all that will pass."
"Yes, it will pass," she returned, trying to speak naturally, and looking at him for the first time. The soft brilliancy of her eyes almost dazzled Thorold. He nearly forgot his resolution, as he looked into their brown depths. "Do you know, Mr. Chaytor, that on Thursday I am actually to see my Mollie. I am counting the hours, and so is she."
"And that makes you very happy?" he asked, in a low voice.
"Oh, yes; so grateful and happy! Father has seen her, of course; and he says I must be prepared to find her very weak. Is it not a pity she has lost her lovely colour? But Nurse Helena says it will come back. She seems such a kind woman. When I send little notes to Mollie, she answers them so nicely, and gives all Mollie's messages."
Waveney had forgotten her nervousness in this engrossing topic; but Thorold's answer was a little vague.
"And you will never be faithless again?"
"No!" she returned, flushing at this; "I will try to be more trustful in future." And then, more kindly, "Mr. Chaytor, you were so good to me that miserable evening, I have so often wished to thank you, and tell you that I am not unmindful of your great kindness." Then he checked her.
"Miss Ward, you owe me no gratitude; any one would have done what I did. It is your forgiveness I ought to ask, for I am afraid that in my sympathy and pity I forgot myself."
He said this with such difficulty, and in such a constrained tone, that Waveney looked at him in astonishment. Then, as she saw his expression, her head drooped a little.
"I do not know what you mean," she said, under her breath.
"I cannot explain myself," he returned, hurriedly; "would to heaven that I could. But I think from your manner that you do not misunderstand me. Miss Ward, there is something I want to tell you about myself if you will pardon my egotism. We are good friends, I trust, and if possible I want you to think well of me."
Waveney listened silently to this, but she bit her lip to conceal a smile. Was it likely that she of all persons would think ill of him?
"I am unfortunately placed," he continued. "All my life circumstances have been too strong for me. Other men can please themselves, but I have never been free to choose my own path. Duties and responsibilities have crowded on me from mere boyhood. Fresh ones have come to me within the last few months."
Then Waveney understood that he was speaking of his brother and little Bet, and her attention became almost painful.
"I can see no end of it all," he went on—and there was despair in his voice. "It must be years—perhaps many years—before I can think of marrying. I ought to have remembered this—I ought not to have forgotten myself." Then he rose abruptly, and his face was very pale. "Miss Ward, you have been very good to listen to me so patiently, but I must not keep you here any longer; it will not be safe for you."
He was standing before her as he spoke, but for a moment she made no reply, only sat with bent head, and her hands folded tightly together in her lap. But as he stooped and put out his hand, as though to help her to rise, she suddenly looked up in his face.
"Thank you," she said, quite simply. "You need not fear that I should ever misunderstand one so good and kind;" and then she flushed up, and rose quickly from the bench. "It is too late to go on now, and Miss Harford will be expecting me. Please do not come any farther. There is no need to spoil your walk. Give my love to your sister and little Bet—dear little Bet."
"Are you sure? Do you not wish me to accompany you?" he stammered; but she shook her head with a semblance of gaiety.
"Oh, no. I shall be at the Red House in five minutes. Good-bye, good-bye."
Waveney was in such a desperate hurry that she forgot to shake hands. She almost ran down the little path between the furze-bushes.
The thrushes and blackbirds had ceased their songs, and the sunshine had faded from the landscape, but in Waveney's heart there was a strange, new joy.
"He loves me, he loves me," she was saying to herself, "though he will not tell me so for a long time. Oh, how good he is! how patient and self-sacrificing!" And then her eyes were dim as she remembered the suppressed pain in his voice. "I have never been free to choose my own path." Was that not true, absolutely true? and could any man have done his duty more nobly? And yet this hero, this king among men, actually loved her! And now Waveney's eyes were full of tears.