"If two lives join, there is oft a scar,
They are one and one, with a shadowy third,
One near one is too far."
R. BROWNING.
MRS. VILLIERS of Dutton Park was a marked personage in Dutton; partly from her husband's wealth and position, partly from her own personal charms. Her actions were watched and commented on to any extent. Where she drove, how she dressed, what she said, thought, and did, became matters for daily chit-chat. Above all, whom she called upon, whom she chose to welcome, and whom she treated with coldness, were questions which stirred the neighbourhood—more especially that part of the neighbourhood which belonged to the congregation of St. John's.
General Villiers was looked upon as the exclusive property of the St. John's clique; and where he belonged, his wife of course belonged also. How could she help it? He always occupied in Church one of the few carved chancel chairs, and Evelyn occupied a second by his side—an enviable distinction not to be accorded to everybody. When he stood up, martial and handsome, he was a fine specimen of the "old soldier," and he spoke out the responses in a deep bass voice, while his face was illuminated with earnest feeling, the sincerity of which none could doubt.
Evelyn, standing by his side, looked lovely and graceful, of course, for she never could be anything else; but nobody could help noting her air of habitual weariness, more especially during the sermon. Mr. Kennedy always preached for half-an-hour, sometimes more, on no occasion less. Whether or no his brain happened to contain matter enough for a thirty minutes' discourse, thirty minutes at least the congregation invariably had. Now a sermon, like a gas, is capable of indefinite expansion; but also, like a gas, a sermon grows thinner through stretching. That which might be a forceful little address, when compressed into fifteen or twenty minutes, becomes too often thin and weak when pulled out to fit thirty or forty minutes.
The congregation generally did not object. These soothing effusions, lengthily spun out, suited them—or at least suited their taste, which is not quite the same thing—and since they thoroughly accepted Mr. Kennedy, they were loyally willing to accept any amount of sermon from him, wholesale and without criticism. But to this state of mind Evelyn had not attained; and she chafed beneath the weekly infliction, making little effort to hide what she felt, and thus becoming a subject for animadversion. To add to the displeasure of the clique, she only came to St. John's when her husband came. If he were kept in by rheumatism, she wandered to Dulveriford Church.
Evelyn cared little what might be said, since she cared little for Dutton people. If any murmur reached her, she smiled her faintly satirical smile, and went on, unmoved. Why should she shape her life to suit the notions of Lady Lucas, or the Atherstones, or a dozen other people, whose very existence was a matter of indifference to her? The only friends she had in the place were the Trevelyans.
General Villiers had shown displeasure more than once at her persistent coldness to those whom he most favoured. He loved his young wife intensely—not, of course, with the romantic worship of courtship days, which could see no fault in her; but with a deep and tried affection, far transcending hers for him. It is not too much to say that he would willingly have given his life for hers, any day. Nevertheless he was keenly conscious of a certain independence of will, which would not submit to his dictation; and, as we have seen, he did not scruple to tell her plainly when he counted her in the wrong, though never with harshness.
"My love, I wish you would arrange to see a little more of Colonel Atherstone and Miss Atherstone," he said one day in the beginning of December, speaking with his air of gentle authority. He had been incited to this, of course, and of course quite unconsciously on his part: for he was a most transparent man, and very much under the dominion of others, without being in the least aware of it.
Evelyn's wifely instinct divined or guessed both facts. She did not blame him for the first, because she understood the second. She had complete trust in his chivalrous honour. That any person should venture directly to blame her to him was a thing impossible in her eyes. Her affection for him was far more akin to that of child for father, than of wife for husband; and it was often buried under a pile of rubbish, resulting from everyday friction; but her trust was undoubting. Nor was that trust misplaced. Yet—and Evelyn knew it—others could turn him to and fro, without his knowledge.
"I am afraid it is sometimes remarked," he went on, "that you hold aloof from them. You are so often engaged when they call; and you never receive them with any warmth. I do not ask you to give up your friends, Evelyn, but surely I have a right to expect kindness to mine."