“She is likely in St. Penfer by this time,” mentally commented Roland, and the thought gave him comfort. He did want Denasia and the baby to be taken care of, and he knew they would want no necessary thing in John Penelles’ cottage. But it was this very certainty of Denasia’s return to England which really detained Roland in America. He had no desire to meet John Penelles until time had healed the wound he had given John’s daughter. John would be sure to seek him out in London, and there might be no end of trouble; but John would not come to America, nor would he be likely in the 255 summer season to leave the fishing and seek him either in Paris or Switzerland. As for Elizabeth, she knew from her brother’s letters that he had deceived and left his wife, and she had, of course, thought it proper to offer a feeble remonstrance, but Roland knew right well she would never betray his hiding-place.
So Roland lived on week after week in luxurious thoughtlessness. Mr. Lanhearne grew very fond of him, and Ada, in spite of her numerous objects of charitable interest, found it singularly pleasant to discuss with so handsome and intelligent a companion religious topics on which their opinions were widely apart. Indeed, she honestly accepted the evident duty of leading him back to the safe and narrow road of creditable dogmas. And with such a fair, earnest teacher it was easy, it was natural for Roland to affect an interest in the subject he did not really feel.
Dangerous ground for both, but especially so for the lovely young woman whose sincerity and singleness of purpose led her to believe that a very natural and womanly instinct was the prompting of a spiritual concern for an immortal soul wandering from the right path. Roland as a hypocrite, affecting a piety he despised, would not have been either so captivating or so dangerous as Roland honestly ignorant and doubtful, yet willing to be taught and convinced.
Dangerous ground for both, for both constantly assured themselves there was no danger. Ada Lanhearne was not a woman that any man could approach 256 with laughter or half-concealed flirtation. And Roland had no desire to overstep the boundary her noble presence inspired. Also, Denasia held him by the mysterious strength of the marriage tie. Apart from her and relieved of the petty cares which degraded their love, he forgot her shortcomings and thought more and more frequently of her affectionate, forgiving heart. The radiance of her youthful beauty was still in his memory, and the haunting charm of her voice called him at all kinds of incongruous hours. He awoke at night with the silvery cry of “Caller Herrin’” in his ears. At the dinner-table he heard her light musical laugh ring through the decorous, quiet room, and often when discussing an old Roman coin with Mr. Lanhearne he felt her hand upon his shoulder, and feared to turn lest her face should confront him.
Ada’s beaming eyes, and soft voice, and mystical rapture of holy enthusiasm touched him on quite a different side of his nature. She made him long to be good––he was almost afraid he would become good if he dwelt too much in her presence. And he did not desire to be so––not just yet. But as she talked so earnestly to him of righteousness, and duty and the life to come, it was impossible that he should not in some way respond. And when his handsome eyes were shadowed with feeling and his gay face and manner subdued to the gravity of the subject, it was equally impossible for the young teacher not to be moved by the evidences of her own eloquent persuasion.
After all, much must be left to the imagination; 257 the situation was so full of possibilities, so absolutely free of all wrong conditions, so ready to yield itself to many wrong conditions. Roland’s days went by in a placid sameness, which did not become fretting, because he knew he should end its pleasant monotony of his own free will in a very few weeks. And Ada had never before been so happy. Why should she ask herself the reason? To question fate is not a fortunate thing, at any rate; she felt a reluctance to begin a catechism with her feelings or her surroundings.
So the Christmas came and went, and the days lengthened and the cold strengthened, and there was so much misery among the poor that Ada’s time and money were taxed to their uttermost use and ability. And the suffering she saw left its shadow on her fair face. She was quieter because her thoughts were deep in her heart and did not therefore readily resolve themselves into words. The mystery of the whole creation suffering together oppressed and solemnized her life, for it was no hearsay of cold, and hunger, and wretchedness that touched Ada. She sat down on the cold hearths with broken-hearted wives and mothers, and held upon her knees the little children ready to perish. Money she gave to the uttermost, but with the money something infinitely more precious––love, like that which made the Christ put His hand upon the leper as well as heal him; womanly sympathy, which listened patiently to tales of intolerable wrongs and to the moans of extreme physical suffering.
In her own home she seldom spoke of these experiences. Mr. Lanhearne did not altogether approve of them. Like the centurion of old, he thought it was sufficient to “speak the word only,” that is, to give the money necessary to relieve suffering. And he did not see why his child’s life should be shadowed by carrying the griefs of others. So there was very seldom any talk on these matters, unless Ada required assistance. Then she spoke with such clear sincerity and pathos that her father felt it to be a privilege to be her right hand, and for the time being was probably as enthusiastic as herself. But these were rare occasions; Ada was too wise and considerate to stretch a generous or a gentle emotion until it failed.
One bitterly cold night in February Roland returned to Lanhearne House in a particularly unhappy mood. He had been down-town as far as Twenty-third Street, and had been subjected to all the depressing influences of the cold, brown-stony city, swept by that most cruel of winds––the east wind which comes with a thaw. The sullen poor, standing desperate and scornful at the street corners, seemed to cast a malevolent eye upon his handsome, well-clothed person. There had been a terrible accident, followed by a fire, somewhere in the city, and the raw, cutting air was full of its horror. As he passed a group of men, a poor shivering creature said passionately, “Accident indeed! All accidents are crimes!” The friction of the interests and wills encompassing him evolved an atmosphere which he had no strength to antagonise. He simply 259 submitted to its worry and restlessness and unhappy discontent, and so carried the spirit home with him.