“I saw nothing of the kind. But I suspect much from her variable temper—and other things.”
Then they were both silent. Miss Alida lifted some lace and went with it to a certain drawer; and Adriana looked at the silver Rose had sent her, and as she thoughtfully closed the case, she said to herself:
“I am glad Antony comprehended that picture; glad that he understands an Eternal Father who pities His children, because ‘He knows their frame, and remembers that they are dust.’”
CHAPTER VIII
No life is the same to-day as it was yesterday; and the passage of a year necessarily makes many changes, though they may not be noticed by the careless observer. Thus to all her friends Adriana Filmer’s life appeared to be precisely what it had been when Harry first brought her to their pretty home near Central Park. But there were many vital differences, though they were not readily detected. Adriana herself had become still more grave and tender. She had been down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death for her first-born son; and such a passage cannot be made without leaving traces of its danger and suffering. Physically, it had perfected her beauty; her face had some new charm, her attitudes and manner were informed with a superb dignity; and spiritually and mentally, it had added to the serious strength of her fine character.
Harry was also changed. He yet loved with a sincere devotion his beautiful wife and child, and he loved none other with the same noble affection. But Adriana knew that there were lesser loves—flirtations with reputable ladies who liked to drive with him—who enjoyed his society on a pleasure yacht or a race course—who thought it quite respectable to send him little messages, to accept from him small services or such transitory gifts as flowers or sweetmeats. And Harry liked this kind of popularity. Without consciously 197 wronging Adriana, he loved to sun himself in some beauty’s smile, to be seen with some young married siren, or to escort a party of gay girls to a merry-making.
Usually he told Adriana of these affairs, and she was too wise to show the pain the confidence gave her. Her state of health, as well as her principles, kept her from many social functions, and if Harry did not feel compelled to respect her condition and scruples, she knew that it would be impossible to fret or scold or even reason him into sympathy. She had been aware of the diversity of their tastes when she married him; how, then, could she justly complain of circumstances which she foresaw and accepted by the very act of marriage? Only once had she spoken, and it was to her wise father. She could have gone to no more loving and prudent guide; and Peter’s answer was but the echo of her own feelings.
“In marriage, Yanna,” he said, “there is a tie besides love—it is patience. There is a veil for faults better than blind admiration—it is forgiveness. There is a time for everything, so if you have patience and forgiveness, your hour will come.”