This was his lot, and he knew it, and did not attempt to persuade himself that it was not very hard and bitter to submit to. After a time he should be able to look at the matter from the unselfish point of view of Margaret's happiness; but not yet. He had never quite realised the nature and extent of his own fears, until Haldane's words had put the truth before him in the airy and cheerful manner related. Of course he was right; of course it would be a "great match," and a "fine thing:" of course it would be the most complete reparation of all that Fate had wrought against Margaret--the most total reverse of her life which could be devised.
The love of such a man--as James, rigidly just in all his pain, acknowledged Fitzwilliam Baldwin to be--had in itself such elements of dignity and honour, such power of rehabilitation for the wounded spirit of the woman he loved, that it was an act of utter oblivion.
From the unassailable height of her position, as Mr. Baldwin's wife, Margaret might look down upon the pigmy cares of coarse remark and prying curiosity, as on all the sordid and common anxieties of material life from which she had once suffered so keenly.
He knew all this--he who would, he believed, have suffered anything in the cause of her welfare. Yes, and so he would, anything but just the thing he was appointed to suffer; and he could not bring himself to bear it, not yet. He forgot how he had acknowledged, when she returned to Chayleigh, that she could not continue to live there, that the dead level of life there would be intolerable to her who had breathed the atmosphere of storm and been tossed on the waves of trouble. She was too young to find refuge in calm; the peace which is the paradise of age which has suffered, is the prison of suffering youth.
He knew all this, and yet he murmured against the destiny that was going to release her, without penalty or price--that was going to crown her life with happiness. He murmured, he revolted, he raged; and then he submitted, as we all must, to everything.
From this state of feeling to an intense longing to know the truth, to have it all over and done with--to be quite certain that Margaret had put the old life from her, and with it all the ties which existed between her and him; that she was going into a sphere in which he could have no place--was a natural transition for James Dugdale's feverish, sensitive temperament.
He watched Margaret and her friend; he understood Lady Davyntry's feelings perfectly, and owed her no grudge for them; he rather honoured her as more large-minded and disinterested than most women. Of course she coveted such a prize as Margaret for her brother. To the rich, treasures, was the judgment and the way of the world.
He watched Margaret and her lover. Yes, her lover--he forced himself to give him that kingly title in his thoughts, and he thought, he knew, he hoped it might soon come--that suspense, at least, would be over, and nothing would remain for him but to accustom himself to the new order of things.
Full of these thoughts, he sought Margaret, one beautiful day in May, in the pleasaunce. He had seen her walking on the lawn. She had exchanged a few sentences with him as she passed the windows of Mr. Carteret's study, where James was sitting, and he had promised to join her presently, when her father released him. He was anxious to tell her that he had heard again from Hayes Meredith. When he joined her he held a letter in his hand.
"Papa has been bothering you about those dreadful bats, hasn't he, James?" asked Margaret with a smile; "I will take my turn at them this afternoon."