Thorpe was a little excited over Mr Mannering’s garden party. To be sure it could boast of much the same amount of hospitality annually offered as the other little country-places in the neighbourhood, but, on the other hand, these hospitalities generally took the form of dinner-parties, and people came in closed carriages or flies, instead of driving in gayly with their pretty bright colours flashing out for the benefit of the women who stood on the door-steps, or the children who were all agape. Besides, owing to the Vicars death, there had been fewer gayeties than usual, and another sort of gloom had gathered about the village after the rumour of Anthony’s deed made a break in the old cordial intercourse. Robert Mannering was sorely perplexed and grieved. Faithfulness to his old love made him quick to resent for Margaret Hare any injustice done to her daughter, and yet the estrangement from Anthony was very painful to him. He had tried to prevent it, but he could not show that there was perfect trust in his mind, and Anthony was keenly offended. Throughout his boyhood and bright youth the young fellow had been full of sanguine ardour, flushed with dreams and visions of great things to be done, where he was always the champion and deliverer, and would go forth, single-handed if need were, to fight against wrong. Suddenly, in a shape of which he had never dreamed, wrong had leaped upon him, and smitten all his weapons out of his hand, so that where nothing had seemed impossible was there now anything possible except weariness and bitterness to the end? Such a mood, if he had belonged to another creed, might have driven him to become a Trappist, not from any deepening of religion, but rather from repulsion of the life he had hitherto lived, which had so instantaneously changed colour. One would speak reverently of the workings of a man’s soul in a crisis of his life, knowing that there is at times a strangeness, a madness, a wilfulness, at war with what is highest and noblest, making strife terrible, and asking from us prayer rather than judgment. Anthony chafed so hotly against the injustice of society, that he was conscious of a longing to outrage it, but the strong, tender force of associations, the purity of a father’s memory, are safeguards for which many a one is in after years thankful; only his pride revenged itself by holding aloof from his former friends. He would have gone to extremes with the Mannerings if Mr Robert had permitted it; but he was blind to all avoidance, took no notice of cold treatment, went to see Mrs Miles as usual, and though the announcement of the engagement gave his kind heart a pang for Winifred, he believed it to be for the best,—considering the Squires vehemence,—and was glad to make it a kind of opportunity for reconciliation. Personally, too, he liked Ada, who was a favourite with most of the gentlemen round, and he saw no reason why she should not enjoy her little innocent triumph. Therefore Anthony’s refusal to come to his house vexed him not a little.
“If that foolish fellow is going to walk about on stilts all his days, there will be no living in the place with him,” he said, pacing up and down the study with the short, heavy steps which always produced an air of endurance in his brother. “What do you say to it, Charles? O, I see, you don’t like my moving about! Why didn’t you stop me?”
“My dear Robert, I might as well stop a watch that is wound up.”
“That’s nonsense. Of course, I recollect it if you’ll only speak. It’s merely that sitting down in this heat gives me the fidgets, and you can’t stand another open window. What were we talking about?—O, Anthony! Here’s his note. Did you ever in your life read such a shut-me-up epistle?”
Mr Mannering read the letter, and shrugged his shoulders.
“It must be one thing or the other with him.”
“It’s a pity it should always be the wrong thing,” said Mr Robert, mechanically resuming his march. “The matter has blown over, and there’s an end of it. A pretty girl, and a fresh start, and not one of us but is ready to shake hands. What on earth can he expect more?”
“You must have patience,” said Mr Mannering. “The lad is sore and unhappy, he may be looking at the matter from an entirely different point of view to yours, and at any rate he is not one to shake off either accusation or act readily.”
“Well,” said his brother, with a little wonder, “you have been his best friend throughout, even to disbelieving plain facts.”
“You should read more classic poetry, Robert.”