“I dare say. There’s no bigger libel than truth in these days.”
And then he suddenly turned round with a laugh at himself. To do him justice, he was not often so cross, but then he was not often so sore and disappointed at heart. It was very bitter to him to think of Anthony Miles committing a dishonourable action, and it smote him again to remember the injustice to the dead. He could not get one predominant feeling, and that irritated his natural sense of orderliness.
Winifred, of whom he thought much at this time, was, perhaps, more impatient than grieved, having an unflinching faith in the triumph of right, which to such natures is as the very air they breathe. Only she had not lived long enough to know that though the triumph comes, it is not always the thing we picture to ourselves, laurel crowns, joyful music, and the people looking on and shouting. There are other triumphs besides this, wounds and tears, and a slow struggle upwards.
She believed that every shadow of blame would be swept away from Anthony as soon as he returned from seeing Mr Pitt, and though keenly sensitive to the reproaches she was forced to hear, took a pride in treating them indifferently, as stings too slight even to require defence. When Mr Robert met her one day and would have said something, she was very cool with him.
“When Anthony returns,” she said, scarcely stopping, “we shall know exactly how such a mistake can have arisen.”
“Anthony is come back,” said Mr Robert, gravely.
She could not resist the rush of blood to her heart, which made her ask hastily, “When?”
“He came last night. I have just seen him,” Mr Mannering said in the same tone.
“Well?”
“You will hear from himself, no doubt. Only, my dear, don’t set your heart too strongly upon things being made straight.”