They exchanged good mornings, and separated. Roger, going home, was very thoughtful. He knew he had taken a momentous step in refusing to remain in Bradstane. He believed it was the best step that was open to him, and he took it. It is what men have to do on their way through life. Steps of some kind we have to take, though each one may be fraught with consequences which we cannot foresee, and which we can only appreciate after we have lost all power in the matter. We can look on, in these after days, at the results of our actions; it is permitted to us to rejoice in the fruits of our conduct, or, as often as not, to repine over the same, or to beat our breasts and wish we had never been born,—but not to alter by so much as a hair’s-breadth, the direction of the road opened out long ago by our own deed.
CHAPTER XXX
SERMON, BY A SINNER
Gilbert had said to Roger that he was only remaining a few days longer at Thorsgarth; but as a matter of fact, he stayed till over the New Year,—being able, seemingly, to put off the business which, he every now and then remarked in a casual way, called aloud to him from London. He could hardly have enjoyed himself much, during the latter portion of his visit—at least, that was Eleanor’s feeling, as she uneasily watched the course of events after the concert. For a few days she was quite in the dark as to the exact state of things. Of course she lay awake a long time on that particular night, feeling uneasy about every subject to which her thoughts turned,—Otho, Gilbert, Magdalen, Ada; she felt no sense of security or comprehension with regard to any one of them. Why did Magdalen, after behaving so well at first under the insult which Otho had put upon her, fall off so lamentably afterwards—tamely submitting to his behest, and allowing him to drive home with her?
And Gilbert—in whom, to a certain extent, she had put her trust—was no more than a broken reed. He had promised to see that all should go right, and, on the contrary, everything had gone wrong—just as wrong as it could possibly go; and he seemed neither vexed nor uneasy about it, but allowed things to take their course.
When she met Otho at lunch, after his quarrel with Roger, and saw his sullen look, and heard his sulky, curt remarks and replies, she felt miserable, in spite of telling herself that it was no affair of hers; and she did not venture to inquire what had angered him. She vaguely dreaded to hear his reply. The Christmas Day, which happened also to be a Sunday, came; and the doctor’s Christmas-tree was to be on the twenty-sixth. She had not seen Mrs. Johnson since the concert, and was therefore in ignorance as to what had happened at the mills, and it suited Gilbert for a day or two to say nothing to her. So she lived on in uneasiness, and sometimes caught herself thinking of her former life, which she had left six weeks ago, as if it were a hundred years away from her; and of her uncle and cousin Paul on their travels, as if they were inhabitants of another world, journeying on seas and in lands unheard of.
Things were in this condition on Monday afternoon, and she was sitting alone in her parlour in the waning daylight, when Barlow came in with a message from Gilbert, to know if she would see him. Her thoughts, which had strayed away from the painful present, were suddenly pulled back again to their post. Instinctively bracing herself to meet something disagreeable, she bade Barlow show Mr. Langstroth up, and then sat and waited for him.
In a minute, however, he was with her; and, as usual, his presence, unwished for, and even dreaded in anticipation, proved in reality soothing, almost agreeable. Eleanor struggled against this power of Gilbert to make himself agreeable to her; resented it deeply in her heart, as a sort of disloyalty to his brother, to whom she had in her soul given irrevocably and for ever, the place of master of her heart and destiny. This last was as strong a feeling as anything which could be experienced; but, nevertheless, Gilbert possessed this power of being agreeable to her when he came, and the fact puzzled and annoyed her more than she would have cared to own.
‘You are very kind to let me see you,’ he said at once, as he took the chair she pointed to. ‘I have been wanting to speak to you for a day or two—about Otho.’
‘Ah, I knew it was about Otho. Say on, and let us have done with it.’
‘Perhaps that will not be so easy, either. However, I will say on, as you suggest. Before I could speak to you, I wished to accomplish a certain piece of business. I have now done so, and am free to say what I like. I suppose you have been noticing how angry Otho looks, without being able in your own mind to assign a cause for it?’