A hundred times Antony reviewed the past; a hundred times he blamed himself for the part he had chosen. It is true that, so far as he could see, none other would have had the smallest chance of leading him to his desired goal, yet any other could not have raised the enormous barrier he now saw before him.
He had angered her: she despised him.
To his mind nothing, no subsequent happening, could alter that fact. There was the thought he had to face, and behind him lay his own irredeemable blunder.
Well, the only thing now left for him was to live his life as it was, minus one spark of brightness. Certainly he didn’t feel like singing, but whining was no earthly good. And since he could not sing, and would not whine, silence alone was left him. He would work as best he could till the year was out. He had no intention of going back on his bargain, despite the uselessness of it. At the end of the year, the Hall being his own property, he would sell the place, and travel. Perhaps he would go off shooting big game, or perhaps he would go round the world. It did not much matter which, so long as it prevented him from whining.
And quite possibly, though he would never have any heart for singing, the day might come when he would again be able to whistle.
CHAPTER XXIX
IN THE CHURCH PORCH
It was somewhere about the second week in December that Trix became the recipient of another letter, a letter quite as amazing, perplexing, and extraordinary as that which she had perused in the summer-house at Llandrindod Wells. They had returned to London in October.