It was on the day of his ordination to deacon's orders that Anthony asked her to be his wife. She promised that she would. It seemed the one natural sequence.
Yet she shrank from accepting his ring. He was going to the Holy Land, need they be openly engaged until his return? He smiled and insisted, and she gave way. But the first seed of self-distrust was springing up in her heart. During his absence she became gradually restless and dissatisfied. Every one about her noticed the change. The Admiral, purblind, attributed it to want of Anthony; but Cynthia realised each day more clearly that it rose from the dread of his return, for upon it their marriage must quickly follow. She longed for the old time of friendship, and at last confessed to herself that she had made a mistake, she did not love him. When he returned it was to a great sorrow, for she broke off her engagement.
The succeeding months were unutterably bitter. For the first time in her life she was brought face to face with unhappiness. For herself she did not care, but to know that she had wounded and disappointed those she loved cost her many a tear. And Anthony worshipped her; he would never marry if not her; he was a noble-hearted man, and she missed him. He had made her understand it must be all or nothing; if not her husband he could only be her steadfast friend at a distance. The old familiar intercourse was all done away. A miserable year passed; he asked her again but she refused; yet as she loved no one else he still hoped. She found another chaperon, and went up to town as usual, returning to entertain the Admiral's shooting-parties and glide into a dull winter. But it was not quite so bad as the previous one. Mrs. Hennifer, who was the friend of both, persuaded Anthony to go away. He threw up his curacy and went out to Delhi on a commission for the translation of the Bible into some of the Hindoo dialects; he was more scholar than priest, and the work was congenial. In his absence the Admiral ceased to harass Cynthia, and by degrees Mrs. Hennifer, more even than the winsome and disarming patience into which his harshness disciplined Cynthia herself, managed to narrow the breach and restore to the Hall its old atmosphere of affection.
During Anthony's absence of some years the Dean died and he returned to the inheritance of entailed property. But he did not live on it. If in England he must be near Cynthia. He took a house near the Minster, accepted an honorary canonry to please his mother by keeping up a link with the ecclesiastical prestige of the place, and devoted his time to study. His library was upstairs, and Cynthia knew he had made interest with one of the woodmen for the felling of a tree and the lopping of some branches that hid his view of the Hall.
One day he showed her it, explaining how cleverly it had been managed. His manner proved to her as well as words could have done that time had quenched none of his affection. It had taught him to endure, and still to be happy and useful. He had not prayed for more. She stood in the window silently for a long time. He had never touched her so much. There was such a noble and simple courage about him that the pathos of it all nearly overcame her. At last she turned and smiled tremblingly.
'Anthony,' she said, 'I would have given all that will one day be mine to have been able to be your wife.'
There was no uncertainty in his smile. It was quick and bright.
'I know you would, Cynthia. Nothing is your fault, it is our joint misfortune. You may still find a perfect happiness. As for me I shall be faithful, as you would have been had you cared. That is my happiness, and to be able to be so near to you, I can enjoy that now—"so near and yet so far,"' he added after a moment's pause.
His tone was more wistful than he knew. Cynthia felt herself on the very verge of yielding to a sudden strong impulse which she was impelled to trust. She put out her hand. But he was not looking. He had looked and been unnerved. He had thought himself stronger. With a hasty movement he turned to the table and took up a pamphlet, furling its edges with fingers that might at that moment have closed over Cynthia Marlowe's in lifelong possession. Her courage failed. She went to the other side of the table and surveyed the accumulation of books and papers; most of them were, she knew, in Hindostānee and Sanskrit. The sight did not abash her. On the contrary it renewed her courage.