“I will never make the best of things,” she said. “I know nothing that gives such opportunities to the Devil.”
Hadria had characteristically left the paradox unjustified.
“What do you mean?” asked Algitha. “Surely the enemy of good has most hold over the discontented spirit.”
Hadria likened the contented to stagnant pools, wherein corruptions grow apace. “It is only the discontented ocean that remains, for all its storms, fresh and sane to the end.”
But though she said this, for opposition’s sake perhaps, she had her doubts about her own theory. Discontent was certainly the initiator of all movement; but there was a kind of sullen discontent that stagnated and ate inwards, like a disease. Better a cheerful sin or two than allow that to take hold!
“But then there is this sickly feminine conscience to deal with!” she exclaimed. “It clings to the worst of us still, and prevents the wholesome big catastrophes that might bring salvation.”
CHAPTER XXI.
ANOTHER year had blundered itself away, leaving little trace behind it, in Craddock Dene. The schoolmistress’s grave was greener and her child rosier than of yore. Little Martha had now begun to talk, and promised to be pretty and fair-haired like her mother.
The boys and Algitha had come to spend Saturday and Sunday at the Red House. Hadria hunted out a stupendous card-case (a wedding gift from Mrs. Gordon), erected on her head a majestic bonnet, and announced to the company that she was going for a round of visits.