CHAPTER XXIX.
THE OLD FOLK AND THE YOUNG.
The intercourse between the two houses went on for some time in that uncomfortable and embarrassing way which comes between the sudden pause of a domestic crisis and the inevitable but delayed explanation. The evening after that on which Mrs. Meredith had a headache, Mr. Beresford had an engagement. Next night she went to the opera, which had just re-opened; the next again he had a meeting of his Society; and thus they continued, avoiding the meeting at which something would require to be said, and suffering intensely each with a sense of unkindness on the part of the other. James Beresford could not but feel that to cut him off thus, demonstrated a coolness of interest on the part of his friend which went against all those shows of kindness which made her so beloved—those soft ministrations of sympathy which, he supposed bitterly, anybody might have for the asking, but which were withdrawn as easily as they were given; while she, on her part, with a certain wondering resentment, felt his tame withdrawal from her, and uncourageous yielding of her friendship to the first suggestion of conventional fault-finding. But this could not go on for ever between two people of honest feeling. There came a time when he could not bear it, and she could not bear it. Mr. Beresford’s return to the house which he had visited daily for so long attracted naturally as much observation as the cessation of his visits had done. While these visits were habitual there might be private smiles and comments; but the sudden stoppage of them naturally aroused all the dormant criticism; and when, after a ten days’ interval, he knocked at Mrs. Meredith’s door again, all her servants and his own, and the houses next door on each side, were in a ferment of curiosity. What was going to happen? He walked upstairs into the drawing-room, with his elderly heart beating a little quicker than usual. Hearts of fifty are more apt to palpitate in such cases as this than in any other. James Beresford was not in love with his neighbour’s wife, but he had found in her that tender friendship, that healing sympathy which men and women can afford to each other, better, perhaps, than men can to men, or women to women—a friendship which is the most enduring charm of marriage, but not necessarily confined to it; which is the highest delight of fraternal intercourse, yet not always to be found in that. The loss of it without fault on either side makes one of those rents in life which are as bad as death itself, even when accompanied by full understanding, on both sides, of the reason for the separation; and very rarely can these reasons be accepted and acknowledged on both sides alike, without pangs of injury or development of other and less blameless sentiments. Vulgar opinion with one unanimous voice has stigmatised the relationship as impossible; from which it may be conceded that it is dangerous and difficult; but yet solitary examples of it are to be found all over the world; occurring here and there with delicate rarity like a fastidious flower which only some quintessence of soil can suit; and it flourishes most, as is natural, among those to whom the ordinary relationships of life have not been satisfactory. Beresford, bereft half-way on the hard road of existence of his natural companion, and Mrs. Meredith deserted by hers, were, of all people in the world, the two most likely to find some compensation in such a friendship; but I do not say it is a thing to be permitted or encouraged, because here were two for whom it was a kind of secondary happiness. They were as safe from falling into the sin which neither of them were the least inclined to, as if they had been two rocks or towers; but others might not be so safe, and social laws must, so long as the world lasts under its present conditions, be made for vulgar minds. Perhaps, too, Cara would have occupied a different place as her mother’s representative had not her father found a confidant and companion of his own age, who was so much to him; and the boys might have found their mother more exclusively their own, had not so confidential a counsellor been next door. But it is doubtful whether in the latter particular there was anything to be regretted, for boys must go out into the world, according to the same vulgar voice of general opinion, and have nothing to do with their mother’s apron-string. Still it was not a thing to be permitted, that those two should be such friends; and now at last the world’s will had been fully signified to them; and after an attempt to elude the necessity of explanation, the moment had come at which they must obey the fiat of society, and meet to part.
He walked into the room, his heart thumping with a muffled sound against his bosom—not like the heart-beats of young emotion—heavier, less rapid, painful throbs. She was seated in her usual place by the fire, a little table beside her with a lamp upon it, and some books. She had her knitting in her hand. She did not rise to receive him, but raised her eyes in all the old friendly sweetness, and held out her hand. She was agitated too, but she had more command over herself. There are cases in which a man may, and a woman must not, show emotion.
‘Well?’ she said, in a voice with a falter in it, taking no notice of his absence, or of any reason why they should not meet. ‘Well?’ half a question, half a salutation, betraying only in its brevity that she was not sufficiently at her ease for many words.
He went up and stood before her, putting out his hands to the fire with that want of warmth which all unhappy people feel. He could not smile or take no notice as she tried to do. ‘I have come to ask you what is the meaning of this?’ he said; ‘and whether there is no resource. If it must be——’
‘The meaning of—what?’ she said, faltering; then again a pause: ‘I have nothing to do with it, Mr. Beresford; I do not understand it. These people speak a strange language.’
‘Don’t they?’ he cried; ‘a vile language, made for other ears than yours. Are we to be ruled by it, you and I, to whom it is a jargon of the lower world?’
She did not make any answer; her fingers trembled over her knitting, but she went on with it. That he should speak so, gave her a little consolation; but she knew very well, as perhaps he also knew, that there was nothing for it but to yield ‘What harm can I do you?’ he said, with a kind of aimless argument. ‘I am not a man to harm people by the mere sight of me, am I? I am not new and untried, like a stranger whom people might be doubtful of. All my antecedents are known. What harm can I do you? or the boys—perhaps they think I will harm the boys.’
‘Oh, do not talk so,’ she said; ‘you know no one thinks of harm in you. It is because everything that is unusual must be wrong; because—but why should we discuss it, when there is no reason in it?’
‘Why should we obey it, when there is no reason in it?’ he said.