The measurements of pain are unequal: different natures hold different capacities. A trouble that seems very real at the time, and full of stings, may be found later on to be largely alloyed by wounded self-love and frustrated vanity. Sound it with the plumb-line of experience, of time, of wakening hopefulness, and it may sink fathoms, and by and by end in nothingness, or perhaps more truly in just a sense of salt bitterness between the teeth, as when one plunges in a waning tide.
Not that Archie realized all this as he paced his room that night: no; he was very strangely moved and excited. Something, he knew not what, had again stirred the monotony of his life. He had been sick and sad for a long time; for men are like children, and fret sometimes after the unattainable, if their hearts be set upon it. And yet, though he forbore to question himself too closely that night, how much of his pain had been due to wounded vanity and crossed wilfulness!
It was long before he could sleep, for the sudden broadening of the prospective of his future kept him wide awake and restless. It was as though he had been straining his eyes to look down a long, gray vista, where he saw things dimly, and that suddenly there was a low light on the horizon,—not brilliant, not even clear; but it spoke of approaching daybreak. By and by the path would be more plainly visible.
There was great excitement at the Friary on the next day. They had found it hard to get rid of Dick the previous night; but Sir Harry, who read his aunt’s tired face rightly, had carried him off almost by sheer force, after a lengthy leave-taking with Nan in the passage.
It was only Mrs. Challoner who was tired. Poor woman! 340 she was fairly worn out by the violence of her conflicting feeling,—by sympathy with Nan in her happiness, with pleasure in Dick’s demonstrative joy, and sorrow at the thought of losing her child. The girl herself was far too much excited for sleep.
She and Phillis did all the packing for the next day, and it was not until Dulce sleepily warned them of the lateness of the hour that they consented to separate; and then Nan sat by the parlor fire a long time alone, enjoying the luxury of undisturbed meditation.
But the next morning, just as they had gone into the work-room,—not to settle to any business,—that was impossible under the present exciting circumstances,—but just to fold up and despatch a gown that had been finished for Mrs. Squails, while Dulce put the finishing-touches to Mrs. Cheyne’s tweed dress, Nan announced in a glad voice that their cousin and Dick were at the gate; “and I am so thankful we packed last night,” she continued, “for Dick will not let me have a free moment until we start.”
“You should keep him in better order,” observed Phillis, tersely: “if you give him his own way so much, you will not have a will of your own when you are married: will she, mother?” Mrs. Challoner smiled a little feebly in answer to this: she could not remember the time when she had had a will of her own.
Nan went out shyly to meet them; but she could not understand her reception at all. Dick’s grasp of her hand was sufficiently eloquent, but he said nothing; and Nan thought he was trying not to laugh, for there was a gleam of fun in his eyes, though he endeavored to look solemn. Sir Harry’s face, too, wore an expression of portentous gravity.
“Are you all in the work-room, Nan?” he asked, in a tone as though they were assembled at a funeral.