Chapter Thirty Five.

Chapter Thirty Five.That winter dragged heavily to more than one of those whose stories I have been telling in a broken one-sided fashion enough. Anthony, one of whose failings, perhaps, was the procrastination which is often joined to a certain eager impetuosity, was going on from day to day without taking a decided step as to his marriage. The spring had been the time originally proposed; and though at one time he had been disposed to hasten matters, his wish had received a check which he had not forgotten. Ada, indeed, did not encourage him to press it. She had lost her old brightness, and the constant smiles were exchanged for a kind of listless irritability, which sometimes broke out into querulous complaint. Nothing had been heard of Mr Warren since he had left them; it seemed as if the young man were trying to forget Underham, or were ashamed of his feelings. At Hardlands life was very quiet. Mrs Orde was doing her best to act as a mother to the two girls; people said how fortunate it was that she was able to live with them, which was true enough; and yet poor Winifred sometimes wondered how many little jars and frets had grown into her life. Frank Orde, who was there again soon after Easter, sometimes wondered sadly, too. His step-mother was a true-hearted woman, full of practical common-sense, but there was a want of sympathy between her and Winifred which could not be explained. The girl was always admiring her and blaming herself for it, but it is probable that it was one of those contrarieties which could hardly have been otherwise. There are people who, quite unconsciously, seem to place us at a disadvantage. We may like them, even love them, but it is from some force of circumstances: they destroy our ease, banish our ideas, and reduce us in some strange fashion to nonentities. Winifred used to puzzle herself by trying to think how this could be. She had a strong sweet nature, to which people turned instinctively for help, but she would shrink at some little speech of her aunt’s which yet was quite free from any sting of unkindness. The fear of bringing it down upon herself would often hamper her, even prevent her from doing what she longed to do. One is struck sometimes by the boundaries with which certain lives are hedged in. They seem so small, a word, an allusion,—perhaps no more than a thread, and yet the thread is as impassable as any fence. Frank Orde, who loved Winifred with all his heart, used to wonder sadly, as I have said, at the want of harmony between the two women who were to him the best and dearest in the world. Perhaps, if he had but known it, here was a little unfolding of the riddle, a touch of jealousy making the mother cold and sarcastic. It was not much, but it caused Winifred’s life to be a little harder than it need have been, at a time when it was hard enough, poor child!She and Anthony met but seldom through the winter, for after that one interview, which Winifred blamed herself for holding in tender remembrance, they knew that it was better not to see each other more than was necessary. But when the spring came, the time when all beautiful things seem possible, the burden weighed more heavily, and she longed feverishly to hear that the marriage day was fixed.Anthony, too, felt that the delay must not last much longer. Ada could not accuse him of having given her no time in which to make her resolution, and these months of waiting seemed to be eating the heart out of more lives than one. Without coming to a determination beforehand, he one morning obeyed a sudden impulse and started for Underham to see Mr Bennett and let matters be set in train.His mother went to the gate with him, where Nat Wills was at work, putting in some plants which Mr Robert had sent over. Anthony turned round more than once to see her nodding at him, and smiling with happy content. As he passed through the village the little gardens were bright with clumps of blue gentianellas, out of the midst of which scarlet anemones blazed. Inside the school the children were singing and marching, and stamping merrily as they marched; the rooks were hard at work, the air was full of sound: here was Anthony setting off to fix his wedding-day. They are sad hearts sometimes that go on what should be the happiest errands.He had scarcely got out of the village, however, when, to his surprise, he saw Mr Bennett himself driving towards him. He did not notice Anthony until he was close upon him, and then pulled up suddenly.“I was coming to Thorpe to see you, Miles,” he said in an oddly constrained voice. “I suppose you are on the road to our house?”“Yes, I am.”“Well, would you mind driving a mile towards Appleton with me instead? I’ve some things I must talk over with you quietly, and should be glad to feel secure from interruptions.”At any other time Anthony might have been struck with the contradiction that after he had jumped into the dog-cart, Mr Bennett, instead of plunging at once into his subject in his usual good-tempered, pompous fashion, remained silent, and seemed to have a difficulty in beginning the conversation. But Anthony was too much absorbed in his own difficulties to notice those of another, and the silence was too great a relief for him to think it strange.It troubled his companion, however, for he did not know how to break it, and being a straightforward man, any roundabout course was very unwelcome. He looked over the hedge-rows on either side, at the fields which, owing to a wann wet winter, had lost no vividness of green, at the apple orchards nestling round the old thatched and weather-beaten farms, at the less frequent patches where the blue green of the young wheat contrasted with the red earth from which it sprang; but nothing that he saw helped him to his purpose.“There’s been too much rain for the crops,” he said at last, with a sudden vigour as if this were the thought he had been maturing all the while. “At this rate everything will be washed up again. I saw Fisher at the turnpike,—you know Fisher?—and he detained me for at least fifteen minutes talking over his grievances. Otherwise I should have met you nearer home.”“Fisher talks for a dozen people besides himself. Mr Mannering is his landlord, is he not?”“Ah, yes, yes. Mr Robert is a thoroughly upright man,” said Mr Bennett, vaguely. “Never in my life saw any one so pleased as he was when I took him out news of what that poor Stephens had said,—never. Well, I was always certain something would set that matter straight.”“You at least acted as if it had never been crooked,” Anthony said warmly, at once.“Don’t say anything about it,” said Mr Bennett, getting red and uncomfortable. “There’s another thing I’m afraid is crooked, which—which I’m ashamed to talk to you about, that’s the long and short of it. I never thought I could be driven to fence and shuffle over any business as I’ve been shuffling now. I’d sooner bite my tongue out than tell it. But there’s the thing,—past my altering, and I’ve the shame of it, if that’s any comfort to you.”The man was speaking in short sharp sentences, as unlike as possible to his usual genial rather over-familiar manner. Some presentiment seemed to seize Anthony, and his face grew hard.“Well, what is it?” he said in the deep tone he sometimes used.“I wouldn’t have had this to tell you for half a years income.”“If it has to be told I can’t see that any good can be caused by delay.”Certainly Anthony’s manner was not encouraging. “I only hope you will exonerate me and her aunt,” said Mr Bennett, nervously.“Then it’s about Ada?” said Anthony, after a moment’s pause.“I’m ashamed to say it is.”“Well?”“It’s anything but well. Though I am her uncle, I do say she has behaved disgracefully. She says she did not know her own mind when she accepted you, and that she has discovered she always cared for Adolphus Warren. His going away, she declares, opened her eyes—”“You should give effects their right causes,” said Anthony, in a low bitter voice. “Say the change in his position.”“I’m half afraid of it,” said Mr Bennett, whipping the old grey in his perturbation. “What can I say? Nothing can be worse. It has cut us both to the heart. I utterly declined at first to tell you, I was so ashamed; but she’s had one fit of hysterics after another, until her aunt is quite worn out; and, unpleasant as it was, I felt you ought to be kept in ignorance no longer. I’ve always thought she was so amenable to what was right, but I’m really afraid nothing will move her.”“You need not fear my making the attempt,” said Anthony, still in the same tone.“You’ve a right to hold her to her promise,” said Mr Bennett, unheeding. “Of course you’ve a right, and so I told her. But women are such irrational beings, that I really believe sometimes their minds can’t grasp the obligation of a right. You might bring an action against her, for the matter of that. I should not oppose it. Any possible reparation—”“Do you suppose that would console me?” said Anthony, grimly. “But I’ll tell you the whole truth, for you have behaved just as every one in the neighbourhood would have expected from you. It isn’t pleasant for a man to be kicked over at any time, but I had begun to think, from one or two reasons with which I need not trouble you, that we had made a mutual mistake. I went so far one day as to tell Miss Lovell something of the sort—”“You did!” said Mr Bennett, facing round in wonder.“And if she had known her own mind,—it was not so long ago as to make that impossible,—it would have saved some unpleasantness.”“You don’t feel it so much, then?” said Mr Bennett, not quite sure whether he liked this or not.“I imagine you would hardly begrudge me that alleviation?”“O, certainly not, certainly not! I’m exceedingly relieved to find the blow not so heavy as we feared it might be. Then I presume the unfortunate affair may be allowed to drop as quietly as we can arrange between us?”“I shall not call out Warren, nor begin a lawsuit, if that is what you mean. As to the quietness, I have no doubt that by this time all Underham knows that Miss Lovell has thrown me over.”“Confound Mrs Featherly!” muttered Mr Bennett, under his breath.“Don’t be uneasy. In these cases it is always the rejected who is the object of scorn. Besides, is not Warren the heir to a baronetcy?”“I don’t know what you mean. It was none of my seeking,” said Mr Bennett, hotly.“Well, well, you should allow for a man’s grimacing a little when he finds himself in such an unexpected position. Now, as the news has been broken to me, and we are not on the way for anywhere so far as I am concerned, I will jump out, and wish you good by.”Mr Bennett reined up the old grey so suddenly that he almost threw her on her haunches.“Good heavens, what am I about!” he said apologetically. “This business has quite upset me. And I honestly tell you, Miles, I don’t understand your way of taking it. In my days, if my wife had treated me so, I—I should have cut my throat—though I’m sure I don’t want you to do anything so rash. Still—”Anthony had sprung into the road, and now was leaning over the wheel with his arm against the dog-cart. He said in a changed voice, “I can’t wonder that it should puzzle you. I have been a puzzle to myself for a long time past. I doubt whether ever any one has managed to make so many mistakes as I. Don’t blame Ada too much, I have been at least as much in fault as she, and yet I want both you and Mrs Bennett to think as kindly of me as you can. Nothing can ever touch the remembrance of your goodness.”He spoke with a strong feeling which brought Mr Bennett back to his side in a moment. He caught Anthony’s hand, and began shaking it vehemently.“My dear fellow, you’ve behaved—I can’t tell you how I think you’ve behaved,” he said, stopping only to begin again. It was the greatest possible relief to him that he might go home and tell his wife that matters were all comfortably settled, and that they need not be angry with Ada any more.“Do you think so?” said Anthony, oddly. He shook hands again to satisfy Mr Bennett, and then drew back from the dog-cart. The old grey, a little affronted at her unaccustomed treatment, started off with a snort. Mr Bennett was looking back, and waving farewells so long as the road kept Anthony in sight. Overhead the clouds were parting, a yellow sun shone out and struck the young glistening leaves, a blackbird was whistling with clear beautiful notes; a great heap of weeds was burning in a field close by where some boys were shouting. Anthony found himself noting everything, wondering idly, and shutting his mind’s door by that sort of compulsion which we have all of us in some measure in our power. When he could no longer do this, he set off, and walked for half a mile as quickly as if he were walking a match.That Ada should have treated him in this manner was the utmost humiliation his pride could have endured, the more so because she had bestowed upon him so many gentle flatteries, had been so soft and yielding, so free from even the small reproaches for which he acknowledged she might at times have had an excuse. And the humiliation became greater as he began to recollect past trifles which had been forgotten, but which floated up to his remembrance now, as the flood which sweeps away boundaries will bring to the surface little in significant straws. He recalled words and actions of Ada’s throughout their engagement; the manner in which she had quoted Mr Warren, who had been too small a figure to make an impression on Anthony; the readiness with which she accepted his society; he recollected that evening when he had made his appeal to Ada, and had seen two dim figures coming towards him under the trees, and her quick excuses. He turned from himself with a sick disgust as he realised how completely he had taken the false for the true, the true for the false. There was a terrible satire in his life, or so it seemed to him when he thought of his old self-reliance, and the end of it all.Yet it must be allowed that, although this sting of humiliation was the first dominant feeling in his mind, it quickly began to yield before the relief with which he felt as if a long strain had suddenly relaxed. He stood still and stretched himself, flinging back his arms with a longing to express this joy of freedom by some bodily action. There was a gate close by him which had fallen off its hinges; he set to work to put it up again, labouring with a fire and vigour which was like an old inheritance renewed, and afterwards leaning over it and looking from the high ground on which he stood to the wooded fields below. Where the hedge dipped he could see the Thorpe cottages lying in rich brown patches, the Hardlands’ firs, white smote curling up from the house. Ada and Mr Warren began to fade out of his mind like some blurred unpleasant dream; Winifred grew into life, brown-haired Winifred looking into his face with kind fearless eyes. He stood irresolute, an impulse which was as strong as it was sudden urging him. How could he so dishonour Winifred as to go to her at once, when but an hour ago he was the accepted, lover of another woman!—and yet, how could he not go? Even now he might be too late. Something had been said of Frank Orde in his hearing, against which his heart had leaped up with mute rage, but now it was a whirl of fear which shook him. It seemed as if all the emotions he had been holding in check were ready instantaneously to assert themselves, as if he could not endure another of those moments which up to this hour had stretched themselves out before him in long dull succession. His looks went yearningly down to that spot from which the smoke was curling easily upwards, and at last he jumped over the gate, and went with long strides down the field towards Hardlands.

That winter dragged heavily to more than one of those whose stories I have been telling in a broken one-sided fashion enough. Anthony, one of whose failings, perhaps, was the procrastination which is often joined to a certain eager impetuosity, was going on from day to day without taking a decided step as to his marriage. The spring had been the time originally proposed; and though at one time he had been disposed to hasten matters, his wish had received a check which he had not forgotten. Ada, indeed, did not encourage him to press it. She had lost her old brightness, and the constant smiles were exchanged for a kind of listless irritability, which sometimes broke out into querulous complaint. Nothing had been heard of Mr Warren since he had left them; it seemed as if the young man were trying to forget Underham, or were ashamed of his feelings. At Hardlands life was very quiet. Mrs Orde was doing her best to act as a mother to the two girls; people said how fortunate it was that she was able to live with them, which was true enough; and yet poor Winifred sometimes wondered how many little jars and frets had grown into her life. Frank Orde, who was there again soon after Easter, sometimes wondered sadly, too. His step-mother was a true-hearted woman, full of practical common-sense, but there was a want of sympathy between her and Winifred which could not be explained. The girl was always admiring her and blaming herself for it, but it is probable that it was one of those contrarieties which could hardly have been otherwise. There are people who, quite unconsciously, seem to place us at a disadvantage. We may like them, even love them, but it is from some force of circumstances: they destroy our ease, banish our ideas, and reduce us in some strange fashion to nonentities. Winifred used to puzzle herself by trying to think how this could be. She had a strong sweet nature, to which people turned instinctively for help, but she would shrink at some little speech of her aunt’s which yet was quite free from any sting of unkindness. The fear of bringing it down upon herself would often hamper her, even prevent her from doing what she longed to do. One is struck sometimes by the boundaries with which certain lives are hedged in. They seem so small, a word, an allusion,—perhaps no more than a thread, and yet the thread is as impassable as any fence. Frank Orde, who loved Winifred with all his heart, used to wonder sadly, as I have said, at the want of harmony between the two women who were to him the best and dearest in the world. Perhaps, if he had but known it, here was a little unfolding of the riddle, a touch of jealousy making the mother cold and sarcastic. It was not much, but it caused Winifred’s life to be a little harder than it need have been, at a time when it was hard enough, poor child!

She and Anthony met but seldom through the winter, for after that one interview, which Winifred blamed herself for holding in tender remembrance, they knew that it was better not to see each other more than was necessary. But when the spring came, the time when all beautiful things seem possible, the burden weighed more heavily, and she longed feverishly to hear that the marriage day was fixed.

Anthony, too, felt that the delay must not last much longer. Ada could not accuse him of having given her no time in which to make her resolution, and these months of waiting seemed to be eating the heart out of more lives than one. Without coming to a determination beforehand, he one morning obeyed a sudden impulse and started for Underham to see Mr Bennett and let matters be set in train.

His mother went to the gate with him, where Nat Wills was at work, putting in some plants which Mr Robert had sent over. Anthony turned round more than once to see her nodding at him, and smiling with happy content. As he passed through the village the little gardens were bright with clumps of blue gentianellas, out of the midst of which scarlet anemones blazed. Inside the school the children were singing and marching, and stamping merrily as they marched; the rooks were hard at work, the air was full of sound: here was Anthony setting off to fix his wedding-day. They are sad hearts sometimes that go on what should be the happiest errands.

He had scarcely got out of the village, however, when, to his surprise, he saw Mr Bennett himself driving towards him. He did not notice Anthony until he was close upon him, and then pulled up suddenly.

“I was coming to Thorpe to see you, Miles,” he said in an oddly constrained voice. “I suppose you are on the road to our house?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, would you mind driving a mile towards Appleton with me instead? I’ve some things I must talk over with you quietly, and should be glad to feel secure from interruptions.”

At any other time Anthony might have been struck with the contradiction that after he had jumped into the dog-cart, Mr Bennett, instead of plunging at once into his subject in his usual good-tempered, pompous fashion, remained silent, and seemed to have a difficulty in beginning the conversation. But Anthony was too much absorbed in his own difficulties to notice those of another, and the silence was too great a relief for him to think it strange.

It troubled his companion, however, for he did not know how to break it, and being a straightforward man, any roundabout course was very unwelcome. He looked over the hedge-rows on either side, at the fields which, owing to a wann wet winter, had lost no vividness of green, at the apple orchards nestling round the old thatched and weather-beaten farms, at the less frequent patches where the blue green of the young wheat contrasted with the red earth from which it sprang; but nothing that he saw helped him to his purpose.

“There’s been too much rain for the crops,” he said at last, with a sudden vigour as if this were the thought he had been maturing all the while. “At this rate everything will be washed up again. I saw Fisher at the turnpike,—you know Fisher?—and he detained me for at least fifteen minutes talking over his grievances. Otherwise I should have met you nearer home.”

“Fisher talks for a dozen people besides himself. Mr Mannering is his landlord, is he not?”

“Ah, yes, yes. Mr Robert is a thoroughly upright man,” said Mr Bennett, vaguely. “Never in my life saw any one so pleased as he was when I took him out news of what that poor Stephens had said,—never. Well, I was always certain something would set that matter straight.”

“You at least acted as if it had never been crooked,” Anthony said warmly, at once.

“Don’t say anything about it,” said Mr Bennett, getting red and uncomfortable. “There’s another thing I’m afraid is crooked, which—which I’m ashamed to talk to you about, that’s the long and short of it. I never thought I could be driven to fence and shuffle over any business as I’ve been shuffling now. I’d sooner bite my tongue out than tell it. But there’s the thing,—past my altering, and I’ve the shame of it, if that’s any comfort to you.”

The man was speaking in short sharp sentences, as unlike as possible to his usual genial rather over-familiar manner. Some presentiment seemed to seize Anthony, and his face grew hard.

“Well, what is it?” he said in the deep tone he sometimes used.

“I wouldn’t have had this to tell you for half a years income.”

“If it has to be told I can’t see that any good can be caused by delay.”

Certainly Anthony’s manner was not encouraging. “I only hope you will exonerate me and her aunt,” said Mr Bennett, nervously.

“Then it’s about Ada?” said Anthony, after a moment’s pause.

“I’m ashamed to say it is.”

“Well?”

“It’s anything but well. Though I am her uncle, I do say she has behaved disgracefully. She says she did not know her own mind when she accepted you, and that she has discovered she always cared for Adolphus Warren. His going away, she declares, opened her eyes—”

“You should give effects their right causes,” said Anthony, in a low bitter voice. “Say the change in his position.”

“I’m half afraid of it,” said Mr Bennett, whipping the old grey in his perturbation. “What can I say? Nothing can be worse. It has cut us both to the heart. I utterly declined at first to tell you, I was so ashamed; but she’s had one fit of hysterics after another, until her aunt is quite worn out; and, unpleasant as it was, I felt you ought to be kept in ignorance no longer. I’ve always thought she was so amenable to what was right, but I’m really afraid nothing will move her.”

“You need not fear my making the attempt,” said Anthony, still in the same tone.

“You’ve a right to hold her to her promise,” said Mr Bennett, unheeding. “Of course you’ve a right, and so I told her. But women are such irrational beings, that I really believe sometimes their minds can’t grasp the obligation of a right. You might bring an action against her, for the matter of that. I should not oppose it. Any possible reparation—”

“Do you suppose that would console me?” said Anthony, grimly. “But I’ll tell you the whole truth, for you have behaved just as every one in the neighbourhood would have expected from you. It isn’t pleasant for a man to be kicked over at any time, but I had begun to think, from one or two reasons with which I need not trouble you, that we had made a mutual mistake. I went so far one day as to tell Miss Lovell something of the sort—”

“You did!” said Mr Bennett, facing round in wonder.

“And if she had known her own mind,—it was not so long ago as to make that impossible,—it would have saved some unpleasantness.”

“You don’t feel it so much, then?” said Mr Bennett, not quite sure whether he liked this or not.

“I imagine you would hardly begrudge me that alleviation?”

“O, certainly not, certainly not! I’m exceedingly relieved to find the blow not so heavy as we feared it might be. Then I presume the unfortunate affair may be allowed to drop as quietly as we can arrange between us?”

“I shall not call out Warren, nor begin a lawsuit, if that is what you mean. As to the quietness, I have no doubt that by this time all Underham knows that Miss Lovell has thrown me over.”

“Confound Mrs Featherly!” muttered Mr Bennett, under his breath.

“Don’t be uneasy. In these cases it is always the rejected who is the object of scorn. Besides, is not Warren the heir to a baronetcy?”

“I don’t know what you mean. It was none of my seeking,” said Mr Bennett, hotly.

“Well, well, you should allow for a man’s grimacing a little when he finds himself in such an unexpected position. Now, as the news has been broken to me, and we are not on the way for anywhere so far as I am concerned, I will jump out, and wish you good by.”

Mr Bennett reined up the old grey so suddenly that he almost threw her on her haunches.

“Good heavens, what am I about!” he said apologetically. “This business has quite upset me. And I honestly tell you, Miles, I don’t understand your way of taking it. In my days, if my wife had treated me so, I—I should have cut my throat—though I’m sure I don’t want you to do anything so rash. Still—”

Anthony had sprung into the road, and now was leaning over the wheel with his arm against the dog-cart. He said in a changed voice, “I can’t wonder that it should puzzle you. I have been a puzzle to myself for a long time past. I doubt whether ever any one has managed to make so many mistakes as I. Don’t blame Ada too much, I have been at least as much in fault as she, and yet I want both you and Mrs Bennett to think as kindly of me as you can. Nothing can ever touch the remembrance of your goodness.”

He spoke with a strong feeling which brought Mr Bennett back to his side in a moment. He caught Anthony’s hand, and began shaking it vehemently.

“My dear fellow, you’ve behaved—I can’t tell you how I think you’ve behaved,” he said, stopping only to begin again. It was the greatest possible relief to him that he might go home and tell his wife that matters were all comfortably settled, and that they need not be angry with Ada any more.

“Do you think so?” said Anthony, oddly. He shook hands again to satisfy Mr Bennett, and then drew back from the dog-cart. The old grey, a little affronted at her unaccustomed treatment, started off with a snort. Mr Bennett was looking back, and waving farewells so long as the road kept Anthony in sight. Overhead the clouds were parting, a yellow sun shone out and struck the young glistening leaves, a blackbird was whistling with clear beautiful notes; a great heap of weeds was burning in a field close by where some boys were shouting. Anthony found himself noting everything, wondering idly, and shutting his mind’s door by that sort of compulsion which we have all of us in some measure in our power. When he could no longer do this, he set off, and walked for half a mile as quickly as if he were walking a match.

That Ada should have treated him in this manner was the utmost humiliation his pride could have endured, the more so because she had bestowed upon him so many gentle flatteries, had been so soft and yielding, so free from even the small reproaches for which he acknowledged she might at times have had an excuse. And the humiliation became greater as he began to recollect past trifles which had been forgotten, but which floated up to his remembrance now, as the flood which sweeps away boundaries will bring to the surface little in significant straws. He recalled words and actions of Ada’s throughout their engagement; the manner in which she had quoted Mr Warren, who had been too small a figure to make an impression on Anthony; the readiness with which she accepted his society; he recollected that evening when he had made his appeal to Ada, and had seen two dim figures coming towards him under the trees, and her quick excuses. He turned from himself with a sick disgust as he realised how completely he had taken the false for the true, the true for the false. There was a terrible satire in his life, or so it seemed to him when he thought of his old self-reliance, and the end of it all.

Yet it must be allowed that, although this sting of humiliation was the first dominant feeling in his mind, it quickly began to yield before the relief with which he felt as if a long strain had suddenly relaxed. He stood still and stretched himself, flinging back his arms with a longing to express this joy of freedom by some bodily action. There was a gate close by him which had fallen off its hinges; he set to work to put it up again, labouring with a fire and vigour which was like an old inheritance renewed, and afterwards leaning over it and looking from the high ground on which he stood to the wooded fields below. Where the hedge dipped he could see the Thorpe cottages lying in rich brown patches, the Hardlands’ firs, white smote curling up from the house. Ada and Mr Warren began to fade out of his mind like some blurred unpleasant dream; Winifred grew into life, brown-haired Winifred looking into his face with kind fearless eyes. He stood irresolute, an impulse which was as strong as it was sudden urging him. How could he so dishonour Winifred as to go to her at once, when but an hour ago he was the accepted, lover of another woman!—and yet, how could he not go? Even now he might be too late. Something had been said of Frank Orde in his hearing, against which his heart had leaped up with mute rage, but now it was a whirl of fear which shook him. It seemed as if all the emotions he had been holding in check were ready instantaneously to assert themselves, as if he could not endure another of those moments which up to this hour had stretched themselves out before him in long dull succession. His looks went yearningly down to that spot from which the smoke was curling easily upwards, and at last he jumped over the gate, and went with long strides down the field towards Hardlands.

Chapter Thirty Six.“Comes a little cloudlet ’twixt ourselves and heaven,And from all the river fades the silver track;Put thine arms around me, whisper low, Forgiven,See how on the river starlight settles back!”Lord Lytton.When Anthony was looking down upon the fir-trees, there were two people standing under them, and talking earnestly. One of them was putting out her hand and saying in a voice which was very sad and kind,—“I believe I am a hundred years older than you, Frank. Do people’s hearts go on getting older and older at this rate, I wonder? I don’t seem to feel as if all that you are saying could be so. Perhaps I am beginning not to feel anything any more.”“Don’t disbelieve me,” Frank said eagerly. “That is all I ask you, Winifred. Only try to believe how dearly I love you, and trust me, or let me have time to show you.”She did not turn away from him, she did not even take away her hand which he had clasped, and yet nothing in her attitude or in her eyes seemed to have grown nearer to him during that moment in which they stood so close to each other under the fir-trees, a little hidden from the soft, warm sun. Winifred stood as if she were thinking, but it might have been of something outside herself, and with which she was only concerned as a looker-on. Her face was tenderly grave, but Frank sought in vain for any glow which should answer his. She was silent so long, however, that at last he could bear it no longer, and said in a voice which was all uneven and broken,—“What do you say, Winifred? You will not refuse me that one little promise?”She said immediately, looking into his face with unshrinking eyes,—“Ah, Frank, it is because it is so little that I feel I dare not give it. Dear Frank, what are you offering me?—do you think I do not know its worth?—and for all your heart you ask no more than just a little dead sufferance. You want to give everything, and to have nothing back again.”“What you call nothing—” began Frank, flushing, but she interrupted him quickly, with a new tone of pain in her voice.“No, no,—why do we go on talking?—let us try to forget it all, let us try to be dear friends always, but do not ask me to do you a wrong which would make me hate myself.”Winifred might have been impetuously thrusting back something. Perhaps she was: perhaps she had a little secret, impatient longing to escape somehow, anyhow, from the associations which imprisoned her. Frank, who knew all her little story, and knew no more than she who was coming at that moment with swift steps across the dewy grass, looked at her, and felt his heart sink, though he had not lost all hope. He could wait a lifetime, he thought, and patient waiting must gain her at last. Just then the little iron gate clicked as Anthony came through: he saw them standing with clasped hands, saw Winifred look up, and turn away quickly to the house. Was his secret misgiving true?—was it too late, after all? He half stopped; but Frank had seen him, and was strolling towards him.The two men did not meet very cordially, but they went through the usual conventionalities.“So you’re not off?” said Anthony.Captain Orde, whose face was white, and whose hand was not quite so steady as usual, took out his fusee-box and struck a light.“No, I’m not off till to-morrow,” he said, lighting his cigar slowly. “Will you have a cigar? I shall make one push for it to Colchester. Do you ever come that way?”“Not nowadays. Though I don’t know where I shall find myself next. Sometimes I think of travelling for a year or two.”“You don’t mean just knocking about Europe?”“No,Ishould go farther afield.”Captain Orde gave him a quick, rather questioning glance, and walked on silently.“How will that agree with your other prospects?” he said at last.“I have no particular prospects, as you call them,” said Anthony, shortly. “If you mean the engagement in which I had the honour to be concerned, it has come to an end.”“Does Winifred know this?” Frank was asking very gravely in a moment.“How should she?” said Anthony, angrily. He was intending to speak without excitement, but that little scene under the fir-trees danced up and down before his eyes. “You need not think that I shall tell her,” he went on in hot tumult, “for probably at this time Miss Chester is too much taken up with her own affairs to have thought to bestow upon those of other people.”“Miss Chester is not going to marry me, if that is what you mean,” said Captain Orde, quietly. “I have asked her—more than once—and now for the last time.”He spoke in a dull strained voice. For him there was neither charm nor glory, only a dreary pain, a grey colourless sky. Anthony was not worthy of Winifred, but, alas, did he not know that she cared for him; that she was at this very moment, perhaps, weeping for the helplessness, the sadness of her love; that he, whose path must not touch hers any more, might send her the light and joy for which she longed? He did not hear much of what Anthony was saying, until he found that he had left him, and was making his way towards the house with quick, hopeful steps. Frank, who was going up to the clump, stood still and watched. It is a little hard to run for a prize, and see it carried off by some one who has never seemed to set his heart upon it. When a man has struggled neck and neck with you, it is easier to yield than to another who has loitered carelessly, and yet comes up, and sweeps by with triumphant ease. Anthony was going to his victory, while Frank was left out in the cold. Yet, if there are failures out of which grow success, so also there are defeats which bring rejoicing songs, though we do not hear them yet, and all that reaches us is the sadness of sighing and the weariness of tears.Winifred was crossing the hall as Anthony Miles came in. Mrs Orde had caught her for some consultation about Bessie’s masters, and she had been obliged for a little while to make and answer indifferent remarks while every nerve was on the strain, until she could bear it no longer, and, escaping from the room, was, as I have said, just crossing the hall when Anthony Miles came in.There must be a world of subtile influences in the midst of which we live, and which is not the least wonderful part of our existence. As he, seeing her, stood for a moment with the door in his hand, the pretty lights and shades and trembling sunshine behind him, and his face so much in shadow that it was impossible for her hasty, tearful glance to read its expression, what strange joy sent a new thrill into her heart, and quickened it with intensest life? What swift movement of pity, tender and womanly, went out to Frank with the touch of wondering compassion for sorrows past so long ago, that since she had known of them night had turned into day, winter into spring, perplexity into contentment? It all only lasted for a moment, but why had it been? Anthony’s own glow of eagerness died out of his heart as he came upon her in that sudden fashion, looked at her standing in the delicate light, and felt as if he could not say a word. To them both that instant seemed endless, and yet it was only an instant.For then they came back to—realities, shall we say? Anthony left the sunshine and sparkling greens behind him, and walked into the hall where Winifred was waiting and putting out her hand calmly.“How is Mrs Miles?” she said, “Bessie was going to take the club books to her this afternoon, for I am ashamed to say that we have kept them two or three days beyond our time.”“What will Mrs Featherly do to you?” said Anthony, holding her hand in his.I do not think they were either of them conscious of what he was about. Perhaps it is part of the mystery of that strange world of which I have been speaking that there are states of feeling in which things that would thrill us at other times come and go quite unnoticed, and both Winifred and Anthony believed that they were cool and self-possessed, and did not think that he had her hand in his. Sniff, who had been in wild pursuit of a rabbit, dashed in at this moment, and flung himself down panting in a dark corner.“Were you coming into the garden?” said Anthony. “Will you come?”Winifred remembered Frank, and flushed and withdrew her hand.“I don’t think I can,” she said, shaking her head. “I owe so many letters that it quite frightens me to think about it.”“One day can make very little difference,” urged Anthony. “Pray come; I have something to tell you.”She looked at him, and that first flash of conviction had so faded away that her heart swelled with the thought, “He is come to tell me of their marriage.” It did not cause her any surprise, but it made her hand tremble as she took down her garden hat and went slowly out into the sunshine. Once there, she began to walk quickly, so that Anthony became a little vexed by the idea that she wished to avoid listening to him. The path was so narrow that he could not walk by her side, until presently it led to a wider part where were some horse-chestnuts bursting into leaf, and Winifred stood still and leaned over the iron railings to coax an old pet pony of the Squire’s. It was one of those soft bright growing days which are the most perfect in the world. Things were thrusting themselves out, calling, answering. Broken lights fell tenderly on the delicate tints. Sheets of pure blossoms swelled round the farms; the air was full of young, hopeful scents, of dancing insects; the grass was starred with innumerable daisies; a little troop of lambs came rushing up from, the end of the field, and leaped away again at sight of Sniff. Does Arcadia come sometimes?—Have we all felt it? It was Anthony on whom it was smiling now while he looked at Winifred, at her cheek a little turned from him, at the pretty curve of her arm as she held out some leaves for the old pony to nibble. As for her, she was thinking of an Arcadia for him and for another. And Frank, who had got up to the clump by this time, and could just see the two figures below him in the midst of all this peaceful greenery, thought that Arcadia had already begun for them. It looks like fairy-land to those that are shut out, and still its loveliness is not enough to satisfy us, little as we believe it. There are sweeter countries yet, though no outward beauty makes us long for them, and we see the dusty feet of the pilgrims, and the sadness of the journey, while the smile upon their hearts is hidden from us for a time. Arcadia may lie on the road, but it is not the end, and we may pass through other and harsher ways, and yet meet those we love. And up there under the trees were the sweet breezes, and the sunshine, and the larks singing overhead. Do not fear. There is no desolation in God’s earth.“You have not heard what I came to tell you,” said Anthony, doubtfully.The old pony’s head was close to Winifred, and she was twisting his white forelock round her fingers. The words did not come easily with which she wanted to assure him that she had guessed his errand, and at last she spoke hastily, though with no disturbance in her voice.“Is it that your marriage day is fixed? If so you must let us wish you joy.”“No, it is not that. It is just the reverse,” he said, with an unreasonable feeling that Winifred ought to know and understand all at once. She looked round at him with quick surprise, but she did not answer in any other manner, and he was obliged to go on. “Miss Lovell has changed her mind, and prefers marrying some one else.”“You are laughing!” said Winifred, flushing angrily. “And it is not kind. You may suppose we care about it.”“But I am not laughing,” said Anthony, in a low voice. When she looked at him, and saw that he was very grave, her hand began to tremble a little. He had become suddenly despairing with the conviction that it was an impossible thing to say, “I was engaged this morning to another woman, and yet I have always loved you;” he felt as if he dared not treat her so, and yet that he could not leave her.“I don’t understand it,” Winifred began to say slowly. “Do you mean that she has been so heartless and cruel? O, I don’t think so, it is a mistake; you fancy things sometimes which people do not intend in the least! Have you been to Underham? Have you seen Miss Lovell yourself?”“I have seen Mr Bennett. I assure you it was put in the plainest possible English. Young Warren is the lucky fellow.”Perhaps her anger was useful, as it occasionally is, in keeping off other emotions. She threw back her head, with a gesture she sometimes used, a flush was on her cheek, and her eyes sparkled.“How can you speak like that!” she said passionately. “I hate that people should pretend not to care for what hurts them. Why can’t you let us be sorry for you?”“Because I am not sorry for myself, Winifred,” he said in a changed, deep tone. He took her hand in his, and held it close, and looked down into her eyes. “Because I have known for some time that the maddest mistake I ever made in my life was when I asked Ada Lovell to marry me. Because I feel as if a weight were lifted off my heart. Because I can breathe now, and live,—yes, and love,—I must say it, Winifred, my darling—”For she had caught back her hand, and was standing, drawn to her full height, with her breath coming quickly, and no softening in her eyes. The words fell away from his lips. He, too, stood still and silent, looking at her with a dreary sinking of his heart. So this was the end.“You are right,” he said, quietly, in another moment. “I ought to have known better. Well,—at least you will say good by? Things don’t straighten themselves in the way we are fools enough to dream they will. Good by, Winifred. Come, you’ll say good bye?”He stood still for another minute, waiting, and a lark that had been singing jubilantly overhead dropped swiftly down in a hush of tender silence. Winifred scarcely dared move, Anthony’s tone heaped pain upon her heart, tears rushed into her eyes, but she said “Good bye,” putting out her hand, at which he caught.“No, it is not good by,” he said suddenly. “Why should I be sent away?”There was a quick change in his voice which set a hundred conflicting strings vibrating in her heart. How dared he speak in such a tone, and yet how dear it was! His strong feeling was carrying her with it, but she still found voice to say,—“How can I know what you mean? How can you be one thing one day and another the next?” But Anthony disregarded the reproach. He said eagerly, “If you don’t love me, at least we are old friends; let us go back to what we were, and begin again. Don’t you think if you were to try very hard you might learn to like me a little bit, just a little bit?”“I cannot learn to like you,” said Winifred, simply, “because we have always liked each other, and there can be no beginning again.” She said this very quietly, and then suddenly broke down. “O Anthony, Anthony,” she said, covering her face with her hands, “you have made it so difficult!”And then she was in his arms. She had never consented, and yet he held her close to him. “My darling,” he said under his breath, “can you forgive me?”Forgive him? Ah, yes, she loved him, and love will lavish forgiveness with a free hand, and a sweet joy in the bounty of its giving. If it were not so, how would it be with any of us? Was there ever such a moment,—so rich, so tender? And yet there must be better things, or Frank would not have been up there under the clump alone, there would not be so many sad hearts in the world, David Stephens would not have been lying under the grass.Well, we shall know it all one day.Very little has been said of late touching Marmaduke and his wife, the truth being that there is very little to say. They lived what must be called a prosperous life; at least, if there were any signs of disturbance in the midst of it, they were not such as became apparent to their neighbours. It was sometimes said that Mrs Lee was cold and distant, even with her husband, and that her looks had changed since her marriage, but her ill health was supposed to account satisfactorily for this, and nothing ever reached the ears of the outer world which could make it suppose that they were not a happy couple. Miss Philippa lived with them, by Mrs Lee’s especial request, and there could be no doubt of her happiness. But no children were born, and rumour declared, how truly it is impossible to say, that, after Mr and Mrs Lee died, their money would be bequeathed to a great London charity.Anthony’s first attempt to find Margaret Hare’s husband and child had been checked by the despondency with which he had been visited when his world had lost its faith in him; but under a new spring of energy, he and Mr Robert were soon able to track the wanderers in Australia. Some of the circumstances were communicated to the father; he, however, utterly rejected all old Mr Tregennas’s intentions as a too late atonement. He was wealthy, and there was but one girl, and the certain hard determination which had carried him up in the struggle for existence now made him obstinately resolute against accepting his father-in-law’s money.Anthony, Winifred, and their children live in London, but are often in Thorpe, where there are both living and dead to draw them, besides its own quiet and tender beauty. Anthony’s life was, perhaps, too soon filled with the things it wanted to admit of its ever becoming great in the manner in which people talk of greatness. But it is an exceedingly active and useful life, in the course of which he has made war upon more than one hydra-headed monster, and that with a success of which he often said his wife ought to share half the praise. She used to smile when she heard this, thinking of the many things which had helped her champion, besides her happy love. And, indeed, the influences that mould our lives are often scarcely known to ourselves, and come from as many sides as the winds that sweep the earth.The End.

“Comes a little cloudlet ’twixt ourselves and heaven,And from all the river fades the silver track;Put thine arms around me, whisper low, Forgiven,See how on the river starlight settles back!”Lord Lytton.

When Anthony was looking down upon the fir-trees, there were two people standing under them, and talking earnestly. One of them was putting out her hand and saying in a voice which was very sad and kind,—

“I believe I am a hundred years older than you, Frank. Do people’s hearts go on getting older and older at this rate, I wonder? I don’t seem to feel as if all that you are saying could be so. Perhaps I am beginning not to feel anything any more.”

“Don’t disbelieve me,” Frank said eagerly. “That is all I ask you, Winifred. Only try to believe how dearly I love you, and trust me, or let me have time to show you.”

She did not turn away from him, she did not even take away her hand which he had clasped, and yet nothing in her attitude or in her eyes seemed to have grown nearer to him during that moment in which they stood so close to each other under the fir-trees, a little hidden from the soft, warm sun. Winifred stood as if she were thinking, but it might have been of something outside herself, and with which she was only concerned as a looker-on. Her face was tenderly grave, but Frank sought in vain for any glow which should answer his. She was silent so long, however, that at last he could bear it no longer, and said in a voice which was all uneven and broken,—

“What do you say, Winifred? You will not refuse me that one little promise?”

She said immediately, looking into his face with unshrinking eyes,—

“Ah, Frank, it is because it is so little that I feel I dare not give it. Dear Frank, what are you offering me?—do you think I do not know its worth?—and for all your heart you ask no more than just a little dead sufferance. You want to give everything, and to have nothing back again.”

“What you call nothing—” began Frank, flushing, but she interrupted him quickly, with a new tone of pain in her voice.

“No, no,—why do we go on talking?—let us try to forget it all, let us try to be dear friends always, but do not ask me to do you a wrong which would make me hate myself.”

Winifred might have been impetuously thrusting back something. Perhaps she was: perhaps she had a little secret, impatient longing to escape somehow, anyhow, from the associations which imprisoned her. Frank, who knew all her little story, and knew no more than she who was coming at that moment with swift steps across the dewy grass, looked at her, and felt his heart sink, though he had not lost all hope. He could wait a lifetime, he thought, and patient waiting must gain her at last. Just then the little iron gate clicked as Anthony came through: he saw them standing with clasped hands, saw Winifred look up, and turn away quickly to the house. Was his secret misgiving true?—was it too late, after all? He half stopped; but Frank had seen him, and was strolling towards him.

The two men did not meet very cordially, but they went through the usual conventionalities.

“So you’re not off?” said Anthony.

Captain Orde, whose face was white, and whose hand was not quite so steady as usual, took out his fusee-box and struck a light.

“No, I’m not off till to-morrow,” he said, lighting his cigar slowly. “Will you have a cigar? I shall make one push for it to Colchester. Do you ever come that way?”

“Not nowadays. Though I don’t know where I shall find myself next. Sometimes I think of travelling for a year or two.”

“You don’t mean just knocking about Europe?”

“No,Ishould go farther afield.”

Captain Orde gave him a quick, rather questioning glance, and walked on silently.

“How will that agree with your other prospects?” he said at last.

“I have no particular prospects, as you call them,” said Anthony, shortly. “If you mean the engagement in which I had the honour to be concerned, it has come to an end.”

“Does Winifred know this?” Frank was asking very gravely in a moment.

“How should she?” said Anthony, angrily. He was intending to speak without excitement, but that little scene under the fir-trees danced up and down before his eyes. “You need not think that I shall tell her,” he went on in hot tumult, “for probably at this time Miss Chester is too much taken up with her own affairs to have thought to bestow upon those of other people.”

“Miss Chester is not going to marry me, if that is what you mean,” said Captain Orde, quietly. “I have asked her—more than once—and now for the last time.”

He spoke in a dull strained voice. For him there was neither charm nor glory, only a dreary pain, a grey colourless sky. Anthony was not worthy of Winifred, but, alas, did he not know that she cared for him; that she was at this very moment, perhaps, weeping for the helplessness, the sadness of her love; that he, whose path must not touch hers any more, might send her the light and joy for which she longed? He did not hear much of what Anthony was saying, until he found that he had left him, and was making his way towards the house with quick, hopeful steps. Frank, who was going up to the clump, stood still and watched. It is a little hard to run for a prize, and see it carried off by some one who has never seemed to set his heart upon it. When a man has struggled neck and neck with you, it is easier to yield than to another who has loitered carelessly, and yet comes up, and sweeps by with triumphant ease. Anthony was going to his victory, while Frank was left out in the cold. Yet, if there are failures out of which grow success, so also there are defeats which bring rejoicing songs, though we do not hear them yet, and all that reaches us is the sadness of sighing and the weariness of tears.

Winifred was crossing the hall as Anthony Miles came in. Mrs Orde had caught her for some consultation about Bessie’s masters, and she had been obliged for a little while to make and answer indifferent remarks while every nerve was on the strain, until she could bear it no longer, and, escaping from the room, was, as I have said, just crossing the hall when Anthony Miles came in.

There must be a world of subtile influences in the midst of which we live, and which is not the least wonderful part of our existence. As he, seeing her, stood for a moment with the door in his hand, the pretty lights and shades and trembling sunshine behind him, and his face so much in shadow that it was impossible for her hasty, tearful glance to read its expression, what strange joy sent a new thrill into her heart, and quickened it with intensest life? What swift movement of pity, tender and womanly, went out to Frank with the touch of wondering compassion for sorrows past so long ago, that since she had known of them night had turned into day, winter into spring, perplexity into contentment? It all only lasted for a moment, but why had it been? Anthony’s own glow of eagerness died out of his heart as he came upon her in that sudden fashion, looked at her standing in the delicate light, and felt as if he could not say a word. To them both that instant seemed endless, and yet it was only an instant.

For then they came back to—realities, shall we say? Anthony left the sunshine and sparkling greens behind him, and walked into the hall where Winifred was waiting and putting out her hand calmly.

“How is Mrs Miles?” she said, “Bessie was going to take the club books to her this afternoon, for I am ashamed to say that we have kept them two or three days beyond our time.”

“What will Mrs Featherly do to you?” said Anthony, holding her hand in his.

I do not think they were either of them conscious of what he was about. Perhaps it is part of the mystery of that strange world of which I have been speaking that there are states of feeling in which things that would thrill us at other times come and go quite unnoticed, and both Winifred and Anthony believed that they were cool and self-possessed, and did not think that he had her hand in his. Sniff, who had been in wild pursuit of a rabbit, dashed in at this moment, and flung himself down panting in a dark corner.

“Were you coming into the garden?” said Anthony. “Will you come?”

Winifred remembered Frank, and flushed and withdrew her hand.

“I don’t think I can,” she said, shaking her head. “I owe so many letters that it quite frightens me to think about it.”

“One day can make very little difference,” urged Anthony. “Pray come; I have something to tell you.”

She looked at him, and that first flash of conviction had so faded away that her heart swelled with the thought, “He is come to tell me of their marriage.” It did not cause her any surprise, but it made her hand tremble as she took down her garden hat and went slowly out into the sunshine. Once there, she began to walk quickly, so that Anthony became a little vexed by the idea that she wished to avoid listening to him. The path was so narrow that he could not walk by her side, until presently it led to a wider part where were some horse-chestnuts bursting into leaf, and Winifred stood still and leaned over the iron railings to coax an old pet pony of the Squire’s. It was one of those soft bright growing days which are the most perfect in the world. Things were thrusting themselves out, calling, answering. Broken lights fell tenderly on the delicate tints. Sheets of pure blossoms swelled round the farms; the air was full of young, hopeful scents, of dancing insects; the grass was starred with innumerable daisies; a little troop of lambs came rushing up from, the end of the field, and leaped away again at sight of Sniff. Does Arcadia come sometimes?—Have we all felt it? It was Anthony on whom it was smiling now while he looked at Winifred, at her cheek a little turned from him, at the pretty curve of her arm as she held out some leaves for the old pony to nibble. As for her, she was thinking of an Arcadia for him and for another. And Frank, who had got up to the clump by this time, and could just see the two figures below him in the midst of all this peaceful greenery, thought that Arcadia had already begun for them. It looks like fairy-land to those that are shut out, and still its loveliness is not enough to satisfy us, little as we believe it. There are sweeter countries yet, though no outward beauty makes us long for them, and we see the dusty feet of the pilgrims, and the sadness of the journey, while the smile upon their hearts is hidden from us for a time. Arcadia may lie on the road, but it is not the end, and we may pass through other and harsher ways, and yet meet those we love. And up there under the trees were the sweet breezes, and the sunshine, and the larks singing overhead. Do not fear. There is no desolation in God’s earth.

“You have not heard what I came to tell you,” said Anthony, doubtfully.

The old pony’s head was close to Winifred, and she was twisting his white forelock round her fingers. The words did not come easily with which she wanted to assure him that she had guessed his errand, and at last she spoke hastily, though with no disturbance in her voice.

“Is it that your marriage day is fixed? If so you must let us wish you joy.”

“No, it is not that. It is just the reverse,” he said, with an unreasonable feeling that Winifred ought to know and understand all at once. She looked round at him with quick surprise, but she did not answer in any other manner, and he was obliged to go on. “Miss Lovell has changed her mind, and prefers marrying some one else.”

“You are laughing!” said Winifred, flushing angrily. “And it is not kind. You may suppose we care about it.”

“But I am not laughing,” said Anthony, in a low voice. When she looked at him, and saw that he was very grave, her hand began to tremble a little. He had become suddenly despairing with the conviction that it was an impossible thing to say, “I was engaged this morning to another woman, and yet I have always loved you;” he felt as if he dared not treat her so, and yet that he could not leave her.

“I don’t understand it,” Winifred began to say slowly. “Do you mean that she has been so heartless and cruel? O, I don’t think so, it is a mistake; you fancy things sometimes which people do not intend in the least! Have you been to Underham? Have you seen Miss Lovell yourself?”

“I have seen Mr Bennett. I assure you it was put in the plainest possible English. Young Warren is the lucky fellow.”

Perhaps her anger was useful, as it occasionally is, in keeping off other emotions. She threw back her head, with a gesture she sometimes used, a flush was on her cheek, and her eyes sparkled.

“How can you speak like that!” she said passionately. “I hate that people should pretend not to care for what hurts them. Why can’t you let us be sorry for you?”

“Because I am not sorry for myself, Winifred,” he said in a changed, deep tone. He took her hand in his, and held it close, and looked down into her eyes. “Because I have known for some time that the maddest mistake I ever made in my life was when I asked Ada Lovell to marry me. Because I feel as if a weight were lifted off my heart. Because I can breathe now, and live,—yes, and love,—I must say it, Winifred, my darling—”

For she had caught back her hand, and was standing, drawn to her full height, with her breath coming quickly, and no softening in her eyes. The words fell away from his lips. He, too, stood still and silent, looking at her with a dreary sinking of his heart. So this was the end.

“You are right,” he said, quietly, in another moment. “I ought to have known better. Well,—at least you will say good by? Things don’t straighten themselves in the way we are fools enough to dream they will. Good by, Winifred. Come, you’ll say good bye?”

He stood still for another minute, waiting, and a lark that had been singing jubilantly overhead dropped swiftly down in a hush of tender silence. Winifred scarcely dared move, Anthony’s tone heaped pain upon her heart, tears rushed into her eyes, but she said “Good bye,” putting out her hand, at which he caught.

“No, it is not good by,” he said suddenly. “Why should I be sent away?”

There was a quick change in his voice which set a hundred conflicting strings vibrating in her heart. How dared he speak in such a tone, and yet how dear it was! His strong feeling was carrying her with it, but she still found voice to say,—

“How can I know what you mean? How can you be one thing one day and another the next?” But Anthony disregarded the reproach. He said eagerly, “If you don’t love me, at least we are old friends; let us go back to what we were, and begin again. Don’t you think if you were to try very hard you might learn to like me a little bit, just a little bit?”

“I cannot learn to like you,” said Winifred, simply, “because we have always liked each other, and there can be no beginning again.” She said this very quietly, and then suddenly broke down. “O Anthony, Anthony,” she said, covering her face with her hands, “you have made it so difficult!”

And then she was in his arms. She had never consented, and yet he held her close to him. “My darling,” he said under his breath, “can you forgive me?”

Forgive him? Ah, yes, she loved him, and love will lavish forgiveness with a free hand, and a sweet joy in the bounty of its giving. If it were not so, how would it be with any of us? Was there ever such a moment,—so rich, so tender? And yet there must be better things, or Frank would not have been up there under the clump alone, there would not be so many sad hearts in the world, David Stephens would not have been lying under the grass.

Well, we shall know it all one day.

Very little has been said of late touching Marmaduke and his wife, the truth being that there is very little to say. They lived what must be called a prosperous life; at least, if there were any signs of disturbance in the midst of it, they were not such as became apparent to their neighbours. It was sometimes said that Mrs Lee was cold and distant, even with her husband, and that her looks had changed since her marriage, but her ill health was supposed to account satisfactorily for this, and nothing ever reached the ears of the outer world which could make it suppose that they were not a happy couple. Miss Philippa lived with them, by Mrs Lee’s especial request, and there could be no doubt of her happiness. But no children were born, and rumour declared, how truly it is impossible to say, that, after Mr and Mrs Lee died, their money would be bequeathed to a great London charity.

Anthony’s first attempt to find Margaret Hare’s husband and child had been checked by the despondency with which he had been visited when his world had lost its faith in him; but under a new spring of energy, he and Mr Robert were soon able to track the wanderers in Australia. Some of the circumstances were communicated to the father; he, however, utterly rejected all old Mr Tregennas’s intentions as a too late atonement. He was wealthy, and there was but one girl, and the certain hard determination which had carried him up in the struggle for existence now made him obstinately resolute against accepting his father-in-law’s money.

Anthony, Winifred, and their children live in London, but are often in Thorpe, where there are both living and dead to draw them, besides its own quiet and tender beauty. Anthony’s life was, perhaps, too soon filled with the things it wanted to admit of its ever becoming great in the manner in which people talk of greatness. But it is an exceedingly active and useful life, in the course of which he has made war upon more than one hydra-headed monster, and that with a success of which he often said his wife ought to share half the praise. She used to smile when she heard this, thinking of the many things which had helped her champion, besides her happy love. And, indeed, the influences that mould our lives are often scarcely known to ourselves, and come from as many sides as the winds that sweep the earth.

The End.

Back to Index Next