Part 13 (2/2)
He had, at what a cost, saved Maud from the chance of such a mistake.
It was a sad tangle; but when Maud was happily married, he would perhaps be able to explain to her why he had behaved as he had done; and she would be grateful to him then. His restless and fevered imagination traced emotional and dramatic scenes, in which his delicacy would at last be revealed. He felt ashamed of himself for this abandonment to sentiment, but he seemed to have lost control over the emotional part of his mind, which continued to luxuriate in the consciousness of his own self-effacement. He had indeed, he felt, fallen low. But he continued to trace in his mind how each of the actors in the little drama--Mr. Sandys, Jack, Guthrie himself, Maud, Mrs. Graves--would each have reason to thank him for having held himself aloof, and for sacrificing his own desires. There was comfort in that thought; and for the first time in these miserable weeks he felt a little glow of self-approval at the consciousness of his own prudence and justice. The best thing, he now reflected, would be to remove himself from the scene altogether for a time, and to return in radiant benevolence, when the affair had settled itself: but Maud--and then there came over him the thought of the girl, her sweetness, her eager delight, her adorable frankness, her innocence, her desire to be in affectionate relations with all who came within reach of her; and the sense of his own foresight and benevolence was instantly and entirely overwhelmed at the thought of what he had missed, and of what he might have aspired to, if it had not been for just the wretched obstacle of age and circ.u.mstance. A few years younger--if he had been that, he could have followed the leading of his heart, and--he dared think no more of what might have been possible.
But what brought matters to a head was a scene that he saw on the following day. He was in the library in the morning; he tried to work, but he could not command his attention. At last he rose and went to the little oriel, which commanded a view of the village green. Just as he did so, he caught sight of two figures--Maud and Guthrie--walking together on the road which led from the Vicarage. They were talking in the plainest intimacy. Guthrie seemed to be arguing some point with laughing insistence, and Maud to be listening in amused delight.
Presently they came to a stop, and he could see Maud hold up a finger.
Guthrie at once desisted. At this moment a kitten scampered across the green to them sideways, its tail up. Guthrie caught it up, and as he held it in his arms. Howard saw Maud bend over it and caress it. The scene brought an instant conviction to his mind; but presently Maud said a word to her companion, and then came across the green to the Manor, pa.s.sing in at the gate just underneath him. Howard stood back that he might not be observed. He saw Maud come in under the gateway, half smiling to herself as at something that had happened. As she did so, she waved her hand to Guthrie, who stood holding the kitten in his arms and looking after her. When she disappeared, he put the kitten down, and then walked back towards the Vicarage.
XXI
THE AWAKENING
Howard spent the rest of the morning in very bitter cogitation; after luncheon, during which he could hardly force himself to speak, he excused himself on the plea of wanting exercise.
It was in a real agony of mind and spirit that he left the house. He was certain now; and he was not only haunted by his loss, but he was horrified at his entire lack of self-control and restraint. His thoughts came in, like great waves striking on a rocky reef, and rending themselves in sheets of scattered foam. He seemed to himself to have been slowly inveigled into his fate by a worse than malicious power; something had planned his doom. He remembered his old tranquillities; his little touch of boredom; and then how easy the descent had been! He had been drawn by a slender thread of circ.u.mstance into paying his visit to Windlow; his friends.h.i.+p with Jack had just toppled over the balance; he had gone; then there had come his talk with his aunt, which had wrought him up into a mood of vague excitement. Just at that moment Maud had come in his way; then friends.h.i.+p had followed; and then he had been seized with this devouring pa.s.sion which had devastated his heart. He had known all the time that he was too late; and even so he had gone to work the wrong way: it was his infernal diplomacy, his trick of playing with other lives, of yielding to emotional intimacies--that fatal desire to have a definite relation, to mean something to everyone in his circle. Then this wretched, attractive, pleasant youth, with his superficial charm, had intervened. If he had been wise he would never have suggested that visit to Cambridge. Maud had hitherto been just like Miranda on the island; she had never been brought into close contact with a young cavalier; and the subtle instinct of youth had done the rest, the instinct for the equal mate, so far stronger and more subtle than any reasonable or intellectual friends.h.i.+p. And then he, devoured as he had been by his love, had been unable to use his faculties; he could do nothing but glare and wink, while his treasure was stolen from him; he had made mistakes at every turn. What would he not give now to be restored to his old, balanced, easy life, with its little friends.h.i.+ps and duties. How fantastic and unreal his aunt's theories seemed to him, reveries contrived just to gild the gaps of a broken life, a dramatisation of emptiness and self-importance. At every moment the face and figure of Maud came before him in a hundred sweet, spontaneous movements--the look of her eyes, the slow thrill of her voice. He needed her with all his soul--every fibre of his being cried out for her. And then the thought of being thus pitifully overcome, humiliated and degraded him. If she had not been beautiful, he would perhaps never have thought of her except with a mild and courteous interest. This was the draught of life which he had put so curiously to his lips, sweet and heady to taste, but with what infinite bitterness and disgust in the cup. It had robbed him of everything--of his work, of his temperate ecstasies in sight and sound, of his intellectual enthusiasm. His life was all broken to pieces about him; he had lost at once all interest and all sense of dignity. He was simply a man betrayed by a pa.s.sion, which had fevered him just because his life had been so orderly and pure. He was not strong enough even to cut himself adrift from it all.
He must just welter on, a figure visibly touched by depression and ill-fortune, and hammering out the old grammar-grind. Had any writer, any poet, ever agonised thus? The people who discoursed glibly about love, and wove their sorrows into elegies, what sort of prurient curs were they? It was all too bad to think of, to speak of--a mere staggering among the mudflats of life.
In this raging self-contempt and misery, he drew near to the still pool in the valley; he would sit there and bleed awhile, like the old warrior, but with no hope of revisiting the fight: he would just abandon himself to listless despair for an hour or two, while the pleasant drama of life went on behind him. Why had he not at least spoken to Maud, while he had time, and secured her loyalty? It was his idiotic deliberation, his love of dallying gently with his emotions, getting the best he could out of them.
Suddenly he saw that there was some one on the stone seat by the spring, and in a moment he saw that it was Maud--and that she had observed him. She looked troubled and melancholy. Had she stolen away here, had she even appointed a place of meeting with the wretched boy?
was she vexed at his intrusion? Well, it would have to be faced now. He would go on, he would say a few words, he would at least not betray himself. After all, she had done no wrong, poor child--she had only found her mate; and she at least should not be troubled.
She rose up at his approach; and Howard, affecting a feeble heartiness, said, ”Well, so you have stolen away like me! This is a sweet place, isn't it; like an old fairy-tale, and haunted by a Neckan? I won't disturb you--I am going on to the hill--I want a breath of air.”
Maud looked at him rather pitifully, and said nothing for a moment.
Then she said, ”Won't you stay a little and talk to me?--I don't seem to have seen you--there has been so much going on. I want to tell you about my book, you know--I am going on with that--I shall soon have some more chapters to show you.”
She sate down at one end of the bench, and Howard seated himself wearily at the other. Maud glanced at him for a moment, but he said nothing. The sight of her was a sort of torture to him. He longed with an insupportable longing to fling himself down beside her and claim her, despairingly and helplessly. He simply could not frame a sentence.
”You look tired,” said Maud. ”I don't know what it is, but it seems as if everything had gone wrong since we came to Cambridge. Do tell me what it all is--you can trust me. I have been afraid I have vexed you somehow, and I had hoped we were going to be friends.” She leaned her head on her hand, and looked at him. She looked so troubled and so frail, that Howard's heart smote him--he must make an effort; he must not cloud the child's mind; he must just take what she could give him, and not hamper her in any way. The one thing left him was a miserable courtesy, on which he must somehow depend. He forced a sort of smile, and began to talk--his own voice audible to him, strained and ugly, like the voice of some querulous ghost.
”Ah,” he said, ”as one gets older, one can't always command one's moods. Vexed? Of course, I am not vexed--what put that into your head?
It's this--I can tell you so much! It seems to me that I have been drawn aside out of my old, easy, serene life, into a new sort of life here--and I am not equal to it. I had got so used, I suppose, to picking up other lives, that I thought I could do the same here--and I seem to have taken on more than I could manage. I forgot, I think, that I was getting older, that I had left youth behind. I made the mistake of thinking I could play a new role--and I cannot. I am tired--yes, I am deadly tired; and I feel now as if I wanted to get out of it all, and just leave things to work themselves out. I have meddled, and I am being punished for meddling. I have been playing with fire, and I have been burnt. I had thought of a new sort of life. Don't you remember,”
he added with a smile, ”the monkey in Buckland's book, who got into the kettle on the hob, and whenever he tried to leave it, found it so cold outside, that he dared not venture out--and he was nearly boiled alive!”
”No, I DON'T understand,” said Maud, with so sudden an air of sorrow and unhappiness that Howard could hardly refrain from taking her into his arms like a tired child and comforting her. ”I don't understand at all. You came here, and you fitted in at once, seemed to understand everyone and everything, and gave us all a lift. It is miserable--that you should have brought so much happiness to us, and then have tired of it all. I don't understand it in the least. Something must have happened to distress you--it can't all go to pieces like this!”
”Oh,” said Howard, ”I interfered. It is my accursed trick of playing with people, wanting to be liked, wanting to make a difference. How can I explain? . . . Well, I must tell you. You must forgive me somehow! I tried--don't look at me while I say it--I have tried to interfere with YOU. I tried to make a friend of you; and then when you came to Cambridge, I saw I had claimed too much; that your place was not with such as myself--the old, stupid, battered generation, fit for nothing but worrying along. I saw you were young, and needed youth about you.
G.o.d forgive me for my selfish plans. I wanted to keep your friends.h.i.+p for myself, and when I saw you were attracted elsewhere, I was jealous--horribly, vilely jealous. But I have the grace to despise myself for it, and I won't hamper you in any way. You must just give me what you can, and I will be thankful.”
As he spoke he saw a curious light pa.s.s into the girl's face--a light of understanding and resolution. He thought that she would tell him that he was right; and he was unutterably thankful to think that he had had the courage to speak--he could bear anything now.
Suddenly she made a swift gesture, bending down to him. She caught his hand in her own, and pressed her lips to it. ”Don't you SEE?” she said.
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