Chapter IV Drifting
With return of winter some temporary peace descended upon Myles, and, looking back, he felt ashamed at the storm and stress of spirit that Yeoland’s resurrection had awakened in him. For a season, as life returned to its level progress, he truly told himself that he viewed the friendship between his wife and her old lover without concern, because it was natural and inevitable. Honor’s very frankness and ingenuous pleasure in the wanderer’s company shamed a jealous attitude. Some men, indeed, had gone further and blessed Yeoland’s home-coming. Certainly that event was in no small measure responsible for Honor’s renewed physical welfare, and the excitement acted kindly upon a temperament that found food in novelty and desired sweep and play of change for her soul’s health. Stapledon’s wife was well again, and soon she discovered that life could still be full and sweet. Into a sort of lulled contentment he therefore sank, and proclaimed to himself that all was well, that the existence of the three, lived under present relations, was natural and seemly. He checked impatience at the expeditions planned, listened to Christopher’s endless designs with respect to Godleigh, advised him and endured from him the old, extravagant conceits and jesting, specious views of life. Yet the glamour was off them now, and they only wearied Myles. He believed at first that Yeoland must be a changed man; but very soon he found no such thing had happened.
Nevertheless, some parity of tastes obtained, as of old, in divers directions. Again they walked for many miles together, each occupied with Nature from his own standpoint; and again they met in the dawn hour that possessed like fascination for both. At such times, under grey winter light, shrewd and searching, what was best in the men stood first, and they almost understood one another; but when they met, smudged by long hours of the toilsome day, and especially when they found each other in common company of Honor, both lacked the former sympathy.
As for Christopher, he heartily appreciated Myles at this period, and found the farmer’s common sense a valuable antidote to the somewhat too spacious ideas of Doctor Clack in matters concerning betterment of Godleigh. And not seldom did Yeoland rejoice, with a single eye, that his old love had such a steadfast rock upon which to establish her life.
In his relations with Honor he had been a little astonished to find the fact of her marriage not recognised by his nature, as it was by his conscience. That Nature could dare to be herself surprised him, when her wave throbbed through his being now and again upon some rare, sweet note of voice or tinkle of laughter. At such emotional moments he complimented the character and heroic attributes of Myles, with a vigour so crude that Honor might have suspected had not she echoed the sentiment from her heart. She never wearied of her husband’s praises, and had no discernment as to what prompted Christopher’s sudden overflowings of admiration. The man’s return, as in the first instance of his own juxtaposition with Myles, served to alter Honor’s inner attitude towards her husband. It seemed, in a sense, as she had fancied of old, that these two were the complement each of the other.
And a result was that his wife became more to Stapledon as the weeks passed. Gradually—but not so gradually that he failed to observe it—there came an increase of consideration in small matters, a new softness in her voice, a deeper warmth in her kisses. He marked her added joy in life, noted how she let her happiness bubble over to make him more joyful; and at first he was filled with satisfaction; and next he was overclouded with doubt. He tried to ascertain why her old lover’s return should increase Honor’s liking for her husband; he laboured gloomily upon a problem altogether beyond his calibre of mind to solve. He failed to see that the subtle change in his wife extended beyond him to the confines of her little world, that some higher graciousness was bred of it, that the least planet of which she was the sun now reaped new warmth from her accession of happiness. He puzzled his intelligence, and arrived, through long fret and care, at an erroneous solution. Utterly unable to appraise the delicate warp and poise of her humours, or gauge those obscure escapements that control happiness in the machinery of a woman’s mind, Stapledon came to pitiful and mistaken conclusions that swept from him all content, all security, all further peace. At the glimmer of some devil’s lantern he read into Honor’s altered bearing an act of deliberate simulation. He denied that this advent of the other could by any possibility possess force to deepen or widen her affection for him; and he concluded, upon this decision, that the alteration must be apparent, not real. Such was the man’s poor speed in the vital science of human nature. Next, he strove to explain the necessity for her pretence, with the reason of it; and so he darkened understanding, fouled his own threshold with fancied danger, and passed gradually into a cloudy region of anxiety and gloom. Excuse for speech or protest there was none; yet, unable to discern in Honor’s frank awakening to everyday life and her renewed healthful bearing towards all her environment an obvious purity of mind and thought, he suffered his agitation to conquer him. He lived and waited, and sank into a chronic watchfulness that was loathsome to him. His fits of moody taciturnity saddened his wife and astonished her above measure, for it seemed that the old love of natural things was dead in him. In truth, his religion of the Moor—his dogma of the granite and vast waste places—failed him at this pinch. His gods were powerless and dumb—either that, or the heart of him had grown deaf for a season.
His unrest appeared, but the inner fires were hidden very completely. Then Mark Endicott, who knew that Myles was disordered, and suspected the tissue of his trouble, approached him, burrowed to his secret, and held converse thereon through some hours of a stormy night in January.
Stapledon at first evaded the issue, but he confessed at length, and, when invited to name the exact nature of his disquiet, merely declared the present position to be impossible in his judgment.
“We can’t live with the balance so exact,” he said. “I feel it and know it. Honor and this man loved one another once, and the natural attraction of their characters may bring them to do so again, now that such a thing would be sin.”
“A big word—‘sin,’” answered Mr. Endicott. “If that’s all your trouble, the sooner you let sunshine into your mind again the better. Honor’s an Endicott, when all’s said, though maybe one of the strangest ever born under that name. I’m astonished to hear that this is the colour of your mind. And the man—queer though he is, too, and unlike most men I’ve met with—yet he’s not the sort to bring trouble on a woman, last of all this woman.”
“You prose on, uncle, not remembering what it felt like to feel your blood run hot at a woman’s voice,” answered Myles with unusual impatience and a flash of eye. “I give him all the credit you desire and more; I know he is honourable and upright and true. What then? Highest honour has broken down before this temptation. He is made of flesh and blood after all, and a man can’t live within a span of a woman he loves and be happy—not if that woman belongs to somebody else. I don’t assert that his love still exists, yet it’s an immortal thing—not to be killed—and though he thinks he has strangled it—who can say? It may come to life again, like he did.”
“You judge others by your own honest character; but I’m not so certain. If there is a man who could live platonically beside a woman he loves, that man might be Yeoland. There’s something grotesque in him there—some warp or twist of fibre. Remember how well content he was in the past to remain engaged to her without rushing into her arms and marrying her. He’s cold-blooded—so to call it—in some ways. I’ve known other such men.”
“It’s contrary to nature.”
“Contrary to yours, but temperaments are different Don’t judge him. There may be a want in him, or he may possess rare virtues. Some are ascetic and continent by disposition and starve Nature, at some secret prompting of her own. I don’t say he is that sort of man, but he may be. Certainly his standpoint is far less commonplace than yours.”
“I caught him kissing a pretty milkmaid once, all the same; and that after he was engaged to Honor,” answered the other gloomily.
“Exactly. Now you would not do such a thing for the world, and he would make light of it. Beauty merely intoxicates some men; but intoxicated men do little harm as a rule. He’s irresponsible in many ways; yet still I say the husband that fears such a man must be a fool.”
“I can’t suppose him built differently to other people.”
“Then assume him to be the same, and ask yourself this question: Seeing what he did for love of her, and granting he loves her still, has he come back to undo what he did? Would he change and steal her now, even if he had the power to do so? What has he done in the past that makes you dream him capable of such a deed in the future?”
“I don’t say that he dreams that such a thing is possible. Probably the man would not have returned into the atmosphere of Honor if he had dimly contemplated such an event. But I see nothing in his character to lift him above the temptation, or to make me rest sure he will be proof against it. There’s a danger of his opening his eyes too late to find the thing which he doubtless believes impossible at present an accomplished fact.”
“What thing?”
“Why, the wakening again of his love for her, the returned knowledge that his life is empty and barren and frost-bitten without her. He felt that once. What more natural than that, here again, he should feel it redoubled in the presence of his own good fortune in every other direction?”
“If such a suspicion crossed his mind, he would depart from Godleigh. That I do steadfastly believe. Understand, your welfare would not weigh with him; but Honor’s happiness—I feel more assured of it—is still more to him than his own.”
“I know—I know; yet how easily a man in love persuades himself that a woman’s vital welfare and real happiness depends upon him.”
“Now we argue in a circle, and are at the starting-point again. Yeoland believed so thoroughly that she would be happier with you than with him that he actually blotted himself out of her life, and, when he heard she would not marry you while he lived, let it be known that he was dead. Solely for her sake he played that cumbrous prank.”
“That is so; yet remember what you told me years ago. Then you honestly believed that this man, from the depths of his own peculiar nature, understood Honor better than anybody else in the world did. You thought that, and you are seldom wrong about people. So perhaps he has come to that conclusion too. If I was the wrong husband for her——”
“I never said such a thing.”
“No, because I never asked you; but if it was so, what more likely than that he has discovered it since his return? At any rate he may think that this is the case—though I dispute it with all my heart—and he may feel his sacrifice was vain. Then, what more likely than that he should ask himself if it is too late to amend the position?”
Mr. Endicott’s face expressed absolute surprise and some scorn for the speaker.
“Do I hear Myles Stapledon? Where have you sucked poison since last we spoke together? You, who live in the fresh air and enjoy the companionship of natural beasts and wholesome lives, to spin this trash! And wicked trash, too, for what right have you to map out evil roads for other people to follow? What right have you to foretell a man’s plan and prophesy ill? Have done with this dance of Jack-o’-lanterns, and get upon the solid road again. Look in your wife’s character. No need to go further than that for ointment to such a wound as you suffer from. You have let jealousy into the house, Myles, and the reek of it and the blight of it will make your life rotten to the marrow if you don’t set to work and cleanse the chamber again. I know they are happy together; but you’ve got to face that. I know she’s better for his coming, and you’ve got to face that too. These are subtle things, and if you can’t understand them, put them behind you. All this is false fire, and you’re in a ferment of windy misery brewed inside you—just wind, because the home-coming of this native has upset your digestion. You ought to feel some shame to harbour such a pack of imps. Time was when a breath of air from Cosdon Beacon would have blown them back to their master. How they got in I can’t say; for it’s not part of your real character to make trouble. You’re like the ploughboy who builds a ghostie with a sheet and turnip and only frightens himself. Get this weed out of your heart at any cost. Burn it out with the caustic of common sense; and trust me, blind as I am, to be quick enough to smell the smoke that tells of fire. I mean in this matter. Honor’s only less to me than she is to you. And I know the truth about her as sure as I know the sound of her voice and the things it says, and the secrets it lets out, apart from the words her tongue speaks.”
“She’s said many a queer thing on the subject of a man and his wife and their relations each to the other. I cannot easily forget them.”
“It’s her wide, healthy frankness in every affair of life that might set you at rest, if you were not, as I hint to you, a fool.”
“If I were a fool, it might. I know she holds the tie lightly. Any conventional sort of bondage angers her. I won her by a trick—not of my hatching, God knows—yet none the less a trick.”
“You’d make Job lose his patience—you, that I thought a man of ideas as fresh and wholesome as the west wind! Can’t you see this cuts both ways? She’s yours till death parts you, so have done whining. You’re stirring hell-broth, that’s what you’re doing, and if you let Honor catch a sight of the brew, there will be some real, live trouble very likely. You, to break out like this! Well, it shows how true the saying runs: that every man, from Solomon down, is mad when the wind sets in one quarter. Now you’ve found your foul-weather wind, and it’s like to blow you into some play-acting if you don’t pull yourself up. You’re the luckiest man on the whole countryside, if you could only see it so. Be patient, and put your faith in your wife, where it should be, and go your old gait again.”
“I’ll try your remedy—ignore the thing, banish it, laugh at it.”
“Laugh at yourself; if you could only learn to do that, there’d be hope for you. And take another point to your comfort. We’re all agreed that Yeoland’s no hypocrite, whatever else he may be. Three days since I had speech with him, and your name was on his lips, and he rejoiced that you were his friend and Honor’s husband. He does not dream that his return to life has either gladdened her or troubled you. He only sees her now pretty much as she was when he went away. He hasn’t seen what you and I have—her sorrows. But, remember that Honor’s real happiness rests with you—nobody else—and she knows it, and trusts to you for it. Nobody can ever take your place, and if she glimpses a serious change in you, she’ll soon be down in the mouth, and, as like as not, a lie-abed again.”
“She has seen a change. She has asked me what was amiss.”
“Then stir yourself, and make a giant’s effort before she finds out more than you want her to know. I’m glad I spoke to you to-night—wish I had sooner; but it’s not too late. You’ve had tangles to untie in your character before to-day—puzzles to pick—dirty corners to let the light in upon. Who hasn’t? And you’re not the one to fear such work, I should reckon. So set about it, and the Lord help you.”
Myles Stapledon rose and took the old man’s hand.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’ve done me good, and I’ll try to be worthy of your advice. I don’t quite know what this place would be without you, Uncle Endicott.”
“Quieter, my son—that’s all. I’m only a voice. Words are poor things alongside actions. The great deeds of the world—the things achieved—are not chattered by the tongue, but rise out of sweat, and deep, long silences. Yet I’ve given you advice worth following, I do think, though, seeing that your blind spot looks like jealousy, what I’ve bid you do may be harder than you imagine. So much more credit if you do it.”
Neither spoke again, and Stapledon, taking the candle, soon went to his bed; but Mark sat on awhile over his knitting in the dark, while the crickets chirruped fearlessly about the dim and dying peat.