Was It Right to Forgive?, Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr [series like harry potter .txt] 📗

share it. Mr. Filmer had no special dislike to Adriana, but his wife had; and Mr. Filmer wisely considered that his summer's comfort and peace probably depended on his apparent sympathy. And with his great book on hand, how could he face the prospect of a prolonged disagreement on a subject so much beyond his control?

So he was investigating the Plantagenet influence on the social life of England while his son was being married, and he quite forgot all about the circumstance. But Mrs. Filmer was fretting in every room of her fine house, and feeling the ceremony in every nerve of her body and pulse of her heart. Her restlessness indeed became so great that she drove through the village in the afternoon, determined to be very gracious to any one who could talk to her on the subject. She met no one who could do so; though, for some time, society in Woodsome divided itself very broadly into Mrs. Henry Filmer's friends and Mrs. Harry Filmer's friends.

Anyway, the Filmers, old and young, kept the village folk and the summer residents in delightful gossip and partisanship; for when a lady was tired of one side, or considered herself slighted by one side, she easily turned to the other; and thus, and so, the Filmer controversy lived on through the season. At the close of it, the old Filmers were in the ascendant. Mrs. Henry had given many fine entertainments, and people liked them, for each fresh invitation contained the possibility of being a reconciliation party; and each failure of this hope renewed the life of the old grievance and the interesting discussion of it.

On the contrary, Harry and Adriana were provokingly satisfied with their own company. They were seen driving or riding together; and people caught glimpses of them strolling among the flowers and shrubs, or sitting together on the shady galleries; but they gave no balls, or lawn parties, or afternoon teas, and they did not seem to care whether friends called upon them or not. For new married couples have generally a contempt for the rest of the world, and to love and to be wise at the same time is a blessing rarely granted.

So the days danced away with down upon their feet, and there was no talk of anything between Harry and Adriana than their own great love and happiness--not at least for many weeks. But, as the dusty summer waned, they began to think of the future, and to plan for its necessities. In the winter they would certainly have to live in New York, and it seemed, therefore, best to make their home there. Harry was busy looking at houses for sale, and Adriana constantly going into the city to examine their advertised perfections. An element of unrest came into the beautiful summer nest, and something of that melancholy which haunts the birds just before their migration. The May of their lives was past. The time of labor and care was at hand. Even financially, Harry began to be aware that the love that had made him dream must now make him work.

So they watched eagerly for Miss Alida's letters. Hitherto they had been full of traveller's gossip and complaints; but there had been no mention of her return, and so far they had not been sorry for the delay. But September brought a different feeling. Harry wanted to go to the city. His visits to it made him long for the financial fray, for society, for his old duties and amusements. He began to fret at his inaction, to be a trifle irritable with Miss Alida for her long visit, and at last to stop in the city for two and three days at a time.

"I wish Miss Alida would come home," said Adriana to her father one morning. She had driven herself to the post-office, and called at Peter's on her way back. "I wish she would come. We have had no letter from her for two weeks. I am uneasy about her--and about Harry."

"Why are you uneasy about Harry?" asked Peter.

"He stays in the city too often. He says 'business' demands his presence. Father, I do not like it. I want to be in the city with him. I am sure I ought to be. Why does he stay there? He could come home if he wished to do so."

Peter looked gravely into his daughter's anxious face. He could see the unshed tears in her eyes. He had himself suffered from her mother's over-love and jealous care, and he said earnestly:

"Yanna, my best loved one! Before all other advice about your husband, consider some words I am going to give you. I gave them to Gertrude and Augusta; when they first began to worry about this thing--a wife should have eyelids as well as eyes. Do not see too much. Do not hear too much. Do not feel too much. And be sure not to imagine too much. God made both men and women, and they are not alike. Remember that, dear girl--they are not alike." He clasped her hand, and she smiled through her tears, and with a brave little nod turned her horse's head and drove slowly home.

When she reached the Van Hoosen place, she found that Miss Alida had returned. The old lady came to the door with a "Good morning, Mrs. Harry Filmer! Why was not Harry at the dock to meet me?"

"We did not know you were coming. Oh, I wish we had! We would have both been there."

"I thought so, and as I hate a fuss, I just dropped home without a word. Do I look ten years older? I feel twenty. No place like home! your own home! I hope we shall all have our own homes in heaven--country ones, too. I should tire awfully of that great multitude on the golden streets. Oh, Yanna, how good it is to see you! Where is Harry?"

"In New York. He has to go there very often now. He says it is business."

"It is business, undoubtedly. Here is the cup of chocolate I ordered. Sit down and talk to me, while I drink it. Then I will go to sleep, and you can take off your driving gear."

But she found it impossible to sleep; she had so much to tell, and so much to show. And suddenly she raised herself from an open trunk, and holding out a case of Apostle spoons, said, "These are a present from Rose. When did you hear from her?"

"She has written very seldom to me lately. But I thought perhaps she had been influenced by her mother. That would be quite natural. Did you see her?"

"Yes."

The reply had in it a touch of anger. Adriana looked up, but was silent.

"I saw her--in Edinburgh."

"Is she happy?"

"I suppose she is happy in her way; for she indulges her every mood and temper to her heart's desire."

"How is Antony?"

"God alone knows. To speak plainly, Rose is enough to drive him to destruction of some kind or other. Her vagaries, her depressions, her frivolities, her adoration of him one day and her hatred of him the next day, are beyond my comprehension. She prides herself on doing outrageous, unconventional things, and poor Antony feels that he must stand by her in them. My heart ached for the man."

"There is nothing really wrong, though?"

"Well, Yanna, there is always a dreadful debasement of nature, following violations of popular morality. Antony's face of calm endurance made my heart ache. Its patience, and its unspoken misery, reminded me constantly of a picture by Carlo Dolci, called The Eternal Father."

"How could any one dare to paint the face of God?"

"In this case the painter has been penetrated with an awful reverence. And, Yanna, what do you think his idea of the Divine Father was? A grand human face, full of human grief and loneliness and patience, the eyes sad beyond tears, as if there were an unutterable sorrow in the Eternal Heart."

"How strange!"

"No. If God is Love, how can He be ineffably happy and glorious while his sons and daughters are wandering away from Him and the whole world is broken-hearted? It did me good, it comforted me, to think of a God who could suffer; and I am sure it had done Antony good, for it was he who told me, when I was in Florence, to be sure and go to the Gallery and see the picture."

"I hope Rose is not taking wine."

"I saw nothing of the kind. But I suspect much from her variable temper--and other things."

Then they were both silent. Miss Alida lifted some lace and went with it to a certain drawer; and Adriana looked at the silver Rose had sent her, and as she thoughtfully closed the case, she said to herself:

"I am glad Antony comprehended that picture; glad that he understands an Eternal Father who pities His children, because 'He knows their frame, and remembers that they are dust.'"


CHAPTER VIII

No life is the same to-day as it was yesterday; and the passage of a year necessarily makes many changes, though they may not be noticed by the careless observer. Thus to all her friends Adriana Filmer's life appeared to be precisely what it had been when Harry first brought her to their pretty home near Central Park. But there were many vital differences, though they were not readily detected. Adriana herself had become still more grave and tender. She had been down into the Valley of the Shadow of Death for her first-born son; and such a passage cannot be made without leaving traces of its danger and suffering. Physically, it had perfected her beauty; her face had some new charm, her attitudes and manner were informed with a superb dignity; and spiritually and mentally, it had added to the serious strength of her fine character.

Harry was also changed. He yet loved with a sincere devotion his beautiful wife and child, and he loved none other with the same noble affection. But Adriana knew that there were lesser loves--flirtations with reputable ladies who liked to drive with him--who enjoyed his society on a pleasure yacht or a race course--who thought it quite respectable to send him little messages, to accept from him small services or such transitory gifts as flowers or sweetmeats. And Harry liked this kind of popularity. Without consciously wronging Adriana, he loved to sun himself in some beauty's smile, to be seen with some young married siren, or to escort a party of gay girls to a merry-making.

Usually he told Adriana of these affairs, and she was too wise to show the pain the confidence gave her. Her state of health, as well as her principles, kept her from many social functions, and if Harry did not feel compelled to respect her condition and scruples, she knew that it would be impossible to fret or scold or even reason him into sympathy. She had been aware of the diversity of their tastes when she married him; how, then, could she justly complain of circumstances which she foresaw and accepted by the very act of marriage? Only once had she spoken, and it was to her wise father. She could have gone to no more loving and prudent guide; and Peter's answer was but the echo of her own feelings.

"In marriage, Yanna," he said, "there is a tie besides love--it is patience. There is a veil for faults better than blind admiration--it is forgiveness. There is a time for everything, so