Probation

The day that followed was naturally a sad one. Mary was too much occupied in mourning her loss to notice Myles as she otherwise might have done. Harry left the house about five o’clock, promising to call again about dinner-time. A friendly neighbour came in and helped Mary to perform all that remained to be done for the dead. At last all was finished. The woman had gone, and Mary paused as she left the room, looking round it with a kind of sorrowful pride. It looked very white, and pure, and still.

She had drawn the blind down and set everything in the most exquisite order. The dead figure lay stretched out in its eternal repose, with calm, beautiful face, and quietly closed eyes. At the door she returned, and ran up to the bedside, and kissed the cold forehead.

‘Poor lad! poor lad!’ she whispered between her tears, ‘thine has been a hard life, but thou’rt in heaven now, if ever anybody was.’

When Myles came in, during the forenoon, she was struck, for the first time, with his great stillness and the strange, haggard look upon his face. She remembered that he had been out all night, and asked him what he had been doing.

‘I dare say it seemed unkind,’ he replied, ‘but you may trust me, Molly, I couldn’t help it. I can’t explain to you why it was; something had happened. I couldn’t help it.’

He sat down beside her, and took her hand, and they both remained there, looking mournfully into the little fire; she with the sorrow of deep affection which knows its object removed; he sad too, but with a more incurable sadness than hers. They were both oppressed with sorrow, but he

On this scene entered Harry Ashworth, with offers of his services if they were wanted, and also with the object of telling Myles what had passed between him and Mary.

Myles heard it all out, down to Mary’s acknowledgment that she wished to marry Harry, ‘supposing thou hast nothing against it, Myles.’

‘Against it? What could I have against it? You’ve my hearty consent and good wishes, both of you. There won’t be a better wife in Thanshope, nor in England, than you’ll get, Harry; and I know you so well that I’m not afraid to trust Molly to you. I’m glad it is so, for I don’t think I shall stay here long, and I should have been unhappy to leave her alone. I hope you’ll both be as happy as you deserve.’

He shook hands with Harry and kissed Mary, but he could not force a smile. They saw that he was glad, relieved to find that they had decided to be married; but they also saw that he had some sorrow behind it all, which was greater than the joy.

---

It was a little after eight on the same evening. Myles found himself standing opposite the Townhall, with his hand on the latch of the Oakenrod gate. He paused a moment before lifting it, then summoning up courage, did so, and stood within the garden of the house against which he had had so long and so strong a prejudice.

He had never been so near it before. His feet were strange within the gates of rich or important people of any kind, but particularly here. It was with a sort of thrill that he looked round at the smoothly shaven grass, the dazzling flower-beds, in all the splendour of their June garments, the softly rolled gravel beneath his feet. The errand he came upon was one which, a month ago, he would have repudiated, would have said that no imaginable combination of circumstances could make him undertake. Yes, truly; but the combinations of circumstances which force us into the actions that humble us, and wound us, and sting our self-esteem with hornet-stings, are always such combinations as we should never imagine beforehand, because it never occurs to us that deserving persons, such as ourselves, can be put into positions only appropriate to ill-regulated conduct.

Myles was conscious of no bad conduct or evil intentions, but only of a great, ever-growing misery, which was so strong as to force him to try in some way to escape from it, and this was the only path which presented itself as practicable; so he took it, as is generally the case.

He walked up to the front door, past the open windows with the lace curtains fluttering inside, and pulled the bell. An unpleasant fear seized him, lest Sebastian should be out, gone to see Adrienne, perhaps, and he would have his hard task to do all over again.

A page-boy opened the door, and Myles inquired if Mr. Mallory were at home.

‘I believe so,’ said the youth, a little wondering at the unusual visitor.

‘I wish to see him,’ said Myles, stepping in, ‘if he is not engaged, that is; and my business is rather particular.’

The boy, after serious consideration, decided to show the visitor into the library, and asked him to take a seat. This he did, and inquired,

‘Who shall I say wishes to see him?’

‘Tell him that Myles Heywood would be glad to speak to him, if he is disengaged.’

The page disappeared. Myles was left alone in the library, and his quick, restless eyes roamed round it, and took everything in, and the full significance of everything—the soft carpets, the harmonious, subdued hues of walls, hangings, and furniture; the relief afforded by gleams of gold here and there; the book-cases filled with books of all times and in all languages; the great bronze busts of Aristotle and Sophocles; the quaint blue and white vases; the two curious paintings by Sebastian’s favourite German artist; the reading-stands; the writing-tables; the pleasant luxury and taste, and abundance of every appointment.

‘No wonder!’ said he to himself. ‘And between the man and me—his manners and mine, his mind and mine—there is just the same difference as there is between this library of his and our little flagged kitchen at home. This is the place for her, and I feel as if I could see her here sitting at that writing-table, or standing in the window there looking out.’

He heaved a deep sigh, and at that moment some one began to play a melody on a piano in another room; a soft, sad, melancholy air, to which he listened so intently that he did not hear the door open, and was first roused by Sebastian’s voice.

‘Good evening. I am sorry to have kept you waiting; but I was engaged and could not escape.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Myles, rising; and as each man’s eyes fell upon the other man’s face, both felt surprise. Sebastian almost showed his, in a suppressed exclamation, but Myles was too sad and oppressed to experience more than a vague wonder and astonishment that a man in what he thought was Sebastian’s position should wear that subdued, grave, downcast look.

‘I noticed that you were not in your place to-day,’ began Mallory, by way of opening the conversation; ‘nothing wrong at home, I hope?’

‘Yes; we are in trouble at home. My brother, who has been ill for a long time, died this morning, early.’

‘I am very sorry indeed. Of course you would not think of coming to work, at present. It is not——’

‘It was not to excuse myself from work that I came,’ said Myles, in the same quiet, constrained way. ‘My brother’s death is a grief to me, of course; but one does not talk about such things. I was going to trouble you on a matter of business, if you can spare the time——’

‘Perfectly well. In what can I help you?’

Myles bit his lips. He had strong ideas about what it was fitting for a man to say and do under certain circumstances. Probably if he had formulated some of his ideas upon ethics, most sophisticated persons would have broken into inextinguishable laughter. One favourite maxim of his was that, to use his own language, ‘To blackguard a man high and low, and then go and ask a favour of him, was a mean, dirty trick; fit for a hound, perhaps, but not for an honest man.’ If he could not be said to have ‘blackguarded’ Sebastian high and low, he had certainly spoken with less than courtesy, both of him and to him; it was impossible to ignore that fact, and proceed to his real errand.

‘You may think it a very strange thing, but I’ve come to ask a favour of you,’ said he.

‘Is it strange? I shall be glad to grant it if I can.’

Myles lifted his hand a moment, and then went on,

‘You may not know that I have often spoken very bitterly of you, but you do know that I have not been particularly civil to you—have I?’

‘Well, not exactly effusive,’ admitted Sebastian, with a slight smile, wondering whether he had at last completed his much-desired conquest.

‘It is true,’ said Myles. ‘I had a bad opinion of you—a prejudice against you—and I expressed it. If it had not been for troubles I have had lately,’ he added, with that little nervous twitch of the lips which had only lately been present with him; ‘but for those troubles, I might have gone on thinking and speaking evil of you without a cause, but my eyes have been opened. I see how utterly wrong I was—blind and bigoted. You have proved yourself a very different man from what I thought you—a very much wiser and better man than I should have been in your place—and I beg your pardon for what I have said against you.’

‘But, my dear fellow, you must not take it so terribly in earnest; so—so tragically. Every one has his prejudices; I have some most preposterous ones, I believe. All the same, I confess to you that I was excessively piqued by your bad opinion of me. It has been a matter of some moment, with me, to overcome that prejudice, and enlist you amongst my friends. If I can say that you are amongst them now, I must feel that I have won a kind of victory.’

‘Mr. Mallory, I can never be amongst your enemies, never again. Let that be enough. I can say no more. You are wiser and more generous, too, than I am; but you can afford to be so. The reason I came to-night was to ask you if you still remembered an offer you made me a short time ago—the offer to give me a place away from Thanshope and out of England, you said?’

‘I remember it perfectly well, and that I said I could still do it if you changed your mind about it. Well?’

‘I have changed my mind about it If you can carry your generosity a little farther, and get me that place, or something like it—the farther away from here the better—I shall be—God knows, how grateful to you: I can never express it.’

‘I can still do it,’ said Sebastian, looking attentively and kindly at the eager, haggard face of the other. ‘But I am sorry you think of leaving Thanshope.’

‘I must leave Thanshope. It is to get away from here that I ask. Will the work be hard? I hope so. I care for nothing but hard work—hard work,’ he repeated, in a sort of restless, prolonged sigh.

‘You will have what you wish for. The work is certainly pretty stiff. It is in Germany—in a rough, mining district near a large town. There is a cotton factory, and some collieries. They have a lot of English and Irish work-people there. The master and owner, Herr Süsmeyer, is a very intimate friend of mine. He wants a sort of superintendent—an Englishman, and one who is not afraid of work. He himself is as much an Englishman as a German. Still, you must know a little of the language. Did you not learn something of it from Miss Blisset?’ he added deliberately.

‘Yes,’ said Myles, curtly.

‘Ah, you will soon pick up more; you are quick, and you must study when work is over. That will give you as much occupation as even you could wish, I think. I shall give you a very high recommendation, indeed, as being personally known to me.’

‘And as having been always polite, reasonable, and amiable with my superiors; not ready to take offence, and willing to own myself in the wrong!’ suggested Myles, with grim humour.

Sebastian smiled, in silence, as he drew a paper-case and inkstand towards him, and wrote rapidly. He fastened up the letter, and addressed it to—Herrn Gustav Süsmeyer, Eisendorf, Westphalien, Prussia, and handed it to Myles, saying,

‘I know the situation is still open, and that letter will secure it for you. I shall also write to Herr Süsmeyer to-night, so as to lose no time. From what you say, I suppose you will want to go soon?’

‘As soon as ever I can—in a few days, when poor Ned is buried, and I can leave Mary.’

‘You will leave your sister behind you?’

‘For a good reason,’ said Myles. ‘She’s going to be married, and I know I leave her in good hands.’

‘May I ask whom she will marry?’

‘Harry Ashworth, a friend of ours. He has loved her long,’ said Myles, not even feeling surprised that he should be relating such things to Sebastian.

‘I am very glad; I wish them all happiness. I am sure the man is fortunate who marries your sister.’

‘Yes, he is,’ assented Myles. ‘Then,’ he added, ‘you think I may go any day?’

‘Any day; but before you go, I hope you will see me again, so that I can give you some idea of the place, and tell you what route to take. It is an out-of-the-way sort of place; and excuse me, the journey is somewhat expensive, and——’

‘You are very kind. My friend Harry has money which he will lend me. I shall soon repay him if I once get work. He won’t want it till he is married. Let me see: the day after to-morrow—Mary will stay with Harry’s mother. Would it be convenient if I called the day after to-morrow, in the evening?’

‘The day after to-morrow—to-morrow is Mrs. Spenceley’s ball,’ said Sebastian, half to himself. ‘Yes; the day after to-morrow will suit me perfectly well.’

‘And the day after that I can go,’ exclaimed Myles, the first ray of anything like pleasure flashing across his face. ‘I can go,’ he repeated.

Sebastian looked at him, not feeling at all satisfied with his victory. All that he had ever wished to himself, with regard to Myles, had come to pass. The latter had owned himself wrong; had apologised for his own frowardness; had descended so far as to ask a favour, and to express himself in tones of unmistakable emotion as deeply grateful when it was granted. And yet—the effect was not in the least what it ought to have been. The sensations of the victor were anything but jubilant.

‘You seem very anxious to get away?’ he remarked, involuntarily and inquiringly.

‘Yes, I am; it’s the only thing I care for, just at present,’ said Myles. ‘Good night,’ he added, rising. ‘I can’t express my gratitude to you. You would have been justified in treating me very differently.’

‘Indeed I should not!’ exclaimed Sebastian; and the sense that his victory was a barren one was borne still more strongly in upon him.

What was it worth if, after all, it had only been won for him by Myles’s adverse circumstances, not by him, through his own influence over the conquered one?

‘Heywood,’ he exclaimed earnestly, ‘is there nothing behind all this that you could tell me? Can I do nothing for you but help you to get away from this place, which seems to have grown so unbearable to you? I do not ask from ordinary curiosity—you must know that; it is from sympathy, and a sincere wish to be your friend, if possible.’

Myles shook his head.

‘I can speak to no man of what troubles me, thank you,’ said he. ‘All the same, I am not ungrateful.’

He held out his hand, which the other grasped heartily, and in another minute found himself alone.

All that evening, all the night, he was haunted by a vision of the pale face and miserable eyes of Myles Heywood—a vision of suffering whose very remembrance oppressed him.