Probation

‘Good-bye, Heywood, I wish you every success, and you carry the assurance of success in yourself. You will return to England a man of mark.’

‘I trust never to return to England,’ replied Myles, standing up in Sebastian’s study, in the act of going. ‘I am afraid it will seem ungracious to you when I say I don’t care much about success. I want work; I don’t care whether it’s successful or not. There’s a verse in the Bible about “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” There may be many sorts of souls, don’t you think so?’

‘Yes, certainly. But I think time will soften these feelings of yours. Some time you will find yourself wishing to return to England.’

Myles shook his head, with a half-smile, at once melancholy and sceptical. He ever wish to return to the place where Adrienne lived, Sebastian Mallory’s wife! They had left the study, and gone to the hall door.

Straight before them, separated only by the garden and the dirty little river, was the broad, busy street—the beautiful building of the town-hall rose through the dusk before them. Lights twinkled; feet and wheels sped rapidly past. As they paused before the open door, the chimes rang out, clear and melodious; nine struck solemnly, and the old tune which haunted Myles, so interwoven was it with all the most sacred feelings of his life, was borne through the air in broken, fitful gusts of sound.

Sebastian heard it too.

‘Take that as an omen,’ said he, earnestly. ‘The old poet old Martin Usteri, in his homely German town, touched a deeper truth when he wrote that little song of his, than all our present pessimistic sages put together can cram into their learned books. Don’t forget the tune when you are away.’

‘I am not likely ever to forget it,’ said Myles. ‘Good-bye, and thank you. I cannot say more.’

With a pressure of the hand he was gone. Sebastian heard his quick step along the gravel—then he heard the gate open and swing to after him; and then Myles Heywood’s form and footsteps were lost in the general rush along the busy street. Sebastian was left to listen to the last echoes of the chimes, and to hum softly to himself—

Myles was striding quickly homewards. In the hurry, preparation, and excitement of the last two days his mind had regained somewhat its vigour. It was not that he felt at all happier, or satisfied, or contented—not that life appeared much brighter to him, only it had to be lived. He set that formula before his mind, and never allowed a doubt upon the subject to intrude, because he dared not. He felt that his only safe, his only reasonable course of action, was to press forward sternly and as rapidly as possible; to cast from him his old life like a worn-out coat, and begin the new one.

There was the prospect before him of life, struggle, striving, which he knew was worth a hundred of the lives he had been leading, which he knew it was his duty to accept and fulfil. The mere idea of it—of the difficulties to be overcome, and the possibilities to be attained—attracted him and braced him up, even while all he must leave seemed to grow dearer and more desirable as it was thrust farther into the background. There was no turning back now; a delay was what he most dreaded. He had grown a little grim and hard in his resolute pressing forward; even Mary fancied that he left them with a kind of exultation, and grieved the more, even while she felt no surprise.

This evening he walked rapidly up the hilly street, ‘for the last time,’ he kept saying to himself, and hoping so too. How he had loved this prosaic, commonplace, dingy manufacturing town! What memories hung about it! Memories of a childhood spent amongst those he loved, of a youth and young manhood, which had not been without their honest, hearty struggles, strivings, and conquests, as well as their backslidings and failures; memories of a love which had grown upon him, stealing into his heart by such gentle, subtle degrees that he could by no means define them—which love had become the master passion of his earnest heart, with heaven on its side, and chaos on the other. All this he had lived through in grimy, smoky Thanshope, with the everlasting roar of machinery as a sort of chorus; within sound of the melodius, chiming bells. His whole surroundings had ever been earnest and serious as his own thoughts and bent of mind, and he felt that no other home would ever be harmonious to him as this was. Yet he was going to leave it all to-morrow, and his heart beat with a fierce gladness at the thought.

Occupied with such reflections as these, he found himself at his own door, and went into the house. Mary was in the kitchen. All her preparations lay neglected; she sat in her rocking-chair, with her hands before her, looking at nothing, her eyes wet with tears.

‘What ails you, Molly?’

‘Eh, you’re there, Myles! Nothing ails me except thinking o’ what Miss Blisset’s been talking about.’

‘Miss Blisset!’ he echoed in a gentle voice, pausing to look at her. ‘Has she been here?’

‘Ay, she has so! She only heard tell this morning about poor Ned, and she came down to say how sorry she were. Eh, but she is some and altered; hoo’s gone so quiet, I ne’er saw nowt like it. Hoo were ne’er a noisy one, but now——’

Mary paused a minute.

‘I’d a deal to tell her—all about me and Harry, and poor Ned, and about thy going away.’

‘Yes,’ said Myles, in a dull voice.

‘Hoo fair started when hoo heard thou were going away. Hoo were so surprised. I told her all about it, and hoo said it were much the best thing, and I were to congratulate you. And then hoo said it were a long time since hoo had seen you, and, if you’d time, would you go up to-night and see her, for she’d something she wanted to say to you. If you do go,’ added Mary, ‘you’ll have to go now, or it’ll get too late. It’s after nine.’

‘I don’t think it would be anything very important,’ said her brother, in a measured voice. ‘And I have no time, either. I’ve a lot of things to do to-night.’

‘Won’t you go?’ asked Mary, opening her eyes wide. ‘Not go and say good-bye to her! Such friends as you’ve been!’

‘No,’ repeated Myles. ‘She will understand that I am too busy.’

‘I don’t think hoo’ll understand nowt o’ t’ sort,’ said Mary very emphatically. ‘But go thy own gait! thou knows best.’

He turned away from her, and went upstairs to nail up a box with some books of his own in it, and to put up some few things of furniture which Mary was to take away with her when she went to the Ashworths’ house; and as he worked his heart and his temples throbbed almost to bursting.

Go to her, after what had been said! And, never to mention that, why was he to go to her? To hear something she wanted to tell him! What could that be, but that she was going to marry Sebastian? He was to walk up and hear that from her own lips, and then say good-bye to her, and not betray himself! After what had happened! After he had gone through with his bitter task, accepted favours from Sebastian—all in order that he might never see her again! No! Of course it might be ungrateful, brutal, uncivilised; it was nevertheless the only safe path for him to take—to maintain absolute silence and let her think what she pleased of him. What did it matter? She had Sebastian. He would soon be forgotten; he would take care of that. He knew, he was perfectly conscious all the time, that he was doing wrong. As he drove one nail after another into the box, each stroke of the hammer seemed to say ‘Wrong!’ And, with his eyes open, he did that wrong, because he was utterly miserable, and for the moment utterly indifferent; because he had suffered so much and so long that even his will felt broken, and to deliberately go to her and court still more suffering was more than he could do.

The theory of the freedom of the will, says the latest philosophy, is nonsense, and worse than nonsense. If we seriously follow out such an idea, it leads us into a mad confusion—an insane chaos of impossibilities piled on impossibilities. We have no power to will this or that; we have the power of following and obeying the strongest motives, and acting upon them. It was in strict accordance with this principle that Myles behaved in this crisis of his fate: he followed and obeyed the strongest motives—he stayed at home.

Soon after eight the next morning he left. Later on the same day, Mr. Hoyle, hearing of the disappearance of Frederick Spenceley, was perforce reminded of the words of the preacher, and learnt practically that he had wrought in vain; that, truly, all was vanity.