THE BROTHERS
It was late in the evening of the same day. Eleanor and Michael were
alone together in her drawing-room. She had not been left alone all
day. Unable to bear the solitude and suspense alone, she had sent
for Mrs. Parker, who, of course, knew all the story from Michael.
The good lady had come, and remained with her during all the hours
of waiting and terror. When Michael was announced, Eleanor had said
she would like to see him alone, and Mrs. Parker had gone into
another room. He had come in, looking both tired and haggard; for
what had happened had struck him, both through his friend, and
through the woman he loved. Though Roger had now no connection with
Ada, Michael knew him too well to suppose for a moment that he had,
or could have, ceased to love her, in the space of five short
months. The worst agony of separation might be over, but he could
imagine what this news would be to the man who had loved this
unhappy girl so tenderly and so faithfully. As for Eleanor, her
sufferings were his sufferings now. And thirdly, there was himself
and his own sensations in the matter. He had never admired Ada, and
had always been sorry that she had been Roger’s choice; but it had
never entered into his head to dream of such a _dénouement_ to the
broad farce he had seen played at the concert. It was not that he
had credited Otho with being any better than he was, but it had not
occurred to him to look at such a side as being possible to the
affair. If any one had suggested it to him, he would have said
first, that Otho would not dare to commit such a sin where a girl of
Ada’s upbringing was concerned, and next, that Ada herself was
beyond suspicion. The whole thing had burst upon him, and he was
filled with disgust and horror, such as a man whose mind and life
have been alike clean, must feel when he comes face to face with
such a history, and finds it intruding itself into the most intimate
relations of his own life.
Summoning up his courage, he had told her all that had happened. She
had at first been standing. As he proceeded, her face went paler;
her limbs trembled. At the picture of how he had found Ada lying by
the roadside, the tears rained from her eyes. And when he ceased to
speak she was seated at the table, her head buried in her arms, as
if she would fain have hidden her face from him and from all the
world. Indeed, a cloud of great darkness hung over her soul, and it
seemed for the moment as if neither religion nor hope, nor any good
thing could stand in the presence of overwhelming, triumphant
villainy like this. Michael was watching her silently, while a
conflict was going on in his own mind. She considered him the
embodiment of strength and goodness, and believed implicitly in a
most godlike mind which she attributed to him. And he knew she
thought that of him. Women’s eyes have the habit of confiding such
opinions, to the men concerning whom they hold them, when their
tongues may not say the same things. Michael knew very well that he
was nothing at all like what she imagined him to be; indeed, he
perhaps would not have been what she thought him if he could. He
was, as he knew, something a great deal more serviceable and useful
in this working day world—a man, with a man’s wants and failings and
weaknesses. And the desire which just then was stronger in him than
anything else was, not to lecture this young woman, from the
superior standpoint of a godlike intelligence, on the futility of
her cries and tears, but to clasp her in his arms, and tell her that
it was all very dreadful—even more dreadful than she in her
innocence knew or could understand yet, and that he only asked her
to let him take the half of all her trouble upon himself. That was
his impulse, even as he stood here. And the conflicting agency,
which beat back this desire was, the fear lest to do what he wished
now might bear the semblance of entrapping her, of taking her
unawares, and of making her need into his opportunity. Not very
godlike this, nor very superior, but quite human.
‘All is of no use, then?’ she said at last, raising her face,
tear-stained and disfigured, from her hands, and looking at him.
Then, as if a sudden thought had struck her, she rose and came
hastily near to where he stood.
‘How stupid of me to sit crying there, and thinking of nothing but
myself, while _you_ think of every one except yourself. You wish me
to go to her, do you not? And I will go. I will be ready directly,
if you will wait. I never thought of it. If he deserts her, I will
not. If I can do nothing else, I can sit by her, and people can hear
that I am there. That is always something.’
She made a step as if to go to the door. Michael caught her hand to
detain her.
‘No, no! I was thinking nothing of the kind,’ said he. ‘You must not
go. Do you know—but of course you don’t—that she is perfectly insane
at this present moment? She would not know you. She does not know
me; and she would shriek with horror if any one showed her her
child. She is in the right hands, and you must not go near her.’
‘Mad—but she will get better?’
‘I hope so—at least, perhaps she may.’
‘But she will recover her reason?’
‘Most likely, if she lives. But it may be a long time first.’
Stayed in her desire to go to Ada’s help, and as it were cast back
upon herself, Eleanor stood drooping for a moment.
‘Have you had no telegram from London?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I had nearly forgotten. This is it,’ she said, taking it from
the mantelpiece. Michael read—
‘Your message received and attended to.’ It was from Gilbert. He
turned it over reflectively.
‘H’m! I wonder what that means.’
‘Can it mean that he is coming? I wish he had been more explicit.’
‘He would not wish to excite suspicion. Bradstane suspicion is
easily aroused. If he did come, it would be by the south mail, which
is due in a quarter of an hour. If you like, if you will allow me, I
will wait with you till he comes; or rather, till we see whether he
comes.’
‘You are very good. You are sure there is nothing more that I can
do?’
‘Nothing, at present.’
‘Then shall we go to the other room, and stay with Mrs. Parker till
we know what happens?’
‘If you like,’ said Michael, slowly; and he felt as if some living,
tangible thing were rushing on wings of swiftness towards them, so
visibly, to him, did the moment approach when the veil between them
should be rent aside. Yet he made a step towards the door, as if to
open it for her; and she moved towards it too, and swerved
unsteadily to one side, for excitement and suspense had told upon
her and weakened her. Michael knew that she was proud, and that her
pride impelled her to conceal what she felt as long as was
practicable; but not the slightest sign or movement that she made
could escape him. He was at her side in an instant.
‘No, stay here! Do not go into the other room,’ he said, taking her
hand. ‘I will bring Mrs. Parker to you, if you like; but do you stay
here.’
He had a firm hand, and a grasp at once strong and gentle; and as
she felt her hand in it she paused again, steadying herself against
the head of a sofa, and looking at him, half-affrighted, half-eager,
at the look she encountered.
‘It was nothing—the weakness of a moment,’ she said. ‘I will conquer
it. I must not give way now.’
‘I think you must,’ said he, as he released her hand, and stood
before her for a moment. ‘You are faint; you are weak; you are
broken. This battle is one for which you have never been trained.
Give way; it is the best.’
‘And what is to become of me if I do?’ she asked, blankly.
Michael opened wide his arms. She looked at him for a little while,
and then, with a low sobbing, as of one who is weary and
broken-hearted, moved towards him as he towards her, and found her
rest.
* * * * *
They were still sitting together, when a ring sounded through the
house.
‘That is just the time for the people from the south to come in,’
said Eleanor. And in another moment her maid had ushered Gilbert
Langstroth into the room. Both of them noticed the expression upon
Gilbert’s face as he came in. It was one of eager expectancy. Both
saw the glance which fell from his eyes upon Eleanor. It chilled
her; it was like the looks he had bestowed upon her when he had sent
her the flowers, before he had preached to her a sermon on the
necessity of evil to the development of good in the world. But from
her, his eyes fell upon Michael, and his face changed. He was quite
silent. She rose, looking at him tremulously.
‘You are very, very good. I did not quite know what to expect from
your message,’ said she.
‘I knew you would not. I could not explain in a telegram. From
yours, I gathered that some kind of storm had burst, and that you
were in trouble.’
‘I am in such trouble, that but for him,’ she said, slowly, and
stopped a moment, laying her hand upon Michael’s arm, and looking
very earnestly at Gilbert, who had gone very pale. Michael had not
changed. But as Eleanor paused, Gilbert’s eager look all faded, and
he shook slightly from head to foot. The two brothers were regarding
one another; for the first time for six years they were actually
confronted. They must, to carry this business through, have some
kind of intercourse and communication.
‘But for him,’ she went on, ‘I could have done nothing. I—a woman,
could have done nothing to any purpose.’
She looked from one to the other of them earnestly, imploringly, and
still there was silence; till at last she sat down at the table,
rested her arms upon it, and leaning forward said, first to one and
then to the other—
‘Michael, you have spent your strength and your time this day in
helping those who have never done you any good, in trying to save
them from the effects of their sins, at least. And you, Gilbert,
have come promptly here on no selfish errand. At my call you have
come quickly to help me, who have no claim at all upon you. So good,
and so considerate and helpful to others, will you go on hating each
other; will you not be brothers again?’
The two men were looking into each other’s eyes, and Michael at last
knew what that strange, potent sensation had been, which had shaken
him on encountering Gilbert’s look that night, when they had been
almost side by side at the concert-room. Not hate, not resentment,
as he had fancied; neither one nor the other; but his old love for
his brother, the ancient, inborn love, which not all the anger,
enmity, and bitterness had succeeded in quenching. And the voice
which addressed them both, went on speaking still, earnestly,
tremulously, with passionate conviction—
‘If but one good thing came out of all this blackness, would it not
be better than nothing—nothing but sin and sorrow? And there is so
much grief and so much wrong in the world, that if men had not
forgiveness to fight them with, I do not see how there could be any
chance for happiness at all.’
There was another little pause. At last Gilbert said, in a low
voice—
‘I never hated him——’
Without quite knowing how, they found their hands clasped, each in
one of the other’s, and Michael said, ‘Shall it be all over,
Gilbert?’
‘From the bottom of my heart.’
‘Then let us say no more about it.’
Eleanor rose.
‘I shall leave you,’ she said, gently. ‘Stay here if you choose. I
shall go to Mrs. Parker.’
Gilbert and Michael both made a movement towards the door, but
something in Gilbert’s look caused Michael to fall back and yield
place to his brother. He turned away, went inside the room again,
and looked into the fire, feeling that he could afford to be very
magnanimous.
Gilbert opened the door, and as Eleanor was passing out, he said to
her almost in a whisper—
‘Only one word. You and he—are you—has he—have you given him any
promise?’
Eleanor looked at him steadily, though without any of the old
distrust, and then answered him in the same voice, but with a proud
smile—
‘I have promised him everything. I have given my life into his
hands.’
‘I am too late?’
She hesitated, looking troubled. Gilbert smiled slightly.
‘I should always have been too late, Eleanor?’
She looked at him appealingly, and inclined her head. He bowed to
her, and she went quickly away. Gilbert returned to the room, and to
his brother.
‘I shall never want to say anything to her again, Michael, that you
may not hear.’
Michael looked at him, but said nothing, and Gilbert went on—
‘Shall we have to see her again to-night—on this matter, I mean?’
‘No. Let us go to my house, if you will come. There is a black
business to be settled, sooner or later.’