Howard on thinking over this conversation was somewhat bewildered as to
what exactly was in his aunt's mind. He did not think that she
understood his feeling for Maud, and he was sure that she did not
realise what Maud's feelings about Freddy Guthrie were. He came to the
conclusion eventually that Maud had told her about the beginnings of
their friendship; that his aunt supposed that he had tried to win
Maud's confidence, as he would have made friends with one of his young
men; and that she imagined that he had found that Maud's feeling for
him had developed in rather too confidential a line, as for a
father-confessor. He thought that Mrs. Graves had seen that Maud had
been disposed to adopt him as a kind of ethical director, and had
thought that he had been bored at finding a girl's friendship so much
more exacting than the friendship of a young man; and that she had been
exhorting him to be more brotherly and simple in his relations with
Maud, and to help her to the best of his ability. He imagined that Maud
had told Mrs. Graves that he had been advising her, and that she had
perhaps since told her of his chilly reception of her later
confidences. That was the situation he had created; and he felt with
what utter clumsiness he had handled it. His aunt, no doubt, thought
that he had been disturbed at finding how much more emotional a girl's
dependence upon an older man was than he had expected. But he felt that
when he could tell her the whole story, she would see that he could not
have acted otherwise. He had been so thrown off his balance by finding
how deeply he cared for Maud, that he had been simply unable to respond
to her advances. He ought to have had more control of himself. Mrs.
Graves had not suspected that he could have grown to care for a girl,
almost young enough to be his daughter, in so passionate a way. He
wished he could have explained the whole to her, but he was too deeply
wounded in mind to confess to his aunt how impulsive he had been. He
had now no doubt that there was an understanding between Maud and
Guthrie. Everyone else seemed to think so; and when once the affair was
happily launched, he would enjoy a mournful triumph, he thought, by
explaining to Mrs. Graves how considerately he had behaved, and how
painful a dilemma Maud would have been placed in if he had declared his
passion. Maud would have blamed herself; she might easily, with her
anxious sense of responsibility, have persuaded herself into accepting
him as a lover; and then a life-long penance might have begun for her.
He had, at what a cost, saved Maud from the chance of such a mistake.
It was a sad tangle; but when Maud was happily married, he would
perhaps be able to explain to her why he had behaved as he had done;
and she would be grateful to him then. His restless and fevered
imagination traced emotional and dramatic scenes, in which his delicacy
would at last be revealed. He felt ashamed of himself for this
abandonment to sentiment, but he seemed to have lost control over the
emotional part of his mind, which continued to luxuriate in the
consciousness of his own self-effacement. He had indeed, he felt,
fallen low. But he continued to trace in his mind how each of the
actors in the little drama--Mr. Sandys, Jack, Guthrie himself, Maud,
Mrs. Graves--would each have reason to thank him for having held
himself aloof, and for sacrificing his own desires. There was comfort
in that thought; and for the first time in these miserable weeks he
felt a little glow of self-approval at the consciousness of his own
prudence and justice. The best thing, he now reflected, would be to
remove himself from the scene altogether for a time, and to return in
radiant benevolence, when the affair had settled itself: but Maud--and
then there came over him the thought of the girl, her sweetness, her
eager delight, her adorable frankness, her innocence, her desire to be
in affectionate relations with all who came within reach of her; and
the sense of his own foresight and benevolence was instantly and
entirely overwhelmed at the thought of what he had missed, and of what
he might have aspired to, if it had not been for just the wretched
obstacle of age and circumstance. A few years younger--if he had been
that, he could have followed the leading of his heart, and--he dared
think no more of what might have been possible.
But what brought matters to a head was a scene that he saw on the
following day. He was in the library in the morning; he tried to work,
but he could not command his attention. At last he rose and went to the
little oriel, which commanded a view of the village green. Just as he
did so, he caught sight of two figures--Maud and Guthrie--walking
together on the road which led from the Vicarage. They were talking in
the plainest intimacy. Guthrie seemed to be arguing some point with
laughing insistence, and Maud to be listening in amused delight.
Presently they came to a stop, and he could see Maud hold up a finger.
Guthrie at once desisted. At this moment a kitten scampered across the
green to them sideways, its tail up. Guthrie caught it up, and as he
held it in his arms. Howard saw Maud bend over it and caress it. The
scene brought an instant conviction to his mind; but presently Maud
said a word to her companion, and then came across the green to the
Manor, passing in at the gate just underneath him. Howard stood back
that he might not be observed. He saw Maud come in under the gateway,
half smiling to herself as at something that had happened. As she did
so, she waved her hand to Guthrie, who stood holding the kitten in his
arms and looking after her. When she disappeared, he put the kitten
down, and then walked back towards the Vicarage.