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He determined to leave Mrs. Agar in ignorance of the real facts respecting her step-son. His vengeance was to allow her to rejoice almost openly, as she did in the stroke of fortune by which her own son, Arthur, had become possessed of Stagholme.
Agar to press the matter no farther just then. But she was so intent upon exhibiting to her neighbours the maternal affection which she persuaded herself that she felt for the plain-spoken heir to Stagholme, that she took him to task afterwards. With great care and an utter lack of logic she devoted some hours to the instruction of Jem in the somewhat crooked ways of her social creed.
These broad acres, the stately forests, the grand old house, raised Arthur Agar above such considerations, indeed above most considerations. And Mr. Glynde made up his mind to put it very strongly to Dora. The name of the slough was Despond. When Dora returned to Stagholme a fortnight later she was relieved to find that Arthur had not yet come down from Cambridge.
The blusterer blusters; the profane man swears; the tearful woman weeps and weeping, by the way, is no mean accomplishment if it be used at the right moment. Mrs. Agar naturally meditated on that form of diplomacy which is sometimes called lying. Dora absolutely refused to come to Stagholme while Arthur was there a delicacy of feeling, which, by the way, was quite incomprehensible to Mrs. Agar.
"We will hear all that at Stagholme," said Jem sternly, and Mark Ruthine merely looked at him over the top of a newspaper which he was not reading. To thine own self be true; And it must follow as the night the day Thou canst not then be false to any man. Human nature is, after all, a hopeless failure. Not even the very best instinct is safe.
Agar cunningly confined herself to a non-committing "Yes." After a sigh, Sister Cecilia further expatiated. "I cannot but think," she said, "that Stagholme will be in better hands now. Of course dear Jem was very nice, and all that a dear, good boy. But do you not think that Arthur is more suited to the position in some ways?" "Perhaps he is," allowed Mrs. Agar, with ill-concealed pleasure.
Which, by the way, serves to show how very little the Rector of Stagholme knew of the world. "But," protested Mrs. Agar, "they have not settled it between themselves. That is just it." "Just what?" "Just the difficulty." Immediately Mr. Glynde's face fell to its usual degree of set depression.
Jem Agar was firmly convinced that England only contained one Stagholme, and perhaps he was right. Six miles from the nearest station, the great house stands self-sufficient, self-contained. The moat, now dry and cultivated, is still traceable, and requires bridging in two places.
But she did not know it, and he knew that she did not. This knowledge is certain to come, sooner or later, to men and women who have lived for themselves and in themselves alone. They are mental hermits, whose opinion of things connected with the lives of others cannot well be of value because they have only studied their own existences. The Rector of Stagholme suddenly became aware of this.
The dignity was now ebbing fast, and by the time that the clever little cob swung round the gate-post into the avenue of Stagholme, Jem and Lasher were fully re-established on the old familiar footing. There was a bright moon overhead, and at the end of the avenue beyond the dip where the lake gleamed mysteriously, the gables and solid towers of Stagholme stood peacefully confessed.
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