Mrs. Maxon Protests. Anthony Hope

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ A little boldness of vision, a breath of the free air of Shaylor's Patch, a draught of the new wine of speculation—and behold the victim turned experimentalist!

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

THE GREAT ALLIES

       Table of Contents

      Although the Reverend Francis Attlebury was vowed in his soul to celibacy and had never so much as flirted since he took his degree at Oxford twenty-three years ago, he had more knowledge of the mind of woman than most married men pleasurably or painfully achieve. Women came to him with their troubles, their grievances, even sometimes their sins; it was no more his business to pooh-pooh the grievances than to extenuate the sins; one does not carry a cross the more cheerfully or, as a rule, any further, because a bystander assures one that it is in reality very light.

      He was a tall stout man—a grievance of his own was that he looked abominably well-fed in spite of constant self-denial—and possessed a face of native and invincible joviality. He was looking quite jovial now as he listened to Cyril Maxon, agreed that he had been shamefully used, and concluded in his own mind that if the negotiations were to be carried on in that spirit they might just as well not be initiated at all. The thing was not to prove how wrong she had been in going, but to get her back. She was more likely to come back, if it were conceded to her that she had at least a fair excuse for going. Would Cyril Maxon ever make such a concession—or let somebody make it for him?

      The two men were old and intimate friends; moreover Maxon was even eager to acknowledge an authority in Attlebury's office, as well as a confidence in his personal judgment.

      "You won't make her think she was always wrong by proving that you were always right, Cyril."

      "Am I to say I was wrong where I know I was right?"

      "You've probably said you were right already. Need you repeat it?"

      "I'm ready to forgive her—absolutely and unreservedly."

      "Would you go a little further—do something rather harder? Accept forgiveness?" The diplomatist smiled. "Conditional forgiveness we might call it, perhaps. Forgiveness in case there might be anything for her to forgive?"

      Maxon broke out in natural impatience at the incomprehensible. "On my honour, I don't understand what she's got to complain of. I took her from a poor home, I've given her every luxury, she shares my career—I needn't use mock modesty with you, Frank—I've given her absolute fidelity——" He ended with a despairing wave of his hands.

      Attlebury neither argued nor rebuked. "Is there anybody who has influence with her—whom she likes and relies on?"

      "I should hate anybody else being dragged into it—except you, of course. I asked her to come to you."

      "Oh, I know I'm suspect. I should be no good." He smiled contentedly. "Nobody you can think of?"

      "Well, the man she consulted about it was Hobart Gaynor." His tone was full of grudging dislike of such a consultation.

      "Hobart Gaynor? Yes, I know him. Not a bad choice of hers, Cyril, if she felt she had to go to some one. Not quite our way of thinking, but a very good fellow."

      "Why is he to poke his nose into my affairs?"

      "Come, come, she poked her pretty nose into his office, no doubt, and probably he'd much rather she hadn't. I've experience of ladies in distress, Cyril. I am, in fact, as the Great Duke said of authors—when he was Chancellor of Oxford, you know—much exposed to them."

      "I didn't come here to discuss Hobart Gaynor."

      "I hope we sometimes do wiser things than we come to do—or what's the good of a talk? Let's discuss Hobart Gaynor in the light of—say—an ambassador, or a go-between. You're looking very formidable, Cyril. Did you often look at Mrs. Maxon like that? If so, I hope she'd done something really wicked. Because, if she hadn't, you did."

      For just that moment the note of rebuke and authority rang clear in his voice. The next, he was the friend, the counsellor, the diplomatist again.

      "Let Gaynor go to her with a message of peace. Bygones to be bygones, faults on both sides, a fresh start, and so on."

      Cyril Maxon had felt the rebuke; he bowed his head to it. But he fretted terribly.

      "I can't bring myself to speak to him about it."

      "Let me. She's your wife, you know. If she went wrong, mightn't you feel that some effort of yours would—well, have made the difference?"

      "What am I to tell him to say?"

      "Let me tell him what to say—you try to honour my draft when it's presented. Perhaps—God knows—we're fighting for her soul, Cyril, and we shall be asked how we've borne ourselves in the fight, shan't we?"

      Cyril Maxon was always ready to own that he might have been wrong—to own it to God or to God's representative; he hated owning it to a fellow-creature uninvested with prerogatives. Attlebury had skilfully shifted the venue and changed the tribunal. A man may be sure he is right as against his wife—or vice versâ. Who dares enter an unqualified 'Not Guilty' before High Heaven's Court? There some count in the indictment is sure to be well laid and well proven.

      "I think I know my faults," he said, in a complacent humility.

      Attlebury's smile became more jovial still. "O learned gentleman!"

      The disciple still held the natural man under control. Maxon smiled, if sourly.

      "I may have been exacting."

      "You may have been an ass," sprang to the clergyman's lips, but stayed unuttered. "Allowances, Cyril, allowances!" he murmured gently. "We all have to work through allowances."

      "Do as you like, Frank. I want the thing put straight. You know I do. I think I ought to have from her an expression of—well, of regret."

      "Won't coming back convey it?" Attlebury smiled. "In fact, rather forcibly?"

      Left alone, the priest indulged himself in a bout of one of his diversions—the contemplation of the folly of his disciples. Not folly in believing in him and his authority—on that he was unimpeachably sincere. What moved his satiric vein was that they all had to be gulled—and were all gullible. Before they could be made better, they all had to be persuaded that they were better than they were already. Miserable offenders? Certainly. But with "potentialities"? Even more certainly—and to an unusual degree. No question of breaking the bruised reed—it must be put in splinters. And the smoking flax would be revived with a dash of kerosene. That Pope had been entirely wrong about Tannhäuser; he should have told him that his recent doings did not represent his true self. There is joy over a sinner that repenteth. To Attlebury there was excitement in one that might. He knew it, he chid himself for it; the glory was not in him or to him. But the sporting instinct was deep—a cause of sore penitence, and of unregenerate perpetual amusement at himself.

      "I'd like to beat СКАЧАТЬ