“Robarts, you will be sorry some day for the cruelty of your words.”
“I wonder whether you will ever be sorry for the cruelty of your doings, or whether these things are really a joke to you.”
“I am at this moment a ruined man,” said Sowerby. “Everything is going from me,—my place in the world, the estate of my family, my father’s house, my seat in Parliament, the power of living among my countrymen, or, indeed, of living anywhere;—but all this does not oppress me now so much as the misery which I have brought upon you.” And then Sowerby also turned away his face, and wiped from his eyes tears which were not artificial.
Robarts was still walking up and down the room, but it was not possible for him to continue his reproaches after this. This is always the case. Let a man endure to heap contumely on his own head, and he will silence the contumely of others—for the moment. Sowerby, without meditating on the matter, had had some inkling of this, and immediately saw that there was at last an opening for conversation.
“You are unjust to me,” said he, “in supposing that I have now no wish to save you. It is solely in the hope of doing so that I have come here.”
“And what is your hope? That I should accept another brace of bills, I suppose.”
“Not a brace; but one renewed bill for—”
“Look here, Mr. Sowerby. On no earthly consideration that can be put before me will I again sign my name to any bill in the guise of an acceptance. I have been very weak, and am ashamed of my weakness; but so much strength as that, I hope, is left to me. I have been very wicked, and am ashamed of my wickedness; but so much right principle as that, I hope, remains. I will put my name to no other bill; not for you, not even for myself.”
“But, Robarts, under your present circumstances that will be madness.”
“Then I will be mad.”