Bertie colored and shook his head.
“No it wouldn’t. Everybody knows how poor we Carfields are. My father has been retrenching for years.”
Faradeane shrugged his shoulders.
“We might talk till the moon turned black,” he said, “and still be far enough away from her motives. The question is, what will you do?”
“What can I do?” replied Bertie. “There is only one thing left for me to do; to get away from here as soon as possible, and to fight out the battle as best I can. I shall start at once.”
“Where to?”
“To—to the devil!” responded Bertie, desperately.
Faradeane laid a strong hand on each of his shoulders, and looked him full in the face with a steadfast gaze.
“No, not in that direction, Cherub,” he said. “There is no forgetfulness to be found in that gentleman’s company. That way, indeed, madness lies. Be a man, dear boy. Other men have suffered——” He paused. “Well, yes, some of us have suffered worse pangs than are torturing you just this minute, and we have gone whither you said. Some of us have come back with much difficulty; others have remained, and gone down to the unfathomable pit. Take the word of a man who was lucky enough to draw back in time; there is no comfort to be found in that direction. If you must go, take my advice and go out into the wilds. There is nothing like Nature. She is the one universal mother of consolation. Go and seek her in her wildest aspect; go and have a shot at some big game—Africa—the Rockies—anywhere you can find room to fight your battle in. And then—when you have won—come back and learn that there is no sorrow that time cannot teach you to forget, no wound it cannot heal.”
“My life is over,” said Bertie. “The best thing I can do is to try and get rid of it.”