“Poor child,” said Lance. “But, Gerald, nothing of this must be said these next few days. We can’t put ourselves out of condition for this same raree-show.”
“I’m sure it’s a mere abomination to me,” said Gerald disconsolately. “I can’t think why we should be dragged into all this nuisance for what is not even our own concern.”
“I’m sure I thought you the rope that dragged me! At any rate much higher up on it.”
“Well, I never thought you would respond—you, who have enough on your hands at Bexley.”
“One stroke even on the outskirts is a stroke for all the cause.”
“The cause! I don’t believe in the cause, whatever it is. What a concatenation now, that you and I should make fools of ourselves in order to stave off the establishment of national education, as if we could, or as if it was worth doing.”
“Then why did you undertake it?”
“Oh, ah! Why, one wants something to do down here, and the Merrifield lot are gone upon it; and I did want to go through the thing again, but now it seems all rot.”
“Nevertheless, having pledged ourselves to the performance, we cannot cry off, and the present duty is to pack dull care away, put all this out of our heads, and regard it as a mere mare’s nest as long as possible, and above all not upset Cherry. Remember, let this turn out as it will, you are yourself still, and her own boy, beloved for your father’s sake, the joy of our dear brother, and her great comforter. A wretched mistake can never change that.”
Lance’s voice was quivering, and Gerald’s face worked. Lance gave his hand a squeeze, and found voice to say—