“A bad case,” murmured the Rector, shaking his gray head; “a very bad case, which needs curing. ‘Nothing’s new! nothing’s true! and no matter,’ says my Oxford fine gentleman. Maurice, I must assert my privilege as an old friend, and reason with you in this matter. I am sadly afraid, my dear lad, that you need whipping.”
The ghost of a smile played over the tired face of the young man, and he assented heartily to the observation of his old tutor—nay, even added an amendment thereto.
“I do, sir, I do!” he said sombrely; “we all need whipping more or less—men, women, and children.”
“I am afraid the last-named get the most of it,” replied Carriston, with dry humor.
“With the birch, yes. But ’tis not so pleasant to be whipped by Fate.”
“My dear lad, you cannot say she has whipped you.”
“To continue your illustration, Rector, there are several modes of whipping,—the birch which pains the skin, poverty which pains the body, and despair which pains the soul. The latter is my case. I have health, wealth, and youth; but I feel the stings of the rod all the same.”
“Yes?” queried Carriston interrogatively; “in what way?”
“I have not the capability of enjoying the blessings I possess.”
“How so? Explain this riddle.”