CHAPTER XVII
As Sydney was away from home, some weeks passed before I again had an opportunity of seeing him. On hearing of his return I immediately walked to his house and found him sitting in the garden.
"I am glad that you have come," he said, "as this is the last day I shall spend here, and there is much still to tell before we part."
"Go!" I exclaimed; "you do not intend to leave altogether?"
"Yes," he replied; "and it will be many years before you will see me again, so we must make the best of the short time that still remains. You will stay the night?"
I assented. The news of his coming departure was a greater blow than I could have believed possible. Having lived for long alone, and become so self-concentrated, it had not occurred to me I could suffer such pain at parting from any one. When we are young we experience these acute sensations; but time makes us callous, and after all, our friendship had lasted so short a time.
"You are sorry," he said. "We have become friends--a rare thing to happen in later life--and we shall miss each other. But it is better so. Some day you will understand why we lose our idols. It is not good for man to be alone; but it is still worse for one nature to rest all its interest upon another. The ivy clinging to the oak destroys the life of its supporter, and sooner or later they fall together."
For some time we strolled up and down, talking of friendship. There was one thing noticeable in Sydney which distinguished him from most men. Superficial observers would have called him egotistical, because if he thought a thing true he said so, without consideration for any of the forms of false modesty which are mistaken for meekness. If he liked a person he spoke to him just as he felt; and when better acquainted with a subject than those with whom he was conversing, he said so openly. If he felt that he was stronger or wiser than his friend, he lacked the affectation of professing to disbelieve it. Yet, instead of feeling that this assumption was an impertinence, I liked him the better for it; it was so naturally done, so free from the very suspicion of conceit.
"You and I," he seemed to say, "understand each other. We both know enough to be conscious of our own littleness and our own ignorance. We will not place ourselves in the ridiculous position of students in precedence. The gap between the wisest man and the fool is too narrow for partition. It is hardly worth while for earthworms to wrangle over shades of complexion, or men over shades of intelligence. Let us rather get to business, and make the best of our opportunity for improvement."
But this manner of his was offensive to many. There are minds so small that they are incapable of understanding a meekness that takes no account of distinction in littleness.