Evening.
"In five hours I shall be on the road." So I wrote at six o'clock. I wrote too confidently.
At eleven I had mounted my horse, had sent my last good-bye through the open window, and had caught the last soft answer from within. I lingered yet an instant, held by those links of tenderness and solicitude that bind to home and make the moment of parting for any unusual absence, even though a pleasant and desired one, a moment of effort. A heavy, dragging step, which I almost knew before I saw the lounging figure of Phil Phinn, warned me of a different delay. I watched his slow approach with a resignation which had still a little hope in it; but when he at last stood beside me and began his ingratiating preamble, I felt my sentence confirmed. His woe-begone face, his quivering voice, announced the suppliant before he reached the recital of his wrongs; while the utter self-abandonment of his attitude conveyed renunciation of all cares and responsibilities in favor of his elected patron. I will not give you the details of the difficulty of to-day,—an absurd and paltry one, yet capable of serious consequences to him. I obeyed instinctively the old-fashioned New-England principle I was brought up in, which requires us to postpone the desire of the moment to its demands. Sadly I led my horse to the stable, took off the saddle and put him up. "I cannot be back until two," I thought, "perhaps not before three. I shall lose our walk and our sunset; but even if it is as late as four, I will still go." I ran into the house to say a word of explanation to my mother; but she had heard and understood. She gave me a look of sympathy, and I did not wait for more.
I set out resolutely in a direction opposite to that in which my own road lay. Phil Phinn followed, already raised to complacency, though not to energy. I outwalked him continually, and was obliged to stop and wait for him to come up. He plainly thought my haste unseasonable, and did not disguise that he was incommoded by the sun and the mud. It was a tedious way, a long five miles for him and for me.
We arrived at last at the house of his adversary, who, having, besides the advantage of being in a superior position, also that of justice on his side, could the more easily give way. I should soon have come to an understanding with him, if my client, while leaving me the whole responsibility of his case, had not found himself unable to resign its management: he must lend me the aid of his argumentative and persuasive gifts. After some hours of wrangling and pleading, the matter was accommodated, and Phil Phinn, without a care in the world, or the apprehension of ever having one again, sauntered away toward his home. I set off for mine, already doubtful of myself, remembering that I was not the only disappointed one.
When I reached home, it was half-past six o'clock. I felt strongly impelled to go, even then. My mother did not offer any objection, but her look showed so plainly the anxiety the thought of a night-ride caused her, that I gave it up without a word. I could not, indeed, have arrived at Omocqua before midnight, and Harry would long have done expecting me.
I am not as well satisfied with myself as I ought to be, having made such a sacrifice to duty. I begin to ask myself, Was it made to duty? After all, a little suspense would have done Phil Phinn good,—if anything can do him good. And are not the claims of friendship paramount to all other? Harry will be pained by needless anxiety. Can he believe that I would, without grave cause, lose any of the time we might yet have together? But a few hours will set all right.