Mr Cheviott led the way through the library into his own private sitting-room beyond. The fire had been carefully attended to, and was blazing brightly; the room looked a picture of comfort. Many and many a time Arthur would have liked nothing better than an hour’s tête-à-tête over their pipes with his cousin—the cousin who, to him, represented father and brother in one—to whom he owed all that he had ever known of “home” and its saving associations, “all the good that was in him,” as he himself had often expressed it, for Laurence’s care and affection for the boy had been great, and he had exerted them wisely. He had won Arthur’s confidence and respect; he had never so acted as to cause him to fret and chafe under what, in less judicious hands, he might have been made to feel an unnatural authority.
And not a small part of Captain Beverley’s present discomfort arose from the consciousness of having deeply disappointed his cousin. He told himself he had done no wrong, but he knew he had, thoughtlessly and impulsively, done that, or been on the point of doing that, which would greatly add to the difficulties and perplexities of a life much of which had been devoted to his welfare.
And acknowledging even thus much, where was the gratitude he had so often expressed?
He made no effort to conceal his gloom. He sat down on the first chair that came in his way, he muttered something about his pipe being up-stairs, “not unpacked,” and declined the cigar which his cousin hospitably offered him in its stead. Mr Cheviott quietly, filled and lighted his own pipe, drew his chair to the fire, with even more deliberation than usual, for his cousin’s demeanour somewhat disconcerted him.
He would have found it easier to go on with what he had to do, had Arthur continued indifferent or even defiant. But it is hard to strike a man that is down; it is extremely difficult to “lecture” or remonstrate with a man who is evidently more disgusted with himself than you can possibly be with him. For Laurence knew that Arthur was genuinely distressed and suffering; he knew his cousin to be as incapable of sulky or resentful temper as of dissimulation or intentional treachery.
“Arthur,” he said, at last, after smoking for a minute or two in silence, “I wish you wouldn’t look so unlike yourself; it makes it harder for me. You must have known that this sort of thing couldn’t go on—that you were running willfully into an entanglement which, sooner or later, must necessitate an explanation with me. You have no right to punish me for your own acts by looking as you are doing. Now the time has come to have it out with me, there is only one thing to do—face it.”
“I am perfectly ready to face it,” said Arthur, coldly, but with a decided and sudden increase of colour in his cheeks, and sitting up erectly on his chair.
“So much the better,” said Laurence, dryly, adding to himself, “I am glad I have roused him; we shall understand each other now.—I was going,” he continued, aloud—“I was going to have prefaced what I have to say by asking you whether you are losing your senses or your honour and high principle, for except by supposing one or the other I cannot, considering all, explain the way you have been going on. I was going to say so, I say, but I don’t now think I need, for I see you think as badly of yourself as I could do.”
“I do nothing of the kind,” replied Arthur, firing up. “I don’t ask you to tell me how badly you think of me—you could hardly infer worse than you have already expressed—but I altogether deny that I am either mad or bad, to put it shortly. And, what’s more, I have done nothing to justify you, or any one, in speaking of me as you have done.”
“You can’t mention ‘me’ and ‘any one’ together,” said Mr Cheviott, coolly. “I am the only person living, except a lawyer or two, who understands your position, therefore I am the only person who can judge whether you are doing right or wrong in making love to a girl without letting her perfectly comprehend what you have to offer her.”