“You can no more hinder it than you can keep the sun from rising to-morrow.”
“I am very sorry to hear it, Arthur. I would give a great deal if I could. Think what a change it will make in your life. You will not take your degree now. As for diplomacy, you are shut out from that—it would be impossible. So will Parliament be and the public life you once thought of. Your own business of a country gentleman you are kept from while your father lives. You have no time for anything else. Where will be your shooting, your fishing, your hunting in the season, your society? You will have to live on your allowance, sparely, economically, without a horse, without a margin. Everything given up for—what?”
“For her—for happiness—for everything that makes life worth having.”
“For happiness? I don’t know much about it, Arthur; it has not come my way. Is it object enough for a man’s life? When you live for happiness, are you happy? I ask for information. Myself, I get on well enough, but I have never made any great exertion for such an object. Will it answer the purpose? will it repay the cost?”
“You are trying to cheat me out of my just indignation,” said Arthur, “are we on such a footing at this moment as to discuss the position in your cool way? Oh, I confess it is cleverly done! you resume the old tone, you go back to the habit of many a discussion. But at present this will not do. There is something more urgent in hand.”
“Why should it not do? You are vexed that I have spoken to the Bates family; but after all, as I have been routed horse and foot by the young lady herself, and ordered off the field of battle—”
“You acknowledge that!” said Arthur subdued, “ah, I thought you were more sensible than you give yourself credit for being. She is grand when she is excited. Well, Durant, I suppose it is of no use grumbling with you. You know me, when we have quarrelled I always want to make it up to-morrow. I can’t do without you, old fellow; that is not what I came to say; but it is too strong for me. I want you, Durant; you have always stood by me. It does not feel natural that you should be on the other side.”
“I am not on the other side,” said Durant with compunction. There were some things in his letter to Lady Curtis which recurred to him, and gave him a choking sensation. His intentions had been friendly, but his acts—Well! as they had been altogether unsuccessful they did not matter much; and he too felt it difficult to resist the familiar face and tone. If he could have done any good;—but as this was impossible, why make a painful breach? He held out his hand to his friend. “Look here, Arthur,” he said with a smile, “what is the good of fighting? If I could stop your marriage I would do it; but apparently I can’t; I don’t conceal from you that I am very sorry; but if you do this very foolish thing, it seems a pity that you should lose a friend too.”
Arthur did not take the hand held out to him; but he sat down somewhat sullenly on the opposite side of the table, and then there ensued a pause, for neither knew what to say.
“I am going back to town to-morrow,” said Durant, “I will not undertake to further your prospects; but if you wish any communication made—to take off the edge of the unkindness, Arthur—”