“Unkindness! I have done no unkindness.”
“What—to settle all this without any reference to them, without explanation, without trying to secure their sympathy, their approval—”
“Approval! that was a likely thing; what was the use of making appeals or giving explanations? Here is an example; the moment they do hear, they send you primed and prepossessed against it. I answered their questions; but I knew it was useless, and why should I humiliate myself—and her? When it is irrevocable and can’t be altered, I always intended to let them know the whole, and throw myself upon their mercy.”
“It is clear you expect more magnanimity from them than they have found in you.”
“Well,” said Arthur coolly, “a man must have queer parents if he does not take that for granted. They do put up with things when they can’t help themselves. What is the good of worrying them with opposition (which it was clear they must make) and which could only irritate both parties? No, it was not done by inadvertence, it was done advisedly. If you never learned, old fellow, the advantage of doing a thing without permission rather than in the face of a prohibition—it makes all the difference,” said Arthur with a sudden hoarse laugh, which ended as suddenly as it began, and had anything but humour in the sound of it. “No, I have no instructions to give you, I will write as soon as—well, after we are married; why should I do anything before?”
“Arthur, for God’s sake!” cried his friend, “pause still, think what you are doing.”
“That is enough, that is enough! don’t risk our friendship once again, just after it has been renewed; and as you say, if I am going to do anything so very imprudent, at least don’t let me lose my friend too,” he said, looking at Durant, with eyes which laughed, yet were not far off from tears, and grasping his hand hurriedly. “I’m glad we are not parting for ever, old boy, as I almost feared: though I should not wonder if the next morning after we had parted for ever, I had knocked you up to tell you what folly it was. A dozen years are not done away with so easily, are they? after all.”
They stood grasping each other’s hands for a moment, both too much affected for words. Was there a softening, a yielding in Arthur’s breast? were the ties of the familiar life he knew of old, the faithful and tried affections, family, friends, home, coming back upon him, surging over the hot passion of the new? Durant held him fast for a moment longer than his friend’s grasp held, then with a sigh let his hand drop. He would not venture to raise all the question again. It must be left to reason, to his own heart, to—well, at the last, to that guidance of God which when everything fails we can trust or mistrust as the case may be. Evidently there was nothing more for friendship to do or say. And what could with justice have been done or said, Durant asked himself as he dropped wearily into his seat again after Arthur had gone? Could any one hope or expect that the guidance of God would lead him to break the most sacred pledge a man could give? If he did so his family might rejoice, but what could anyone, even those most relieved by it, think of Arthur? He might escape ruin, but by what? falsehood. And which was worst? Could any man dare to go to him and say—Throw off those vows you have repeated so often, cast aside this other creature as dear to heaven as yourself, whom you have persuaded of your love, break her heart, spoil her life, and then return spotless, an honourable man, to your own? If such an adviser could be, Durant felt that he was incapable of the effort: he felt even that with his respect his very love for Arthur would evaporate were he to know him capable of such treachery and baseness. And yet this was what he had been urging on him! No wonder that the young lover, being a true man, was indignant. Yet, notwithstanding, it was ruin for Arthur, of that there could be as little doubt. This girl, so high-spirited, so pretty, so young, so attractive in a hundred ways, would be his destruction, separating him from his own original and natural place, cutting short his career, neutralizing all his advantages. Alas for love, the love of the poets! At what a sacrifice was this young man purchasing that crown of life! at the cost of his home, his future, the very use that was in him as a man. Yet not all these considerations would justify the betrayal of the creature who loved him, or the breaking of his faith. In this dilemma his friend could but keep silent even from thought, with a certain shame of himself and horror of his own efforts, notwithstanding that he had been right in making them, which is one of the most wonderful of human paradoxes. His heart was heavy for Arthur going gaily to his destruction. Yet had he saved himself at this eleventh hour, what could anyone have thought of Arthur? Durant could not but feel a sensation of relief that he was not so brave and so wise.
Next morning he left Underhayes, without seeing anything more either of the lovers, or the little group which surrounded them; but not without another amusing reminder of the responsibilities he had incurred by interfering. He had no object in going to London by that expeditious morning train which carried off all the business men. He watched them once more, streaming along, neat and cheerful, with cherished rosebuds in their button-holes—rosebuds beyond the reach of the rest of the world; and when the place was clear and the express gone, started leisurely for a less crowded train. It did not occur to him to notice a quick decisive step coming up behind him, as he went to the station. It was not Arthur’s springy rapid step, which might have roused him; but one heavier and more decided. Durant however was much startled by finding himself struck lightly but sharply upon the shoulder, as the owner of this footstep came up to him. “Mr. Durant,” said Mr. Eagles, “why is not Curtis with you? I told you that I expected you to take away your man. Why do you let him slip through your fingers? I can’t have him here.”
“I told you, Mr. Eagles, that I had no authority over Curtis.”