‘I never was your equal in argument, and never will be,’ he said, ‘and, besides, you have certain stock principles which floor a fellow. But it is no use struggling; I suppose it is my fate. And a very jolly fate, to tell the truth; though what the people at home will say, and all my godfathers and godmothers, who vowed I was to be honest and industrious, and work for my living——’
‘I don’t much believe in that noble occupation,’ said the other; ‘but meantime let us think over what we want at Ryde, which is a great deal more important. Going abroad! I wonder if the old fellow was thinking of you and me when he signed that sentence. It is the best thing, the very best, that could have happened. Everything will be new, and yet there will be the pleasure of bringing back old associations and establishing intercourse afresh. How lucky it is! Cheer up, Bertie. I feel my heart as light as a bird.’
‘Mine is like a bird that is fluttering just before its fall,’ said Bertie, with gravity which was half mock and half real, shaking his head.
‘You envy me my good spirits,’ said his companion, ‘and I suppose there is not very much ground for them. Thank heaven I don’t offend often in that way. It is more your line than mine. But I do feel happier about the chief thing of all than I have done since Easter. Courage, old boy; we’ll win the battle yet.’
Bertie Hardwick shook his head again.
‘I don’t think I shall ever win any battle,’ he said, dolorously; ‘but, in the meantime, here’s the list for fitting out the “Shadow.” I suppose you think more of that now than of anything else.’
The other Bertie laughed long and low at his cousin’s mournful tone; but they were soon absorbed in the lists, as they bowled along towards Ryde, with a good horse, and a soft breeze blowing in their faces. All the seriousness dispersed from Bertie Hardwick’s face as they went on—or rather a far more solemn seriousness came over it as he discussed the necessity of this and that, and all the requirements of the voyage. Very soon he forgot all about the momentary curb that had stopped his imagination in full course. ‘My studies!’ he said, when the business of the day was over, with a joyous burst of laughter more unhesitating even than his cousin’s. He had surmounted that little shock, and his amusement was great at the idea of being reproached with neglect of anything so entirely nominal. He had taken his degree, just saving it, with no honour, nor much blame either; and now for a whole year he had been afloat in the world, running hither and thither, as if that world were but one enormous field of amusement. He ought not to have done so. When he decided to give up the Church, he ought, as everybody said, to have turned his mind to some other profession; and great and many were the lamentations over his thoughtlessness in the Rectory of Langton-Courtenay. But somehow the two Berties had always been as one in the minds of all their kith and kin; and even the Hardwicks regarded with a vague indulgence the pleasant idleness which was thus shared. Sir Herbert Eldridge was rich, and had influence and patronage, and the other Bertie was his only son. It would be no trouble to him to provide ‘somehow’ for his nephew when the right moment came. And thus, though the father and mother shook their heads, and Mrs. Hardwick would sometimes sigh over the waste of Bertie’s abilities and his time, yet they had made no very earnest remonstrances up to this moment; and all had gone on merrily, and all had seemed well.
That evening, however, as it happened, he received an energetic letter on the subject from his father—a letter pointing out to him the folly of thus wasting his best years. Mr. Hardwick reminded his son that he was three-and-twenty, that he had his way to make in the world, and that it was his duty to make up his mind how he was going to do it.
‘I don’t insist upon the Church,’ he said, ‘if your mind is not inclined that way—for that is a thing I would never force; but I cannot see you sink into a state of dependence. Your cousin is very kind; but you ought, and you must know it, to be already in the way of supporting yourself.’
Bertie wrote an answer to this letter at once that evening, without waiting to take counsel of the night; perhaps he felt that it was safe to do it at once, while the idea of work still looked and felt like a good joke. This was his reply:—