“I can’t let it out in lodgings, can I, Madeline?—or take boarders: or set up a school—though many men do that.”
“Do you ever think—they say you proved yourself so good a man of business,” said Madeline, with hesitation,—“do you ever think, Gervase, of putting the money—into——”
“Business! I loathe it more than ever,” he cried. “I hate the very name!”
Madeline gave vent to a gentle sigh. “My father would be more pleased with that than anything,” she said. “Everything, I think, might have been smoothed away. He thinks you did so well—in the West Indies, Gervase.”
“Did I do well? fighting against chicanery, dishonesty, fraudulent delays, fictitious excuses, everything that is most abhorrent to an honest man: they think it all fair, that is the worst of it. If they can disgust and sicken you, and make you think that no rights are worth that struggle, then they rejoice. That is their object all the time. A hundred times I was on the eve of throwing up the whole business, crying, Perish your filthy money! and flying to you to save me from cynicism and misanthropy and scorn of every kind.”
“But you did not fly. You stood fast and conquered, Gervase.”
“A poor victory,” he said, shaking his head, “and one only because they roused the worst part of my nature. I don’t know what I might develop into were I to carry on that cursed battle.”
“Gervase!”
“I beg your pardon, my dearest. It isn’t a blessed battle, anyhow. It enlists all one’s worst passions. I began to feel almost that it was a distinction to tell a bigger lie, and cheat worse than my opponent, so long as I got the better of him. If you were not a rich man’s daughter, I think I know what I should do.”
“Tell me,” she said.