“I don’t think you would ever get him to work, James!”
“He should be taken, anyhow, out of that whirl of wretched life.”
“He could not live out of it, James!”
“Yet he managed to exist for a whole month at Rosmore.”
“Oh, my dear James, he was born in it, and he will die in it. He could not manage to exist out of that atmosphere of society.”
“I have a great mind to try,” Rowland said, walking about the room. “What is the good of saving a man from drowning with one hand, if ye pitch him back into the water with the other? I like radical measures. I would send him right away to some sort of work.”
She said nothing but shook her head.
“By George, I will try!” cried her husband, “if you were to shake your head off, my dear. I won’t let the laddie perish without a try to save him. He’s saved me, and the peace of my house. You may say he put it in jeopardy first: but it took some pluck, Evelyn, to put that, and his life, so to speak, in your hands. He must have good meanings in him. I will send for the lad—I will—”
“I must tell you something first, James, and then you shall act as you please. He said to me, ‘This means that I shall never see any of you again. And I was fond of little Marion—though she doesn’t deserve it any more than I do.’ It was a curious thing to say.”
Rowland gave a long whistle, and a twinkle of fun arose in his eye. “She doesn’t deserve it any more than he does!” he said. The speech did not make him angry, as Evelyn had feared. It made him laugh, and his laugh was not ungenial. “By Jove!” he said to himself: but he did not explain to Evelyn the idea which was veiled by that exclamation. There was, indeed, no need that there should be any meaning at all.