“You are speaking—folly,” said Mr. Ashford; then he added hastily, “I have got one of my boys coming. I must go in.”
“Good-day,” said the other with his dark smile. He had penetrated the secret thoughts that had not as yet taken any definite form in his friend’s breast. Sometimes another eye sees more clearly than our own what is coming uppermost in our minds—or at least its owner believes so. The Signor was all the more likely to be right in this, that he had no belief in the calm sentiment of “interest” as actuating a man not yet too old for warmer feelings, in respect to a woman. He smiled sardonically at Platonic affection—as most people indeed do, unless the case is their own. He knew but one natural conclusion in such circumstances, and settled that it would be so without more ado. And such reasoning is sure in the majority of cases to be right, or to help to make itself right by the mere suggestion. To be sure he took an “interest”—a great interest—in Lottie himself; but that was in the way of art.
Mr. Ashford had no boy coming that he knew of when he said this to escape from the Signor; but, as sometimes happens, the expedient justified itself, and he had scarcely seated himself in his study when some one came up the oak staircase two or three steps at a time, and knocked at his door. In answer to the “Come in,” which was said with some impatience—for the Minor Canon had a great deal to think about, and had just decided to subject himself to a cross-examination—who should open the door but Law—Law, without any book under his arm, and with a countenance much more awake and alive than on the occasions when he carried that sign of study. “Can I speak to you?” Law said, casting a glance round the room to see that no one else was there. He came in half suspicious, but with serious meaning on his face. Then he came and placed himself in the chair which stood between Mr. Ashford’s writing-table and his bookcases. “I want to ask your advice,” he said.
“Well; I have done nothing else but give you my advice for some time past, Law.”
“Yes—to work—I know. You have given me a great deal of that sort of advice. What good is it, Mr. Ashford? I’ve gone on week after week, and what will it ever come to? Well, I know what you are going to say. I work, but I don’t work. I don’t care a bit about it. I haven’t got my heart in it. It is quite true. But you can’t change your disposition; you can’t change your nature.”
“Stop a little, Law. So far as work is concerned you often can, if you will——”
“Ah, but there’s the rub,” said Law, looking his Mentor in the face. “I don’t want to—that is the simple fact. I don’t feel that I’ve the least desire to. I feel as if I won’t even when I know I ought. I think it’s more honest now at last to tell you the real truth.”
“I think I knew it pretty well some time ago,” said the Minor Canon with a smile. “It is a very common complaint. Even that can be got over with an effort. Indeed, I am glad you have found it out. Perhaps even, you know, it is not your brain at all but your will that is at fault.”
“Mr. Ashford,” said Law solemnly, “what is the good of talking? You know and I know that I never could make anything of it if I were to work, as we call it, till I was fifty. I never could pass any examination. They would be fools indeed if they let me in. I am no real good for anything like that. You know it well enough; why shouldn’t you say it? Here are you and me alone—nobody to overhear us, nobody to be vexed. What is the use of going on in the old way? I shall never do any good. You know it just as well as I.”
“Law,” said Mr. Ashford, “I will not contradict you. I believe you are right. If there was any other way of making your living I should say you were right. Books are not your natural tools; but they open the door to everything. The forest service, the telegraph service—all that sort of thing would suit you.”