“Yes, much easier. The only question is whether we will be heathens or not.”
“How do you mean?” said Tom.
“Why, a spirit was speaking to Socrates, and guiding him. He obeyed the guidance, but knew not whence it came. A spirit is striving with us too, and trying to guide us—we feel that just as much as he did. Do we know what spirit it is? whence it comes? Will we obey it? If we can't name it—know no more of it then he knew about his daemon, of course, we are in no better position than he—in fact, heathens.”
Tom made no answer, and after a slight turn or two more, Hardy said, “Let us go in;” and they went to his rooms. When the candles were lighted, Tom saw the array of books on the table, several of them open, and remembered how near the examinations were.
“I see you want to work,” he said. “Well, good-night. I know how fellows like you hate being thanked—there, you needn't wince; I'm not going to try it on. The best way to thank you, I know, is to go straight for the future. I'll do that, please God, this time at any rate. Now what ought I to do, Hardy?”
“Well, it's very hard to say. I've thought about it a great deal this last few days—since I felt you coming round—but I can't make up my mind. How do you feel yourself? What's your own instinct about it?”
“Of course, I must break it all off at once, completely,” said Tom, mournfully, and half hoping that Hardy might not agree with him.
“Of course,” answered Hardy, “but how?”
“In the way that will pain her least. I would sooner lose my hand or bite my tongue off than that she should feel lowered, or lose any self-respect, you know,” said Tom, looking helplessly at his friend.
“Yes, that's all right—you must take all you can on your own shoulders. It must leave a sting though for both of you, manage how you will.”