That was a knock-down blow, and one from which I found it difficult to recover. My pride was hurt, inconsistently enough; I had never expected that she would take the matter like that, and so readily adopt the very forcible arguments I had brought to bear upon the situation in my letter to her. I had pictured her as resenting the idea fiercely; I had pictured her broken down, and longing to see me, and to put her own very different view of the matter before me. This calm acceptance of my ideas was not what in my heart I had really anticipated.
Foolishly enough, I went back again and again to the hotel; but there was no news of her. I did not even know the name of the lawyer to whom I had recommended her to go, in the event of anything happening to me or to the doctor. I began to see with bitterness that this young lady regarded me merely as an episode—merely as a highly undesirable escaped convict, who had forced his way into her life, and who was now done with.
For my part, I had done with London, and I had done with England. I made up my mind that I would go abroad, and would start again in a new country, and would endeavour to make something of my miserable existence. So set was I upon the idea that in a matter of days I had decided everything, and was buying my outfit. I put the matter before Andrew Ferkoe; I expected that he would raise objections to our parting.
He seemed a little upset, but said nothing that bore greatly on the question. He had great hopes, he told me, of being a doctor, and was already making arrangements to enter himself at a hospital, with a view to training. I applauded the idea, for I had not liked to think that the lad might settle down to doing nothing save the spending of his income.
Judge of my surprise, therefore, when on the very next day he walked into my sitting-room in the comfortable hotel in which we had taken up our quarters, and announced quite another decision. He announced it firmly, too, and with more daring than I should have given him credit for.
"I'm coming with you," he said.
"You're making a great mistake if you think of doing that," I assured him. "Here in London you can settle down, and become a great and clever man; with me you'll probably lead a useless, wandering sort of existence, and accomplish nothing. Be wise, and stay where you are."
"I'm coming with you," said Andrew obstinately. "You've been awfully good to me, and I should be a beast to let you go on alone, to knock about the world. I've been selfish even to think of it."
Nor could I shake his determination. I had booked my passage, and I now had to take another for him. He was nervous of going, he told me, and would greatly prefer to have a cabin to himself, if that could be secured. As there were not many passengers by that particular boat, I was able to arrange that he should be alone in a small cabin. I settled the matter then and there, and paid his passage money. And so we came to the last night we were to spend in England.
"I want to have a run round to-morrow," he said, as we were about to retire to our rooms. "It'll be the last time I shall see London, I expect, and I want to make the most of every hour. The vessel doesn't sail until quite late, and I shall go on board and turn in at once. I'm dreadfully afraid I shall be ill, and I don't want to wake up until I'm miles away from the shore; then perhaps I can face it better."