Nor were Durant’s troubles over for that day. In the evening another
tempest came upon him. He had finished his solitary dinner, and written
his letter to Lady Curtis, which was considerably changed from what it
was intended to be. He had meant to say that he was in great hopes of
having succeeded in his attempt to convince the Bates’ that it was not
for their interest to allow Arthur to marry their daughter; but after
his interview with Nancy, he could not say this. On the contrary, he
gave a description of her future daughter-in-law, which was very much
more favourable to that young woman than anyone could have expected.
“She has a great deal of character,” he wrote. “She is not vulgar by
nature, nor devoid of intelligence. If things come to the worst,
something may be made of her.”
This was not very satisfactory to Lady Curtis, who would almost rather
have heard that her son was about to marry a demon incarnate, who would
disgust him sooner or later, and from whom even yet he might be driven.
So that poor Durant had doubly lost his work.
He was finishing this letter when his door was opened suddenly, and
Arthur Curtis came in unannounced. He was quite pale, with eyes which
gleamed red and angry, and an air of furious calm--passion at the white
stage to which no utterance would suffice. He came in, closed the door
behind him, and then coming forward, dashed his clenched hand upon the
table.
“Look here,” he said, “I’ll have none of your interference, Durant.
Friend you may be, if you like, but dictator to me never--no, I cannot
put up with it, and I won’t. What has come to you that you can steal
into people’s houses and try to deceive a lot of silly women? That is
not the sort of thing that used to suit you.”
“I have deceived nobody,” said Durant, getting red in spite of himself.
“It is you who have deceived them.”
“Yes, that’s it, isn’t it?--the argument suits the conduct,” said
Arthur, with a sneer. “‘It is not me, it is you,’--the very thing I
should have expected to be said; but look here, Durant, if you come
between her and me again, if you try to make mischief with her family,
if you get me into further trouble, I’ll--by Jove, I’ll--”
“What will you do?” said Durant, rising, restored to his
self-possession, and looking the other steadily in the face.
They stood within a few paces of each other, the one aggressive and
furious, the other calm, but excited. They had never had a break before
since childhood, and had stood by each other in all kinds of
difficulties. This was in Durant’s mind, and made the crisis more bitter
to him; but Arthur was too much excited to think of it, or of anything
else but his grievance. Notwithstanding this, however, the calm look of
the familiar face confronting him stilled the young man. He turned away
after a moment, and took to angry pacing about the room.
“You!” he cried, “You! If anyone had told me that you would not stand by
me in a difficulty, would not be my help in any trouble, I should not
have believed it. It would have seemed impossible; and that you should
take up arms _against_ me--against _me_!--_you_, Durant!”
“Arthur,” said his friend, with great emotion, “let us speak plainly.
You must always be to me, when you are in difficulty, the first person
to be thought of. I cannot believe, any more than you can, in
circumstances where I should not stand by you; but listen! you are not
in difficulty now--you are on the verge, as I think, of a great mistake.
Nothing can be more different. As your friend is bound to help you in
trouble, so is he bound by every rule to do his best to extricate you
now.”
“To extricate me!” cried Arthur, with scorn. “From what? From love,
happiness, and honour? Are these things from which to extricate a man?
And not only so, but to work by underhand means to force me out of the
position I have chosen, and which, whatever you may think of it, is
Heaven to me.”
“I have been working by no underhand means.”
“What else can you call it? You might have said what you would to me.
You were free to say what you liked; but to attack them--behind my
back--”
“Arthur,” said Durant, “it is useless to evade the matter; this is
exactly one of those moments which are often fatal to friendship. You
think you are on the eve of happiness. I think you are securing your own
misery. Am I to help you to destroy yourself? do you think that is a
duty of friendship? or is it not rather my part, by every possible
means, to stop you before you go over the precipice?”
“Your very words are an insult,” said Arthur; “to me, and to one who is
more precious to me than myself.”
“Yet I suppose I may have my opinion,” said Durant. “You cannot forbid
me that. I say nothing against anybody. I only say this will be fatal to
you, and it seems to me, if I could hinder it--”
“You can no more hinder it than you can keep the sun from rising
to-morrow.”
“I am very sorry to hear it, Arthur. I would give a great deal if I
could. Think what a change it will make in your life. You will not take
your degree now. As for diplomacy, you are shut out from that--it would
be impossible. So will Parliament be and the public life you once
thought of. Your own business of a country gentleman you are kept from
while your father lives. You have no time for anything else. Where will
be your shooting, your fishing, your hunting in the season, your
society? You will have to live on your allowance, sparely, economically,
without a horse, without a margin. Everything given up for--what?”
“For _her_--for happiness--for everything that makes life worth having.”
“For happiness? I don’t know much about it, Arthur; it has not come my
way. Is it object enough for a man’s life? When you live for happiness,
are you happy? I ask for information. Myself, I get on well enough, but
I have never made any great exertion for such an object. Will it answer
the purpose? will it repay the cost?”
“You are trying to cheat me out of my just indignation,” said Arthur,
“are we on such a footing at this moment as to discuss the position in
your cool way? Oh, I confess it is cleverly done! you resume the old
tone, you go back to the habit of many a discussion. But at present this
will not do. There is something more urgent in hand.”
“Why should it not do? You are vexed that I have spoken to the Bates
family; but after all, as I have been routed horse and foot by the young
lady herself, and ordered off the field of battle--”
“You acknowledge that!” said Arthur subdued, “ah, I thought you were
more sensible than you give yourself credit for being. She is grand when
she is excited. Well, Durant, I suppose it is of no use grumbling with
you. You know me, when we have quarrelled I always want to make it up
to-morrow. I can’t do without you, old fellow; that is not what I came
to say; but it is too strong for me. I want you, Durant; you have always
stood by me. It does not feel natural that you should be on the other
side.”
“I am not on the other side,” said Durant with compunction. There were
some things in his letter to Lady Curtis which recurred to him, and gave
him a choking sensation. His intentions had been friendly, but his
acts--Well! as they had been altogether unsuccessful they did not matter
much; and he too felt it difficult to resist the familiar face and tone.
If he could have done any good;--but as this was impossible, why make a
painful breach? He held out his hand to his friend. “Look here, Arthur,”
he said with a smile, “what is the good of fighting? If I could stop
your marriage I would do it; but apparently I can’t; I don’t conceal
from you that I am very sorry; but if you do this very foolish thing,
it seems a pity that you should lose a friend too.”
Arthur did not take the hand held out to him; but he sat down somewhat
sullenly on the opposite side of the table, and then there ensued a
pause, for neither knew what to say.
“I am going back to town to-morrow,” said Durant, “I will not undertake
to further your prospects; but if you wish any communication made--to
take off the edge of the unkindness, Arthur--”
“Unkindness! I have done no unkindness.”
“What--to settle all this without any reference to them, without
explanation, without trying to secure their sympathy, their approval--”
“Approval! that was a likely thing; what was the use of making appeals
or giving explanations? Here is an example; the moment they do hear,
they send you primed and prepossessed against it. I answered their
questions; but I knew it was useless, and why should I humiliate
myself--and _her_? When it is irrevocable and can’t be altered, I always
intended to let them know the whole, and throw myself upon their mercy.”
“It is clear you expect more magnanimity from them than they have found
in you.”
“Well,” said Arthur coolly, “a man must have queer parents if he does
not take that for granted. They do put up with things when they can’t
help themselves. What is the good of worrying them with opposition
(which it was clear they must make) and which could only irritate both
parties? No, it was not done by inadvertence, it was done advisedly. If
you never learned, old fellow, the advantage of doing a thing without
permission rather than in the face of a prohibition--it makes all the
difference,” said Arthur with a sudden hoarse laugh, which ended as
suddenly as it began, and had anything but humour in the sound of it.
“No, I have no instructions to give you, I will write as soon as--well,
after we are married; why should I do anything before?”
“Arthur, for God’s sake!” cried his friend, “pause still, think what you
are doing.”
“That is enough, that is enough! don’t risk our friendship once again,
just after it has been renewed; and as you say, if I am going to do
anything so very imprudent, at least don’t let me lose my friend too,”
he said, looking at Durant, with eyes which laughed, yet were not far
off from tears, and grasping his hand hurriedly. “I’m glad we are not
parting for ever, old boy, as I almost feared: though I should not
wonder if the next morning after we had parted for ever, I had knocked
you up to tell you what folly it was. A dozen years are not done away
with so easily, are they? after all.”
They stood grasping each other’s hands for a moment, both too much
affected for words. Was there a softening, a yielding in Arthur’s
breast? were the ties of the familiar life he knew of old, the faithful
and tried affections, family, friends, home, coming back upon him,
surging over the hot passion of the new? Durant held him fast for a
moment longer than his friend’s grasp held, then with a sigh let his
hand drop. He would not venture to raise all the question again. It must
be left to reason, to his own heart, to--well, at the last, to that
guidance of God which when everything fails we can trust or mistrust as
the case may be. Evidently there was nothing more for friendship to do
or say. And what could with justice have been done or said, Durant asked
himself as he dropped wearily into his seat again after Arthur had gone?
Could any one hope or expect that the guidance of God would lead him to
break the most sacred pledge a man could give? If he did so his family
might rejoice, but what could anyone, even those most relieved by it,
think of Arthur? He might escape ruin, but by what? falsehood. And which
was worst? Could any man dare to go to him and say--Throw off those vows
you have repeated so often, cast aside this other creature as dear to
heaven as yourself, whom you have persuaded of your love, break her
heart, spoil her life, and then return spotless, an honourable man, to
your own? If such an adviser could be, Durant felt that he was incapable
of the effort: he felt even that with his respect his very love for
Arthur would evaporate were he to know him capable of such treachery and
baseness. And yet this was what he had been urging on him! No wonder
that the young lover, being a true man, was indignant. Yet,
notwithstanding, it was ruin for Arthur, of that there could be as
little doubt. This girl, so high-spirited, so pretty, so young, so
attractive in a hundred ways, would be his destruction, separating him
from his own original and natural place, cutting short his career,
neutralizing all his advantages. Alas for love, the love of the poets!
At what a sacrifice was this young man purchasing that crown of life! at
the cost of his home, his future, the very use that was in him as a man.
Yet not all these considerations would justify the betrayal of the
creature who loved him, or the breaking of his faith. In this dilemma
his friend could but keep silent even from thought, with a certain shame
of himself and horror of his own efforts, notwithstanding that he had
been right in making them, which is one of the most wonderful of human
paradoxes. His heart was heavy for Arthur going gaily to his
destruction. Yet had he saved himself at this eleventh hour, what could
anyone have thought of Arthur? Durant could not but feel a sensation of
relief that he was not so brave and so wise.
Next morning he left Underhayes, without seeing anything more either of
the lovers, or the little group which surrounded them; but not without
another amusing reminder of the responsibilities he had incurred by
interfering. He had no object in going to London by that expeditious
morning train which carried off all the business men. He watched them
once more, streaming along, neat and cheerful, with cherished rosebuds
in their button-holes--rosebuds beyond the reach of the rest of the
world; and when the place was clear and the express gone, started
leisurely for a less crowded train. It did not occur to him to notice a
quick decisive step coming up behind him, as he went to the station. It
was not Arthur’s springy rapid step, which might have roused him; but
one heavier and more decided. Durant however was much startled by
finding himself struck lightly but sharply upon the shoulder, as the
owner of this footstep came up to him. “Mr. Durant,” said Mr. Eagles,
“why is not Curtis with you? I told you that I expected you to take
away your man. Why do you let him slip through your fingers? I can’t
have him here.”
“I told you, Mr. Eagles, that I had no authority over Curtis.”
“No one has any authority; there is no such thing nowadays: call it
influence if you like, I don’t mind names--but take him away. He is
doing no good with me. Never did after the first week. Dilettante
fellow, fond of classical reading; that’s not the sort of thing I care
for, Mr. Durant. When a man comes to me he comes to work, whether he
likes it or not. I am not half sure that I don’t prefer them when they
dislike it, triumph of principle then. Curtis is worse than doing no
good, as I told you, he is doing himself harm. What do you mean to do
about this business? Is he to be allowed to make a fool of himself and
destroy all his prospects?”
“I must repeat that I have no authority over Arthur Curtis,” said
Durant, “I am only his friend and school-fellow. You know how little a
man will allow his friend to interfere in such a matter.”
“On the contrary, I know they are the only people who can interfere.
Parents might as well--whistle. I scarcely wonder at that: if one may
say so broadly of so large a class, there is not a greater nuisance than
parents; and in this sort of business they’re hopeless. But a man like
himself, knowing all the consequences--why, no one could speak with so
much authority.”
“What would you advise me to say to him?” said Durant, with a kind of
half hope that this sharp and energetic intelligence might strike out
some new suggestion, tempered by an inclination to laugh and flout at
any solution he might offer of the difficulty. “For myself I am at my
wits’ end.”
“Say to him!” said the little pedagogue with a snort and puff of fiery
resolution. “I’d take him away, I should not waste words. I’d have him
out of the place before the day was over. There’s nothing like isolation
in any bad disease.”
“There are difficulties,” said Durant, “to make him go in the first
place is not easy; and there is perhaps a claim of honour--I don’t know
how to advise him to cancel his word.”
“Honour! word!” said Mr. Eagles, in successive snorts, “I can see how
well qualified you are for the business. Fiddlesticks! a little money
afterwards would salve all that. Is he to ruin himself for the sake of
his word--to Bates the tax-collector’s daughter!” The force of ridicule
seemed incapable of going further. “I will not resort to your advice,
Mr. Durant, no offence, when any of my men are in trouble.”
“Thanks, I hope you will not,” said Durant, nettled; and so rushed to
his train in considerable indignation and excitement. His word to
Bates’s daughter! was not that as good as his word to a Duchess? the
young man asked himself. He was near becoming Arthur’s advocate instead
of his adversary. And if Lady Curtis assailed him as Mr. Eagles had
done, what should he say to her? Must he lose all hopes of pleasing the
family in consequence of this moral dilemma? Durant had no hope that any
pleasure he could do to the family would ever really influence them
towards the granting of his own private wishes which had never been
breathed in any ear. He knew, in short, as well as a man can know by
conviction of the understanding, that these wishes were absolutely
hopeless, and that nothing he could do to propitiate the family would
really tell upon them. But nevertheless he clung to the hope of proving
himself useful, of doing something which would conciliate and dispose
them towards him. Foolish young man! and what if Nancy Bates with her
impetuous indignation, her self-confidence, her strong satisfaction in
Arthur’s poverty, which would prove her disinterestedness, should spoil
it all?