“I suppose it has been that way all along, Larry, though we have not known it.”
“It was Mr. Morton then that she told me of?”
“She did tell you?”
“Of course there was no chance for me if he wanted her. But why didn’t they speak out, so that I could have gone away? Oh, Mr. Masters!”
“It was only yesterday she knew it herself.”
“She must have guessed it.”
“No;—she knew nothing till he declared himself. And today, this very morning, she has bade me come to you and let you know it. And she sent you her love.”
“Her love!” said Larry, chucking the stick which he held in his hands down to the ground and then stooping to pick it up again.
“Yes;—her love. Those were her words, and I am to tell you from her—to be a man.”
“Did she say that?”
“Yes;—I was to come out to you at once, and bring you that as a message from her.”
“Be a man! I could have been a man right enough if she would have made me one;—as good a man as Reginald Morton, though he is squire of Bragton. But of course I couldn’t have given her a house like that, nor a carriage, nor made her one of the county people. If it was to go in that way, what could I hope for?”
“Don’t be unjust to her, Larry.”
“Unjust to her! If giving her every blessed thing I had in the world at a moment’s notice was unjust, I was ready to be unjust any day of the week or any hour of the day.”
“What I mean is that her heart was fixed that way before Reginald Morton was squire of Bragton. What shall I say in answer to her message? You will wish her happiness;—will you not?”
“Wish her happiness! Oh, heavens!” He could not explain what was in his mind. Wish her happiness! yes;—the happiness of the angels. But not him—nor yet with him! And as there could be no arranging of this, he must leave his wishes unsettled. And yet there was a certain relief to him in the tidings he had heard. There was now no more doubt. He need not now remain at Chowton thinking it possible that the girl might even yet change her mind.
“And you will bear in mind that she wishes you to be a man.”
“Why did she not make me one? But that is all, all over. You tell her from me that I am not the man to whimper because I am hurt. What ought a man to do that I can’t do?”
“Let her know that you are going about your old pursuits. And, Larry, would you wish her to know how it was with you at the club last Saturday?”
“Did she hear of that?”
“I am sure she has not heard of it. But if that kind of thing becomes a habit, of course she will hear of it. All Dillsborough would hear of it, if that became common. At any rate it is not manly to drown it in drink.”
“Who says I do that? Nothing will drown it.”
“I wouldn’t speak if I had not known you so long, and loved you so well. What she means is that you should work.”
“I do work.”
“And hunt. Go out tomorrow and show yourself to everybody.”
“If I could break my neck I would.”
“Don’t let every farmer’s son in the county say that Lawrence Twentyman was so mastered by a girl that he couldn’t ride on horseback when she said him nay.”
“Everybody knows it, Mr. Masters.”
“Go among them as if nobody knew it. I’ll warrant that nobody will speak of it.”
“I don’t think anyone of ’em would dare to do that,” said Larry brandishing his stick.
“Where is it that the hounds are tomorrow, Larry?”
“Here; at the old kennel.”
“Go out and let her see that you have taken her advice. She is there at the house, and she will recognise you in the park. Remember that she sends her love to you, and bids you be a man. And, Larry, come in and see us sometimes. The time will come, I don’t doubt, when you and the squire will be fast friends.”
“Never!”
“You do not know what time can do. I’ll just go back now because he is to come to me this afternoon. Try and bear up and remember that it is she who bids you be a man.” The attorney got upon his pony and rode back to Dillsborough.
Larry who had come back to the yard to see his friend off, returned by the road into the fields, and went wandering about for a while in Dillsborough Wood. “Bid him be a man!” Wasn’t he a man? Was it disgraceful to him as a man to be brokenhearted, because a woman would not love him? If he were provoked he would fight—perhaps better than ever, because he would be reckless. Would he not be ready to fight Reginald Morton with any weapon which could be thought of for the possession of Mary Masters? If she were in danger would he not go down into the deep, or through fire to save her? Were not his old instincts of honesty and truth as strong in him as ever? Did manliness require that his heart should be invulnerable? If so he doubted whether he could ever be a man.
But what if she meant that manliness required him to hide the wound? Then there did come upon him a feeling of shame as he remembered how often he had spoken of his love to those who were little better than strangers to him, and thought that perhaps such loquacity was opposed to the manliness which she recommended. And his conscience smote him as it brought to his recollection the condition of his mind as he woke in Runciman’s bed at the Bush on last Sunday morning. That at any rate had not been manly. How would it be with him if he made up his mind never to speak again
