“And I have worked;—and I do work. But things get changed somehow. I’ve half a mind to give it all up—to raise a lot of money, and to start off with a resolution to see every corner of the world. I suppose a man could do it in about thirty years if he lived so long. It’s the kind of thing would suit me.”
“Exactly. I don’t know any fellow who has been more into society, and therefore you are exactly the man to live alone for the rest of your life. You’ve always worked hard, I will say that for you;—and therefore you’re just the man to be contented with idleness. You’ve always been ambitious and self-confident, and therefore it will suit you to a T, to be nobody and to do nothing.” Arthur sat silent, smoking his pipe with all his might, and his brother continued—“Besides—you read sometimes, I fancy.”
“I should read all the more.”
“Very likely. But what you have read, in the old plays, for instance, must have taught you that when a man is cut up about a woman—which I suppose is your case just at present—he never does get over it. He never gets all right after a time—does he? Such a one had better go and turn monk at once, as the world is over for him altogether;—isn’t it? Men don’t recover after a month or two, and go on just the same. You’ve never seen that kind of thing yourself?”
“I’m not going to cut my throat or turn monk either.”
“No. There are so many steamboats and railways now that travelling seems easier. Suppose you go as far as St. Petersburg, and see if that does you any good. If it don’t, you needn’t go on, because it will be hopeless. If it does—why, you can come back, because the second journey will do the rest.”
“There never was anything, John, that wasn’t matter for chaff with you.”
“And I hope there never will be. People understand it when logic would be thrown away. I suppose the truth is the girl cares for somebody else.” Arthur nodded his head. “Who is it? Anyone I know?”
“I think not.”
“Anyone you know?”
“I have met the man.”
“Decent?”
“Disgustingly indecent, I should say.” John looked very black, for even with him the feeling about the Whartons and the Vaughans and the Fletchers was very strong. “He’s a man I should say you wouldn’t let into Longbarns.”
“There might be various reasons for that. It might be that you wouldn’t care to meet him.”
“Well;—no—I don’t suppose I should. But without that you wouldn’t like him. I don’t think he’s an Englishman.”
“A foreigner!”
“He has got a foreign name.”
“An Italian nobleman?”
“I don’t think he’s noble in any country.”
“Who the d⸺ is he?”
“His name is—Lopez.”
“Everett’s friend?”
“Yes;—Everett’s friend. I ain’t very much obliged to Master Everett for what he has done.”
“I’ve seen the man. Indeed, I may say I know him—for I dined with him once in Manchester Square. Old Wharton himself must have asked him there.”
“He was there as Everett’s friend. I only heard all this today, you know;—though I had heard about it before.”
“And therefore you want to set out on your travels. As far as I saw I should say he is a clever fellow.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“And a gentleman.”
“I don’t know that he is not,” said Arthur. “I’ve no right to say a word against him. From what Wharton says I suppose he’s rich.”
“He’s good looking too;—at least he’s the sort of man that women like to look at.”
“Just so. I’ve no cause of quarrel with him—nor with her. But—.”
“Yes, my friend, I see it all,” said the elder brother. “I think I know all about it. But running away is not the thing. One may be pretty nearly sure that one is right when one says that a man shouldn’t run away from anything.”
“The thing is to be happy if you can,” said Arthur.
“No;—that is not the thing. I’m not much of a philosopher, but as far as I can see there are two philosophies in the world. The one is to make one’s self happy, and the other is to make other people happy. The latter answers the best.”
“I can’t add to her happiness by hanging about London.”
“That’s a quibble. It isn’t her happiness we are talking about—nor yet your hanging about London. Gird yourself up and go on with what you’ve got to do. Put your work before your feelings. What does a poor man do, who goes out hedging and ditching with a dead child lying in his house? If you get a blow in the face, return it if it ought to be returned, but never complain of the pain. If you must have your vitals eaten into—have them eaten into like a man. But, mind you—these ain’t your vitals.”
“It goes pretty near.”
“These ain’t your vitals. A man gets cured of it—almost always. I believe always; though some men get hit so hard they can never bring themselves to try it again. But tell me this. Has old Wharton given his consent?”
“No. He has refused,” said Arthur with strong emphasis.
“How is it to be, then?”
“He has dealt very fairly by me. He has done all he could to get rid of the man—both with him and with her. He has told Emily that he will have nothing to do with the man. And she will do nothing without his sanction.”
“Then it will remain just as it is.”
“No, John; it will not. He has gone on to say that though he has refused—and has refused roughly enough—he must give way if he sees that she has really set her heart upon him. And she has.”
“Has she told you so?”
“No;—but he has told me. I shall have it out with her tomorrow, if I can. And then I shall be off.”
“You’ll be here for shooting on the 1st?”
“No. I dare say you’re right in what
