“She was no more than a child when she was married,” said Warrender, with excitement, “a little girl out of the nursery. How was she to know? She had never seen anybody, and to expect her to be able to judge at sixteen—”
“That is always bad,” said Dick, musing. He was like the other, full of his own thoughts. “Yet some girls are very much developed at sixteen. I knew a fellow once who—And she went entirely to the bad.”
“What are you talking of?” cried Warrender, almost roughly. “She was like a little angel herself, and knew nothing different—and when that fellow—who had been a handsome fellow they say—fell in love with her, and would not leave her alone for a moment, I, for one, forgive her for being deceived. I admire her for it,” he went on. “She was as innocent as a flower. Was it possible she could suspect what sort of a man he was? It has given her such a blow in her ideal that I doubt if she will ever recover. It seems as if she could not believe again in genuine, unselfish love.”
“Perhaps it is too early to talk to her about such subjects.”
“Too early! Do you think I talk to her about such subjects? But one cannot talk of the greatest subjects as we do without touching on them. Lady Markland is very fond of conversation. She lets me talk to her, which is great condescension, for she is—much more thoughtful, and has far more insight and mental power, than I.”
“And more experience,” said Dick.
“What do you mean? Well, yes; no doubt her marriage has given her a sort of dolorous experience. She is acquainted with actual life. When it so happens that in the course of conversation we touch on such subjects I find she always leans to the darker side.” He paused for a moment, adding abruptly, “And then there is her boy.”
“Oh,” said Dick, “has she a boy?”
“That’s what I’m going to town about. She is very anxious for a tutor for this boy. My opinion is that he is a great deal too much for her. And who can tell what he may turn out? I have brought her to see that he wants a man to look after him.”
“She should send him to school. With a child who has been a pet at home that is the best way.”
“Did I say he had been a pet at home? She is a great deal too wise for that. Still, the boy is too much for her, and if I could hear of a tutor—Cavendish, you are just the sort of fellow to know. I have not told her what I am going to do, but I think if I could find someone who would answer I have influence enough—” Warrender said this with a sudden glow of colour to his face, and a conscious glance; a glance which dared the other to form any conclusions from what he said, yet in a moment avowed and justified them. Dick was very full of his own thoughts, and yet at sight of this he could not help but smile. His heart was touched by the sight of the young passion, which had no intention of disclosing itself, yet could think of nothing and talk of nothing but the person beloved.
“I don’t know how you feel about it, Warrender,” he said, “but if I had a—friend whom I prized so much, I should not introduce another fellow to be near her constantly, and probably to—win her confidence, you know; for a lady in these circumstances must stand greatly in need of someone to—to consult with, and to take little things off her hands, and save her trouble, and—and all that.”
“That is just what I am trying to do,” said Warrender. “As for her grief, you know—which isn’t so much grief as a dreadful shock to her nerves, and the constitution of her mind, and many things we needn’t mention—as for that, no one can meddle. But just to make her feel that there is someone to whom nothing is a trouble, who will go anywhere, or do anything—”
“Well: that’s what the tutor will get into doing, if you don’t mind. I’ll tell you, Warrender, what I would do if I were you. I’d be the tutor myself.”
“I am glad I spoke to you,” said the young man. “It is very pleasant to meet with a mind that is sympathetic. You perceive what I mean. I must think it all over. I do not know if I can do what you say, but if it could be managed, certainly—Anyhow, I am very much obliged to you for the advice.”
“Oh, that is nothing,” said Dick; “but I think I can enter into your feelings.”
“And so few do,” said Warrender; “either it is made the subject of injurious remarks—remarks which, if they came to her ears, would—or a succession of feeble jokes more odious still, or suggestions that it would be better for me to look after my own business. I am not neglecting my own business that I am aware of; a few trees to cut down, a few farms to look after, are not so important. I hope now,” he added, “you are no longer astonished that the small interests of the University don’t tell for very much in comparison.”
“I beg you a thousand pardons, Warrender. I had forgotten all about the University.”
“It does not matter,” he said, waving his hand; “it does not make the least difference to me. It would not change my determination in any way, whatever might depend upon it; and nothing really depends upon it. I can’t tell you how much obliged I am to you for your sympathy, Cavendish.” He added, after a moment, “It is doubly good of you to enter into my difficulties, everything being so easygoing in your own life.”
Cavendish looked at his companion
