sort, even when they are of long standing, are always liable to change. I can easily conceive that you might act in a way to loosen the tie she feels towards you—it must be remembered that she is only conditionally bound to you—and that in that case, another man, who may flatter himself that he has a hold on her regard, might succeed in winning that firm place in her love as well as respect which you had let slip. I can easily conceive such a result,” repeated Mr Farebrother, emphatically. “There is a companionship of ready sympathy, which might get the advantage even over the longest associations.”
It seemed to Fred that if Mr Farebrother had had a beak and talons instead of his very capable tongue, his mode of attack could hardly be more cruel. He had a horrible conviction that behind all this hypothetic statement there was a knowledge of some actual change in Mary’s feeling.
“Of course I know it might easily be all up with me,” he said, in a troubled voice. “If she is beginning to compare” He broke off, not liking to betray all he felt, and then said, by the help of a little bitterness, “But I thought you were friendly to me.”
“So I am; that is why we are here. But I have had a strong disposition to be otherwise. I have said to myself, ‘If there is a likelihood of that youngster doing himself harm, why should you interfere? Aren’t you worth as much as he is, and don’t your sixteen years over and above his, in which you have gone rather hungry, give you more right to satisfaction than he has? If there’s a chance of his going to the dogs, let him—perhaps you could nohow hinder it—and do you take the benefit.’”
There was a pause, in which Fred was seized by a most uncomfortable chill. What was coming next? He dreaded to hear that something had been said to Mary—he felt as if he were listening to a threat rather than a warning. When the Vicar began again there was a change in his tone like the encouraging transition to a major key.
“But I had once meant better than that, and I am come back to my old intention. I thought that I could hardly secure myself in it better, Fred, than by telling you just what had gone on in me. And now, do you understand me? I want you to make the happiness of her life and your own, and if there is any chance that a word of warning from me may turn aside any risk to the contrary—well, I have uttered it.”
There was a drop in the Vicar’s voice when he spoke the last words. He paused—they were standing on a patch of green where the road diverged towards St Botolph’s, and he put out his hand, as if to imply that the conversation was closed. Fred was moved quite newly. Some one highly susceptible to the contemplation of a fine act has said, that it produces a sort of regenerating shudder through the frame, and makes one feel ready to begin a new life. A good degree of that effect was just then present in Fred Vincy.
“I will try to be worthy,” he said, breaking off before he could
