KENELM CHILLINGLY drew a chair close to his antagonist’s,
and silently laid a hand on his.
Tom Bowles took up the hand in both his own, turned
it curiously towards the moonlight, gazed at it, poised
it, then with a sound between groan and laugh tossed
it away as a thing hostile but trivial, rose and locked
the door, came back to his seat and said bluffly,—
“What do you want with me now?”
“I want to ask you a favour.”
“Favour?”
“The greatest which man can ask from man,—friendship.
You see, my dear Tom,” continued Kenelm, making
himself quite at home, throwing his arm over the back
of Tom’s chair, and stretching his legs comfortably
as one does by one’s own fireside; “you
see, my dear Tom, that men like us—young,
single, not on the whole bad-looking as men go—can
find sweethearts in plenty. If one does not like
us, another will; sweethearts are sown everywhere
like nettles and thistles. But the rarest thing
in life is a friend. Now, tell me frankly, in
the course of your wanderings did you ever come into
a village where you could not have got a sweetheart
if you had asked for one; and if, having got a sweetheart,
you had lost her, do you think you would have had
any difficulty in finding another? But have you
such a thing in the world, beyond the pale of your
own family, as a true friend,—a man friend;
and supposing that you had such a friend,—a
friend who would stand by you through thick and thin;
who would tell you your faults to your face, and praise
you for your good qualities behind your back; who
would do all he could to save you from a danger, and
all he could to get you out of one,—supposing
you had such a friend and lost him, do you believe
that if you lived to the age of Methuselah you could
find another? You don’t answer me; you are
silent. Well, Tom, I ask you to be such a friend
to me, and I will be such a friend to you.”
Tom was so thoroughly “taken aback” by
this address that he remained dumfounded. But
he felt as if the clouds in his soul were breaking,
and a ray of sunlight were forcing its way through
the sullen darkness. At length, however, the
receding rage within him returned, though with vacillating
step, and he growled between his teeth,—
“A pretty friend indeed, robbing me of my girl!
Go along with you!”
“She was not your girl any more than she was
or ever can be mine.”
“What, you be n’t after her?”
“Certainly not; I am going to Luscombe, and
I ask you to come with me. Do you think I am
going to leave you here?”
“What is it to you?”
