"I don't see that there's any money-getting without chance," said
Lydgate; "if a man gets it in a profession, it's pretty sure to come by
chance."
Mr. Farebrother thought he could account for this speech, in striking
contrast with Lydgate's former way of talking, as the perversity which
will often spring from the moodiness of a man ill at ease in his
affairs. He answered in a tone of good-humored admission--
"Ah, there's enormous patience wanted with the way of the world. But
it is the easier for a man to wait patiently when he has friends who
love him, and ask for nothing better than to help him through, so far
as it lies in their power."
"Oh yes," said Lydgate, in a careless tone, changing his attitude and
looking at his watch. "People make much more of their difficulties
than they need to do."
He knew as distinctly as possible that this was an offer of help to
himself from Mr. Farebrother, and he could not bear it. So strangely
determined are we mortals, that, after having been long gratified with
the sense that he had privately done the Vicar a service, the
suggestion that the Vicar discerned his need of a service in return
made him shrink into unconquerable reticence. Besides, behind all
making of such offers what else must come?--that he should "mention his
case," imply that he wanted specific things. At that moment, suicide
seemed easier.
Mr. Farebrother was too keen a man not to know the meaning of that
reply, and there was a certain massiveness in Lydgate's manner and
tone, corresponding with his physique, which if he repelled your
advances in the first instance seemed to put persuasive devices out of
question.
"What time are you?" said the Vicar, devouring his wounded feeling.
"After eleven," said Lydgate. And they went into the drawing-room.