Poor Jock, who, whatever he was, was real in all his ways, and could
not lead a double life, as his friend too often did, read and tried
to fulfil the injunctions of the book, but only became more confused
and unhappy than ever. Yet still he held on, in a blind sort of way,
to his resolution. He had undertaken to be good, he meant therefore
to communicate, and he believed he repented, and would lead a new
life—-if—-if he could bear it.
His next confidence was—-
"I say, Cecil, can you get me some writing things? We-—at least I—-
ought to write and tell my tutor that I am sorry about that supper."
"Well, he was rather a beast."
"I think," said Jock, who had the most capacity for seeing things
from other people's point of view, "we did enough to put him in a
wax. It was more through me than any one else, and I shall write at
once, and get it off my mind before to-morrow."
"Very well. If you'll write, I'll sign," said Cecil. "Mother said I
ought when I saw her in London, but she didn't order me. She said
she left it to my proper feeling."
"And you hadn't any?"
"I was going to stick by you," said Cecil, rather sulkily; on which
Jock rewarded him with something sounding like—-
"What a donkey you can be!"
However, with many writhings and gruntings the letter was indited,
and Jock was as much wearied out as if he had taken a long walk, so
that his mother feared that Engelberg was going to disagree with him.
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