The week before, he had written to Ferrier, imploring him if possible to
come and speak for him--or at least to write a letter; humbling his
pride; and giving elaborate explanations of the line which he had taken.
There, on the table beside him, was Ferrier's reply:
"My Dear Oliver,--I don't think a letter would do you much
good, and for a speech, I am too tired--and I am afraid at
the present moment too thin-skinned. Pray excuse me. We shall
meet when this hubbub is over. All success to you.
"Yours ever, J.F."
Was there ever a more ungracious, a more uncalled-for, letter? Well, at
any rate, he was free henceforward to think and act for himself, and on
public grounds only; though of course he would do nothing unworthy of an
old friendship, or calculated to hurt his mother's feelings. Ferrier, by
this letter, and by the strong negative influence he must have exerted
in West Brookshire during the election, had himself loosened the old
bond; and Marsham would henceforth stand on his own feet.
As to Ferrier's reasons for a course of action so wholly unlike any he
had ever yet taken in the case of Lucy Marsham's son, Oliver's thoughts
found themselves engaged in a sore and perpetual wrangle.
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