What Will He Do with It? — Complete

“Oh, sir, ‘t is all one if you know the squire. You may be passing this way again.”

“I shall not forget my debt when I do, you may be sure,” said the stranger; and, with a nod, he walked away in the same direction as Darrell and Lionel had already taken, through a turnstile by a public path that, skirting the churchyard and the neighbouring parsonage, led along a cornfield to the demesnes of Fawley.

The path was narrow, the corn rising on either side, so that two persons could not well walk abreast. Lionel was some paces in advance, Darrell walking slow. The stranger followed at a distance: once or twice he quickened his pace, is if resolved to overtake Darrell; then apparently his mind misgave him, and he again fell back.

There was something furtive and sinister about the man. Little could be seen of his face, for he wore a large hat of foreign make, slouched deep over his brow, and his lips and jaw were concealed by a dark and full mustache and beard. As much of the general outline of the countenance as remained distinguishable was nevertheless decidedly handsome; but a complexion naturally rich in colour seemed to have gained the heated look which comes with the earlier habits of intemperance before it fades into the leaden hues of the later.

His dress bespoke pretension to a certain rank: but its component parts were strangely ill-assorted, out of date, and out of repair; pearl-coloured trousers, with silk braids down their sides; brodequins to match,—Parisian fashion three years back, but the trousers shabby, the braiding discoloured, the brodequins in holes. The coat-once a black evening dress-coat—of a cut a year or two anterior to that of the trousers; satin facing,-cloth napless, satin stained. Over all, a sort of summer travelling-cloak, or rather large cape of a waterproof silk, once the extreme mode with the lions of the Chaussee d’Autin whenever they ventured to rove to Swiss cantons or German spas; but which, from a certain dainty effeminacy in its shape and texture, required the minutest elegance in the general costume of its wearer as well as the cleanliest purity in itself. Worn by this traveller, and well-nigh worn out too, the cape became a finery mournful as a tattered pennon over a wreck.

Yet in spite of this dress, however unbecoming, shabby, obsolete, a second glance could scarcely fail to note the wearer as a man wonderfully well-shaped,—tall, slender in the waist, long of limb, but with a girth of chest that showed immense power; one of those rare figures that a female eye would admire for grace, a recruiting sergeant for athletic strength.

But still the man’s whole bearing and aspect, even apart from the dismal incongruities of his attire, which gave him the air of a beggared spendthrift, marred the favourable effect that physical comeliness in itself produces. Difficult to describe how,—difficult to say why,—but there is a look which a man gets, and a gait which he contracts when the rest of mankind cut him; and this man had that look and that gait.

“So, so,” muttered the stranger. “That boy his heir? so, so. How can I get to speak to him? In his own house he would not see me: it must be as now, in the open air; but how catch him alone? and to lurk in the inn, in his own village,—perhaps for a day,—to watch an occasion; impossible! Besides, where is the money for it? Courage, courage!” He quickened his pace, pushed back his hat. “Courage! Why not now? Now or never!”

While the man thus mutteringly soliloquized, Lionel had reached the gate which opened into the grounds of Fawley, just in the rear of the little lake. Over the gate he swung himself lightly, and, turning back to Darrell cried, “Here is the doe waiting to welcome you.”

Just as Darrell, scarcely heeding the exclamation, and with his musing eyes on the ground, approached the gate, a respectful hand opened it wide, a submissive head bowed low, a voice artificially soft faltered forth words, broken and, indistinct, but of which those most audible were—“Pardon, me; something to communicate,—important; hear me.”

Darrell started, just as the traveller almost touched him, started, recoiled, as one on whose path rises a wild beast. His bended head became erect, haughty, indignant, defying; but his cheek was pale, and his lip quivered. “You here! You in England-at Fawley! You presume to accost me! You, sir,—you!”

Lionel just caught the sound of the voice as the doe had come timidly up to him. He turned round sharply, and beheld Darrell’s stern, imperious countenance, on which, stern and imperious though it was, a hasty glance could discover, at once, a surprise that almost bordered upon fear. Of the stranger still holding the gate he saw but the back, and his voice he did not hear, though by the man’s gesture he was evidently replying. Lionel paused a moment irresolute; but as the man continued to speak, he saw Darrell’s face grow paler and paler, and in the impulse of a vague alarm he hastened towards him; but just within three feet of the spot, Darrell arrested his steps.

“Go home, Lionel; this person would speak to me in private.” Then, in a lower tone, he said to the stranger, “Close the gate, sir; you are standing upon the land of my fathers. If you would speak with me, this way;” and, brushing through the corn, Darrell strode towards a patch of waste land that adjoined the field: the man followed him, and both passed from Lionel’s eyes. The doe had come to the gate to greet her master; she now rested her nostrils on the bar, with a look disappointed and plaintive.

“Come,” said Lionel, “come.” The doe would not stir.

So the boy walked on alone, not much occupied with what had just passed. “Doubtless,” thought he, “some person in the neighbourhood upon country business.”

He skirted the lake, and seated himself on a garden bench near the house. What did he there think of?—who knows? Perhaps of the Great World; perhaps of little Sophy! Time fled on: the sun was receding in the west when Darrell hurried past him without speaking, and entered the house.

The host did not appear at dinner, nor all that evening. Mr. Mills made an excuse: Mr. Darrell did not feel very well.

Fairthorn had Lionel all to himself, and having within the last few days reindulged in open cordiality to the young guest, he was especially communicative that evening. He talked much on Darrell, and with all the affection that, in spite of his fear, the poor flute-player felt for his ungracious patron. He told many anecdotes of the stern man’s tender kindness to all that came within its sphere. He told also anecdotes more striking of the kind man’s sternness where some obstinate prejudice, some ruling passion, made him “granite.”

“Lord, my dear young sir,” said Fairthorn, “be his most bitter open enemy, and fall down in the mire, the first hand to help you would be Guy Darrell’s; but be his professed friend, and betray him to the worth of a straw, and never try to see his face again if you are wise,—the most forgiving and the least forgiving of human beings. But—”

The study door noiselessly opened, and Darrell’s voice called out, “Fairthorn, let me speak with you.”

CHAPTER XV

Every street has two sides, the shady side and the sunny. When two men shake hands and part, mark which of the two takes the sunny side: he will be the younger man of the two.

The next morning, neither Darrell nor Fairthorn appeared at breakfast; but as soon as Lionel had concluded that meal, Mr. Mills informed him, with customary politeness, that Mr. Darrell wished to speak with him in the study. Study, across the threshold of which Lionel had never yet set footstep! He entered it now with a sentiment of mingled curiosity and awe. Nothing in it remarkable, save the portrait of the host’s father over the mantelpiece. Books strewed tables, chairs, and floors in the disorder loved by habitual students. Near the window was a glass bowl containing gold-fish, and close by, in its cage, a singing-bird. Darrell might exist without companionship in the human species, but not without something which he protected and cherished,—a bird, even a fish.

Darrell looked really ill: his keen eye was almost dim, and the lines in his face seemed deeper. But he spoke with his usual calm, passionless melody of voice.

“Yes,” he said, in answer to Lionel’s really anxious inquiry; “I am ill. Idle persons like me give way to illness. When I was a busy man, I never did; and then illness gave way to me. My general plans are thus, if not actually altered, at least hurried to their consummation sooner than I expected. Before you came here, I told you to come soon, or you might not find me. I meant to go abroad this summer; I shall now start at once. I need the change of scene and air. You will return to London to-day.”

“To-day! You are not angry with me?”

“Angry! boy and cousin—no!” resumed Darrell, in a tone of unusual tenderness. “Angry-fie! But since the parting must be, ‘t is well to abridge the pain of long farewell. You must wish, too, to see your mother, and thank her for rearing you up so that you may step from poverty into ease with a head erect. You will give to Mrs. Haughton this letter: for yourself, your inclinations seem to tend towards the army. But before you decide on that career, I should like you to see something more of the world. Call to-morrow on Colonel Morley, in Curzon Street: this is his address. He will receive by to-day’s post a note from me, requesting him to advise you. Follow his counsels in what belongs to the world. He is a man of the world,—a distant connection of mine, who will be kind to you for my sake. Is there more to say? Yes. It seems an ungracious speech; but I should speak it. Consider yourself sure from me of an independent income. Never let idle sycophants lead you into extravagance by telling you that you will have more. But indulge not the expectation, however plausible, that you will be my heir.”

“Mr. Darrell—oh, sir—”

“Hush! the expectation would be reasonable; but I am a strange being. I might marry again,—have heirs of my own. Eh, sir,—Oh why not?” Darrell spoke these last words almost fiercely, and fixed his eyes on Lionel as he repeated,—“Why not?” But seeing that the boy’s face evinced no surprise, the expression of his own relaxed, and he continued calmly,—“Enough; what I have thus rudely said was kindly meant. It is a treason to a young man to let him count on a fortune which at last is left away from him. Now, Lionel, go; enjoy your spring of life! Go, hopeful and light-hearted. If sorrow reach you, battle with it; if error mislead you, come fearlessly to me for counsel. Why, boy, what is this?—tears? Tut, tut.”

“It is your goodness,” faltered Lionel. “I cannot help it. And is there nothing I can do for you in return?”

“Yes, much. Keep your name free from stain, and your heart open to such noble emotions as awaken tears like those. Ah, by the by, I heard from my lawyer to-day about your poor little protegee. Not found yet, but he seems sanguine of quick success. You shall know the moment I hear more.”

“You will write to me, then, sir, and I may write to you?”

“As often as you please. Always direct to me here.”

“Shall you be long abroad?”

Darrell’s brows met. “I don’t know,” said he, curtly. “Adieu.”

He opened the door as he spoke.

Lionel looked at him with wistful yearning, filial affection, through his swimming eyes. “God bless you, sir,” he murmured simply, and passed away.

“That blessing should have come from me!” said Darrell to himself, as he turned back, and stood on his solitary hearth. “But they on whose heads I once poured a blessing, where are they,—where? And that man’s tale, reviving the audacious fable which the other, and I verily believe the less guilty knave of the two, sought to palm on me years ago! Stop; let me weigh well what he said. If it were true! Oh, shame, shame!”

Folding his arms tightly on his breast, Darrell paced the room with slow, measured strides, pondering deeply. He was, indeed, seeking to suppress feeling, and to exercise only judgment; and his reasoning process seemed at length fully to satisfy him, for his countenance gradually cleared, and a triumphant smile passed across it. “A lie,—certainly a palpable and gross lie; lie it must and shall be. Never will I accept it as truth. Father” (looking full at the portrait over the mantel-shelf), “Father, fear not—never—never!”

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

Certes, the lizard is a shy and timorous creature. He runs into chinks and crannies if you come too near to him, and sheds his very tail for fear, if you catch it by the tip. He has not his being in good society: no one cages him, no one pets. He is an idle vagrant.

But when he steals through the green herbage, and basks unmolested in the sun, he crowds perhaps as much enjoyment into one summer hour as a parrot, however pampered and erudite, spreads over a whole drawing-room life spent in saying “How dye do” and “Pretty Poll.”

ON that dull and sombre summer morning in which the grandfather and grandchild departed from the friendly roof of Mr. Merle, very dull and very sombre were the thoughts of little Sophy. She walked slowly behind the gray cripple, who had need to lean so heavily on his staff, and her eye had not even a smile for the golden buttercups that glittered on dewy meads alongside the barren road.

Thus had they proceeded apart and silent till they had passed the second milestone. There, Waife, rousing from his own reveries, which were perhaps yet more dreary than those of the dejected child, halted abruptly, passed his hand once or twice rapidly over his forehead, and, turning round to Sophy, looked into her face with great kindness as she came slowly to his side.

“You are sad, little one?” said he.

“Very sad, Grandy.”

“And displeased with me? Yes, displeased that I have taken you suddenly away from the pretty young gentleman, who was so kind to you, without encouraging the chance that you were to meet with him again.”

“It was not like you, Grandy,” answered Sophy; and her under-lip slightly pouted, while the big tears swelled to her eye.

“True,” said the vagabond; “anything resembling common-sense is not like me. But don’t you think that I did what I felt was best for you? Must I not have some good cause for it, whenever I have the heart deliberately to vex you?”