What Will He Do with It? — Complete

He broke the seal slowly; another letter was enclosed within. At the first few words his countenance changed; he uttered a slight exclamation, read on eagerly; then, before concluding his mother’s epistle, hastily tore open that which it had contained, ran his eye over its contents, and, dropping both letters on the turf below, rested his face on his hand in agitated thought. Thus ran his mother’s letter:

MY DEAR BOY,—How could you! Do it slyly!! Unknown to your own mother!! I could not believe it of you!!!! Take advantage of my confidence in showing you the letters of your father’s cousin, to write to himself—clandestinely!—you, who I thought had such an open character, and who ought to appreciate mine. Every one who knows me says I am a woman in ten thousand,—not for beauty and talent (though I have had my admirers for them too), but for GOODNESS I As a wife and mother, I may say I have been exemplary. I had sore trials with the dear captain—and IMMENSE temptations. But he said on his death-bed, “Jessica, you are an angel.” And I have had offers since,—IMMENSE offers,—but I devoted myself to my child, as you know. And what I have put up with, letting the first floor, nobody can tell; and only a widow’s pension,—going before a magistrate to get it paid! And to think my own child, for whom I have borne so much, should behave so cruelly to me! Clandestine! that is that which stabs me. Mrs. Inman found me crying, and said, “What is the matter?—you who are such an angel, crying like a baby!” And I could not help saying, “‘T is the serpent’s tooth, Mrs. L” What you wrote to your benefactor (and I had hoped patron) I don’t care to guess; something very rude and imprudent it must be, judging by the few lines he addressed to me. I don’t mind copying them for you to read. All my acts are aboveboard, as often and often Captain H. used to say, “Your heart is in a glass case, Jessica;” and so it is! but my son keeps his under lock and key.

“Madam [this is what he writes to me], your son has thought fit to infringe the condition upon which I agreed to assist you on his behalf. I enclose a reply to himself, which I beg you will give to his own hands without breaking the seal. Since it did not seem to you indiscreet to communicate to a boy of his years letters written solely to yourself, you cannot blame me if I take your implied estimate of his capacity to judge for himself of the nature of a correspondence, and of the views and temper of, madam, your very obedient servant.” And that’s all to me.

I send his letter to you,—seal unbroken. I conclude he has done with you forever, and your CAREER is lost! But if it be so, oh, my poor, poor child I at that thought I have not the heart to scold you further. If it be so, come home to me, and I ‘ll work and slave for you, and you shall keep up your head and be a gentleman still, as you are, every inch of you. Don’t mind what I’ve said at the beginning, dear: don’t you know I’m hasty; and I was hurt. But you could not mean to be sly and underhand: ‘twas only your high spirit, and it was my fault; I should not have shown you the letters. I hope you are well, and have quite lost that nasty cough, and that Mr. Vance treats you with proper respect. I think him rather too pushing and familiar, though a pleasant young man on the whole. But, after all, he is only a painter Bless you, my child, and don’t have secrets again from your poor mother.

    JESSICA HAUGHTON.

The enclosed letter was as follows:—

LIONEL HAUGHTON,—Some men might be displeased at receiving such a letter as you have addressed to me; I am not. At your years, and under the same circumstances, I might have written a letter much in the same spirit. Relieve your mind: as yet you owe me no obligations; you have only received back a debt due to you. My father was poor; your grandfather, Robert Haughton, assisted him in the cost of my education. I have assisted your father’s son; we are quits. Before, however, we decide on having done with each other for the future, I suggest to you to pay me a short visit. Probably I shall not like you, nor you me. But we are both gentlemen, and need not show dislike too coarsely. If you decide on coming, come at once, or possibly you may not find me here. If you refuse, I shall have a poor opinion of your sense and temper, and in a week I shall have forgotten your existence. I ought to add that your father and I were once warm friends, and that by descent I am the head not only of my own race, which ends with me, but of the Haughton family, of which, though your line assumed the name, it was but a younger branch. Nowadays young men are probably not brought up to care for these things: I was. Yours,

    GUY HAUGHTON DARRELL.
    MANOR HOUSE, FAWLEY.

Sophy picked up the fallen letters, placed them on Lionel’s lap, and looked into his face wistfully. He smiled, resumed his mother’s epistle, and read the concluding passages, which he had before omitted. Their sudden turn from reproof to tenderness melted him. He began to feel that his mother had a right to blame him for an act of concealment. Still she never would have consented to his writing such a letter; and had that letter been attended with so ill a result? Again he read Mr. Darrell’s blunt but not offensive lines. His pride was soothed: why should he not now love his father’s friend? He rose briskly, paid for the fruit, and went his way back to the boat with Sophy. As his oars cut the wave he talked gayly, but he ceased to interrogate Sophy on her past. Energetic, sanguine, ambitious, his own future entered now into his thoughts. Still, when the sun sank as the inn came partially into view from the winding of the banks and the fringe of the willows, his mind again settled on the patient, quiet little girl, who had not ventured to ask him one question in return for all he had put so unceremoniously to her. Indeed, she was silently musing over words he had inconsiderately let fall,—“What I hate to think you had ever stooped to perform.” Little could Lionel guess the unquiet thoughts which those words might hereafter call forth from the brooding deepening meditations of lonely childhood! At length said the boy abruptly, as he had said once before,

“I wish, Sophy, you were my sister.” He added in a saddened tone, “I never had a sister: I have so longed for one! However, surely we shall meet again. You go to-morrow so must I.”

Sophy’s tears flowed softly, noiselessly.

“Cheer up, lady-bird, I wish you liked me half as much as I like you!”

“I do like you: oh, so much!” cried Soppy, passionately. “Well, then, you can write, you say?”

“A little.”

“You shall write to me now and then, and I to you. I’ll talk to your grandfather about it. Ah, there he is, surely!” The boat now ran into the shelving creek, and by the honeysuckle arbour stood Gentleman Waife, leaning on his stick.

“You are late,” said the actor, as they landed, and Sophy sprang into his arms. “I began to be uneasy, and came here to inquire after you. You have not caught cold, child?”

SOPHY.—“Oh, no.”

LIONEL.—“She is the best of children. Pray, come into the inn, Mr. Waife; no toddy, but some refreshment.”

WAIFE.—“I thank you,—no, sir; I wish to get home at once. I walk slowly; it will be dark soon.”

Lionel tried in vain to detain him. There was a certain change in Mr. Waife’s manner to him: it was much more distant; it was even pettish, if not surly. Lionel could not account for it; thought it mere whim at first: but as he walked part of the way back with them towards the village, this asperity continued, nay increased. Lionel was hurt; he arrested his steps.

“I see you wish to have your grandchild to yourself now. May I call early to-morrow? Sophy will tell you that I hope we may not altogether lose sight of each other. I will give you my address when I call.”

“What time to-morrow, sir?”

“About nine.”

Waife bowed his head and walked on, but Sophy looked back towards her boy friend, sorrowfully, gratefully; twilight in the skies that had been so sunny,—twilight in her face that had been so glad! She looked back once, twice, thrice, as Lionel halted on the road and kissed his hand. The third time Waife said with unwonted crossness,—

“Enough of that, Sophy; looking after young men is not proper! What does he mean about ‘seeing each other, and giving me his address’?”

“He wished me to write to him sometimes and he would write to me.”

Waife’s brow contracted; but if, in the excess of grandfatherly caution, he could have supposed that the bright-hearted boy of seventeen meditated ulterior ill to that fairy child in such a scheme for correspondence, he must have been in his dotage, and he had not hitherto evinced any signs of that.

Farewell, pretty Sophy! the evening star shines upon yon elm-tree that hides thee from view. Fading-fading grows the summer landscape; faded already from the landscape thy gentle image! So ends a holiday in life. Hallow it, Sophy; hallow it, Lionel! Life’s holidays are not too many!

CHAPTER XVII

By this chapter it appeareth that he who sets out on a career can scarcely expect to walk in perfect comfort, if he exchanges his own thick-soled shoes for dress-boots which were made for another man’s measure, and that the said boots may not the less pinch for being brilliantly varnished.—It also showeth, for the instruction of Men and States, the connection between democratic opinion and wounded self-love; so that, if some Liberal statesman desire to rouse against an aristocracy the class just below it, he has only to persuade a fine lady to be exceedingly civil “to that sort of people.”

Vance, returning late at night, found his friend still up in the little parlour, the windows open, pacing the floor with restless strides, stopping now and then to look at the moon upon the river.

“Such a day as I have had! and twelve shillings for the fly, ‘pikes not included,” said Vance, much out of humour—

“‘I fly from plate, I fly from pomp,

I fly from falsehood’s specious grin;’ I forget the third line. I know the last is—”

‘To find my welcome at an inn.’

You are silent: I annoyed you by going—could not help it—pity me, and lock up your pride.”

“No, my dear Vance, I was hurt for a moment, but that’s long since over!”

“Still you seem to have something on your mind,” said Vance, who had now finished reading his letters, lighted his cigar, and was leaning against the window as the boy continued to walk to and fro.

“That is true: I have. I should like your advice. Read that letter. Ought I to go? Would it look mercenary, grasping? You know what I mean.”

Vance approached the candles and took the letter. He glanced first at the signature. “Darrell,” he exclaimed. “Oh, it is so, then!” He read with great attention, put down the letter, and shook Lionel by the hand. “I congratulate you: all is settled as it should be. Go? of course: you would be an ill-mannered lout if you did not. Is it far from hence must you return to town first?”

LIONEL.—“No, I find I can get across the country,—two hours by the railway. There is a station at the town which bears the post-mark of the letter. I shall make for that, if you advise it.”

“You knew I should advise it, or you would not have tortured your intellect by those researches into Bradshaw.”

“Shrewdly said,” answered Lionel, laughing; “but I wished for your sanction of my crude impressions.”

“You never told me your cousin’s name was Darrell: not that I should have been much wiser if you had; but, thunder and lightning, Lionel! do you know that your cousin Darrell is a famous man?”

LIONEL.—“Famous!—Nonsense. I suppose he was a good lawyer, for I have heard my mother say, with a sort of contempt, that he had made a great fortune at the bar.”

VANCE.—“But he was in Parliament.”

LIONEL.—“Was he? I did not know.”

VANCE.—“And this is senatorial fame! You never heard your schoolfellows talk of Mr. Darrell?—they would not have known his name if you had boasted of it?”

LIONEL.—“Certainly not.”