What Will He Do with It? — Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

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СКАЧАТЬ Vance would enjoy this!” cried Lionel. “It would come into a picture even better than the Thames.”

      “Vance? who is Vance?”

      “The artist,—a great friend of mine. Surely, sir, you have heard of him or seen his pictures!”

      “Himself and his pictures are since my time. Days tread down days for the recluse, and he forgets that celebrities rise with their suns, to wane with their moons,

                “‘Truditur dies die,

           Novaeque pergunt interire lunae’”

      “All suns do not set; all moons do not wane!” cried Lionel, with blunt enthusiasm. “When Horace speaks elsewhere of the Julian star, he compares it to a moon—‘inter ignes minores’—and surely Fame is not among the orbs which ‘pergunt interire,’—hasten on to perish!”

      “I am glad to see that you retain your recollections of Horace,” said Mr. Darrell, frigidly, and without continuing the allusion to celebrities; “the most charming of all poets to a man of my years, and” (he very dryly added) “the most useful for popular quotation to men at any age.”

      Then sauntering forth carelessly, he descended the sloping turf, came to the water-side, and threw himself at length on the grass: the wild thyme which he crushed sent up its bruised fragrance. There, resting his face on his hand, Darrell gazed along the water in abstracted silence. Lionel felt that he was forgotten; but he was not hurt. By this time a strong and admiring interest for his cousin had sprung up within his breast: he would have found it difficult to explain why. But whosoever at that moment could have seen Guy Darrell’s musing countenance, or whosoever, a few minutes before, could have heard the very sound of his voice, sweetly, clearly full; each slow enunciation unaffectedly, mellowly distinct,—making musical the homeliest; roughest word, would have understood and shared the interest which Lionel could not explain. There are living human faces, which, independently of mere physical beauty, charm and enthrall us more than the most perfect lineaments which Greek sculptor ever lent to a marble face; there are key-notes in the thrilling human voice, simply uttered, which can haunt the heart, rouse the passions, lull rampant multitudes, shake into dust the thrones of guarded kings, and effect more wonders than ever yet have been wrought by the most artful chorus or the deftest quill.

      In a few minutes the swans from the farther end of the water came sailing swiftly towards the bank on which Darrell reclined. He had evidently made friends with them, and they rested their white breasts close on the margin, seeking to claim his notice with a low hissing salutation, which, it is to be hoped, they changed for something less sibilant in that famous song with which they depart this life.

      Darrell looked up. “They come to be fed,” said he, “smooth emblems of the great social union. Affection is the offspring of utility. I am useful to them: they love me.” He rose, uncovered, and bowed to the birds in mock courtesy: “Friends, I have no bread to give you.”

      LIONEL.—“Let me run in for some. I would be useful too.”

      MR. DARRELL.—“Rival!—useful to my swans?”

      LIONEL (tenderly).—“Or to you, sir.”

      He felt as if he had said too much, and without waiting for permission, ran indoors to find some one whom he could ask for the bread.

      “Sonless, childless, hopeless, objectless!” said Darrell, murmuringly to himself, and sank again into revery.

      By the time Lionel returned with the bread, another petted friend had joined the master. A tame doe had caught sight of him from her covert far away, came in light bounds to his side, and was pushing her delicate nostril into his drooping hand. At the sound of Lionel’s hurried step, she took flight, trotted off a few paces, then turned, looking.

      “I did not know you had deer here.”

      “Deer!—in this little paddock!—of course not; only that doe. Fairthorn introduced her here. By the by,” continued Darrell, who was now throwing the bread to the swans, and had resumed his careless, unmeditative manner, “you were not aware that I have a brother hermit,—a companion be sides the swans and the doe. Dick Fairthorn is a year or two younger than myself, the son of my father’s bailiff. He was the cleverest boy at his grammar-school. Unluckily he took to the flute, and unfitted himself for the present century. He condescends, however, to act as my secretary,—a fair classical scholar, plays chess, is useful to me,—I am useful to him. We have an affection for each other. I never forgive any one who laughs at him. The half-hour bell, and you will meet him at dinner. Shall we come in and dress?”

      They entered the house; the same man-servant was in attendance in the hall. “Show Mr. Haughton to his room.” Darrell inclined his head—I use that phrase, for the gesture was neither bow nor nod—turned down a narrow passage and disappeared.

      Led up an uneven staircase of oak, black as ebony, with huge balustrades, and newel-posts supporting clumsy balls, Lionel was conducted to a small chamber, modernized a century ago by a faded Chinese paper, and a mahogany bedstead, which took up three-fourths of the space, and was crested with dingy plumes, that gave it the cheerful look of a hearse; and there the attendant said, “Have you the key of your knapsack, sir? shall I put out your things to dress?” Dress! Then for the first time the boy remembered that he had brought with him no evening dress,—nay, evening dress, properly so called, he possessed not at all in any corner of the world. It had never yet entered into his modes of existence. Call to mind when you were a boy of seventeen, “betwixt two ages hovering like a star,” and imagine Lionel’s sensations. He felt his cheek burn as if he had been detected in a crime. “I have no dress things,” he said piteously; “only a change of linen, and this,” glancing at the summer jacket. The servant was evidently a most gentleman-like man: his native sphere that of groom of the chambers. “I will mention it to Mr. Darrell; and if you will favour me with your address in London, I will send to telegraph for what you want against to-morrow.”

      “Many thanks,” answered Lionel, recovering his presence of mind; “I will speak to Mr. Darrell myself.”

      “There is the hot water, sir; that is the bell. I have the honour to be placed at your commands.” The door closed, and Lionel unlocked his knapsack; other trousers, other waistcoat had he,—those worn at the fair, and once white. Alas! they had not since then passed to the care of the laundress. Other shoes,—double-soled for walking. There was no help for it but to appear at dinner, attired as he had been before, in his light pedestrian jacket, morning waistcoat flowered with sprigs, and a fawn-coloured nether man. Could it signify much,—only two men? Could the grave Mr. Darrell regard such trifles?—Yes, if they intimated want of due respect.

             “Durum! sed fit levius Patientia

              Quicquid corrigere est nefas.”

      On descending the stairs, the same high-bred domestic was in waiting to show him into the library. Mr. Darrell was there already, in the simple but punctilious costume of a gentleman who retains in seclusion the habits customary in the world. At the first glance Lionel thought he saw a slight cloud of displeasure on his host’s brow. He went up to Mr. Darrell ingenuously, and apologized for the deficiencies of his itinerant wardrobe. “Say the truth,” said his host; “you thought you were coming to an old churl, with whom ceremony was misplaced.”

      “Indeed no!” exclaimed Lionel. “But—but I have so lately left school.”

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