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 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. NEW YORK 
 

 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 <f. 
 
 B¥ PISISTRATUS CAXTON. 
 
 % Kouel. 
 
 BY SIR E, BBIWER LYTTON BART. 
 
 AUTHOE OF 
 
 »MY NOVEL; o«, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE," "THE CAXTONS," "PELHAM," 
 "NIGHT AND MORNING," "THE LAST OF THE BARONS," &c., &c. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FBANKLIN SQUARE. 
 
 1859. 
 

 ^s 
 
¥HAT ¥ILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 BOOK I, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In which the Ilistory opens with a description of the So- 
 cial Manners, Habits, and Amusemonts of tlie English 
 People, as exhibited in an immemorial National Fes- 
 tivity. — Characters to be commemorated in the Histo- 
 ry introduced and graphically portrayed, with a naso- 
 logical illnstration. — Original suggestions as to the 
 idiosyncracies engendered by trades and callings, with 
 other matters worthy of note, conveyed in artless dia- 
 logue, after the manner of Herodotus, Father of His- 
 tory (Motlier unknown). 
 
 It was a summer Fair in one of tlie prettiest 
 villages in Surrey. The main street was lined 
 with booths abounding in toys, gleaming crock- 
 ery, gay ribbons, and gilded gingerbread. Far- 
 tiier on, where the street widened into the am- 
 ple village -green, rose the more pretending fab- 
 rics which lodged the attractive forms of the Mer- j 
 maid, the Norfolk Giant, the Pig- faced Lady, 
 the Spotted Boy, and the Calf with Two Heads ; ' 
 while high over even these edifices, and oc- | 
 cupying the most conspicuous vantage-ground, 
 a lofty stage promised to rural play-goers the 
 " Grand Melodramatic Performance of Tlic ^ 
 Remorseless Baron and the Bandit's Child." ^ 
 Music, lively if artless, resounded on eveiy side ; 
 drums, fifes, penny-whistles, cat-calls, and a l 
 hand-organ played by a dark foreigner, from the 
 height of whose shoulder a cynical but observant 
 monkey eyed the hubbub and cracked his nuts. 
 
 It was now sunset — the throng at the fidlest — | 
 an animated, joyotis scene. The day had been I 
 sultry ; no clouds were to be seen, except low I 
 on the western horizon, where they stretched, in i 
 lengthened ridges of gold and puqile, like the 
 border-land between earth and sky. The tall 
 elms on the green were still, save, near the great 
 stage, one or two, upon which young urchins had ! 
 climbed ; and their laughing faces peered forth, ' 
 here and there, from the foliage trembling un- 
 der their restless movements. 
 
 Amidst the crowd, as it streamed sauntering- 
 ly along, were two spectators — strangers to the 
 place, as was notably proved by the attention 
 they excited, and the broad jokes their dress 
 and appearance provoked from the rustic wits 
 — jokes which they took with amused good-hu- 
 mor, and sometimes retaliated with a zest wiiicli 
 had already made them very popular personages ; 
 indeed, there was that about tliem which projii- 
 tiated liking. They were young, and the fresh- 
 ness of enjoyment was so visible in their faces 
 that it begot a sympathy, and wherever they went 
 other faces brightened round them. 
 
 One of the two whom we have thus individu- 
 alized was of that enviable age, ranging from 
 five-and-twenty to seven-and-tweuty, in which, 
 if a man can not contrive to make life very 
 
 j)leasant — pitiable, indeed, must be tne state of 
 his digestive organs. But you might see by this 
 gentleman's countenance, that if there were 
 many like him, it would be a worse world for 
 the doctors. His cheek, though not highly-col- 
 ored, was yet ruddy and clear; his hazel eyes 
 were lively and keen ; his hair, which escaped 
 in loose clusters from a jean shooting-cap set 
 jauntily on aAvell-shaped head, was of that deep 
 sunny auburn rarely seen but in ])ersons of vig- 
 orous and hardy temperament. He was good- 
 looking on the whole, and would have deserved 
 t]ie more flattering epithet of handsome, but for 
 his nose, which was what the French call "a 
 nose in the air" — not a nose supercilious, not a 
 nose provocative, as such noses mostly are, but 
 a nose decidedly in earnest to make the best 
 of itself and of things in general — a nose that 
 would push its way up in life, but so jjleasantly 
 that the most irritable fingers would never itch 
 to lay hold of it. With such a nose a man might 
 play the violoncello, marry for love, or even write 
 ])oetry, and yet not go to the dogs. Never would 
 he stick in the mud so long as he followed that 
 nose in the air I 
 
 By the help of that nose this gentleman wore 
 a black velveteen jacket of foreign cut ; a mus- 
 tache and imjjerial (then much rarer in England 
 than they have been since the siege of Sebasto- 
 pol) ; and yet left you perfectly convinced that 
 he was an honest Englishman, wlio had not only 
 no designs on your pocket, but would not be eas- 
 ily duped by any designs upon his omi. 
 
 The companion of the personage thus sketch- 
 ed might be somewhere about seventeen ; but 
 his gait, his air, his lithe, vigorous frame, showed 
 a manliness at variance with the boyish bloom 
 of his face. He struck the eye much more than 
 his elder comrade. Not that he was regularly 
 handsome — far from it ; yet it is no paradox to 
 say that he was beautiful — at least, few indeed 
 were the women who would not have called him 
 so. His hair, long like his friend's, was of a 
 dark chestnut, with gold gleaming through it 
 where the sun fell, iuGlining to curl, and singu- 
 larly soft and silken in its texture. His largo, 
 clear, dark-blue, hap])y eyes were fringed with 
 long ebon lashes, and set under brows which al- 
 ready wore the expression of intellectual power, 
 and, better still, of frank courage and open loy- 
 alty. His complexion was fair, and somewhat 
 paie, and his lips in laugliing showed teeth ex- 
 quisitely white and even. But though his pro- 
 file was clearly cut, it was far from the Greek 
 ideal ; and he wanted tlie height of stature 
 whicli is usually considered essential to the per- 
 sonal'pretensious of the male sex. Without be- 
 
 K;i*2.'yRaH^ 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 ing positively short, he was still under middle 
 height, and, from the compact development of 
 his jjroportions, seemed already to have attained 
 liis full growth. His dress, though not foreign, 
 like his conn-ade's, was peculiar ; a broad-brim- 
 med straw-hat, with a wide blue ribbon ; shirt- 
 collar turned down, leaving the throat bare ; a 
 dark-green jacket of thinner material than cloth ; 
 whitetrowsers and waistcoat completed his cos- 
 tume. He looked like a mother's darling — per- 
 haps he was one. 
 
 Scratch across his back went one of those in- 
 genious mechanical contrivances familiarly in 
 vogue at fairs, which are designed to impress 
 upon the victim to whom they are applied the 
 pleasing conviction that his garment is rent in 
 twain. 
 
 The boy turned round so quickly that he 
 caught the arm of the offender — a pretty vil- 
 lage-girl, a year or two younger tlian himself. 
 "Found in the act, sentenced, ]ninished," cried 
 he, snatching a kiss, and receiving a gentle slap. 
 "And now, good for evil, here's a ribbon for 
 you — choose." 
 
 The girl slunk back shyly, but her companions 
 pushed her forward, and she ended by selecting 
 a cherry-colored ribbon, for which the boy paid 
 carelessly, while his elder and wiser friend look- 
 ed at him with grave, compassionate rebuke, 
 and grumbled out — " Dr. Franklin tells us that 
 once in his life he ])aid too dear for a whistle; 
 but then he was only seven years old, and a 
 whistle has its uses. But to pay such a price 
 for a scratchback ! Prodigal ! Come along !" 
 
 As the friends strolled on, naturally enough 
 all the young girls who wished for ribbons, and 
 were possessed of scratchbacks, followed in their 
 wake. Scratch went the instruments, but in 
 vain. 
 
 "Lasses," said the elder, turning sharply 
 upon them his nose in the air, "ribbons are 
 plentiful — shillings scarce ; and kisses, though 
 pleasant in private, are insipid in public. What, 
 still ! Beware ! know that, innocent as we seem, 
 we are women-eaters ; and if you follow us far- 
 ther, you are devoured !" So saying, he expand- 
 ed his jaws to a width so preternaturally large, 
 and exhibited a row of grinders so formidable, 
 that the girls fell back in consternation. The 
 friends turned down a narrow alley between 
 the booths, and though still pursued by some 
 advcntin'ous and mercenary spirits, were com- 
 paratively undisturbed as they threaded their 
 way along the back of the booths, and arrived 
 at last on the village-green, and in front of the 
 Great Stage. 
 
 " Oho, Lionel !" quoth the elder friend ; 
 "Thespian and classical — worth seeing, no 
 doubt." Then, turning to a grave cobbler in 
 leathern apron, who was regarding the dramatis 
 posonfe ranged in front of the curtain with sat- 
 urnine ii\terest, he said, "You seem attracted, 
 Sir ; you have probably already witnessed the 
 performance." 
 
 " Yes," returned the Cobbler ; " this is the 
 third day, and to-morrow's the last. I arn't 
 missed once yet, and I shan't miss ; but it arn't 
 what it was a while back." 
 
 " That is sad ; but then the same thing is said 
 of every thing by every body who has reached 
 your resjiectable age, friend. Summers and 
 Buns, stupid old watering-places, and pretty 
 
 young women * arn't what they were a while 
 back.' If men and things go on degenerating 
 in this way, our grandchildren will have a dull 
 time of it!" 
 
 The Cobbler eyed the young man, and nod- 
 ded, approvingly. He had sense enough to com- 
 prehend the ironical philosophy of the reply — 
 and our Cobbler loved talk out of the common 
 way. " You speaks truly and cleverly. Sir. But 
 if old folks do always say that things are worse 
 than they were, ben't there always summat in 
 what is always said ? I'm for the old times ; 
 my neighbor, Joe Spruce, is for the new, and 
 says we are all a-progressing. But he's a pink 
 — I'm a blue." 
 
 "You are a blue!" said the boy Lionel — "I 
 don't understand." 
 
 "Young 'un, I'm a Tory — that's blue; and 
 Spruce is a Had — that's pink! And, what is 
 more to the purpose, he is a tailor, and I'm a 
 cobbler." 
 
 "Aha!" said the elder, with much interest ; 
 " more to the purpose, is it? How so?" 
 
 The Cobbler put the forefinger of the right 
 hand on the foi'efinger of the left ; it is the ges- 
 ture of a man about to ratiocinate or demon- 
 strate — as Quintilian, in his remarks on the or- 
 atory of fingers, ])robably observes ; or, if he has 
 failed to do so, it is a blot on his essay. 
 
 "You see, Sir," quoth the Cobbler, "that a 
 man's business has a deal to do with his manner 
 of thinking. Every trade, I take it, has ideas 
 as belong to it. Butchers don't see life as bak- 
 ers do ; and if you talk to a dozen tallow-chand- 
 lers, then to a dozen blacksmiths, you will see 
 tallow-chandlers are peculiar, and blacksmiths, 
 too." 
 
 " You are a keen observer," said he of the 
 jean cap, admiringly ; "your remark is new to 
 me ; I dare say it is true." 
 
 "Course it is : and the stars have summat to 
 do with it ; for if they order a man's calling, it 
 stands to reason that they order a man's mind 
 to fit it. Now, a tailor sits on his board with 
 others, and is always a-talking with 'em, and 
 a-reading the news ; therefore he thinks, as his 
 fellows do, smart and sharp, bang up to the day, 
 but nothing 'riginal and all his own like. But 
 a cobbler," continued the man of leather, with 
 a majestic air, " sits by hisself, and talks with 
 hisseif ; and what he thinks gets into his head 
 without being put there by another man's 
 tongue." 
 
 "You enlighten me more and more," said 
 our friend with the nose in the air, bowing re- 
 spectfully. "A tailor is gregarious, a cobbler 
 solitary. The gregarious go with the future, 
 the solitary stick by the past. I understand 
 why you are a Tory, and perhaps a poet." 
 
 " Well, a bit of one," said the Cobbler, with 
 an iron smile. " And many's the cobbler who 
 is a poet — or discovers marbellous things in a 
 crystal — whereas a tailor, Sir" (spoken with 
 great contempt), " only sees the uiiper-leather 
 of the world's sole in a newspaper." 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted by a 
 sudden pressure of the crowd toward the thea- 
 tre ; the two young friends looked up, and saw- 
 that the new" object of attraction was a little 
 girl, who seemed scarcely ten years old, though 
 in truth she was about two years older. She 
 had just emerged from behind the curtain, 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 9 
 
 made her obeisance to the crowd, and was now 
 walking in front of the stage with tlie prettiest 
 possible air of infantine solemnity. " Toor lit- 
 tle thing!" said Lionel. "Poor little thing I" 
 said the Cobbler. And had you been there, ray 
 reader, ten to one but you would have said the 
 same. And yet she was attired in white satin, 
 with spangled flounce and a tinsel jacket ; and 
 she wore a wreath of flowers (to be sure, the 
 flowers were not real) on her long fair curls, 
 with gaudy bracelets (to be sure, the stones 
 were mock) on her slender arms. Still there 
 was something in her that all this finery could 
 not vulgarize ; and since it could not vulgarize, 
 you pitied her for it. She had one of those 
 charming faces that look straight into the hearts 
 of us all, young and old. And though she 
 seemed quite self-possessed, there was no ef- 
 frontery in her air, but the ease of a little lady, 
 with the simple unconsciousness of a c'.iild that 
 there was any thing in her situation to induce 
 you to sigh, " Poor thing !" 
 
 " You should sec her act, young gents," said 
 the Cobbler. '• She plays uncommon. But if 
 you had seen him as taught her — seen him a 
 year ago." 
 
 " Who's that ?" 
 
 " Waife, Sir. ilayhap you have heard speak 
 of Waife ?" 
 
 " I blush to say, no." 
 
 " Why, he might have made his fortune at 
 Common Garden ; but that's a long story. Poor 
 fellow I he's broke down now, anyhow. But 
 she takes care of him, little darling — God bless 
 thee !" And the Cobbler here exchanged a 
 smile and nod with the little girl, whose face 
 brightened A\hen she saw him amidst the 
 crowd. 
 
 " By the brush and pallet of Eafraellc," cried 
 the elder of the young men, " before I am 
 many hours older I must have that child's 
 kead I" 
 
 " Her head, man !" cried the Cobbler, aghast. 
 
 " In my sketch-book. You are a poet — I a 
 painter. You know the little girl ?" 
 
 " Don't I ! She and her grandfather lodge 
 with me — her gi-andfather — that's Waife — mar- 
 bellous man ! But they ill-uses him ; and if it 
 wasn't for her, he'd starve. He fed them all 
 once ; he can feed them no longer — he'd starve. 
 That's the world ; they use up a genus, and 
 when it falls on the road, push on ; that's what 
 Joe Spnice calls a-progressing. But there's the 
 drum ! they're a-going to act. Won't you look 
 in, gents?" 
 
 " Of course," cried Lionel, " of course. And, 
 hark ye, Vance, we'll toss up v.-hich shall be the 
 first to take that little girl's head." 
 
 "Murderer in eitlier sense of the word!" 
 said Vance, with a smile that would have be- 
 come Correggio if a tyro had offered to toss up 
 which should be the first to paint a cherub. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 The Historian takes a view of the British Stage as rep- 
 resented by the Irregular Drama, the Regular having 
 (ere the date of tlie events to which this narrative is re- 
 stricted) disappeared from the Vestiges of Creation. 
 
 TuEY entered the little theatre, and the Cob- 
 bler with them ; but the last retired modestly 
 
 to the threepenny row. The young gentlemen 
 were favored with reserved seats, price one shil- 
 ling. " Very dear," murmured Vance, as he 
 carefully buttoned the pocket to which he re- 
 stored a purse woven from links of steel, after 
 the fashion of chain mail. Ah, Mes.'iieurs and 
 Confreres, the dramatic authors, do not flatter 
 yourselves that we are about to give you a com- 
 placent triumph over the Grand Melodramc 
 of "The Remorseless Baron and tiic Bandit's 
 Child." We grant it was horrible rubbisli, re- 
 garded in an aesthetic point of view, but it was 
 mightily effective in the theatrical. Nobodj 
 yawned ; you did not even hear a cough, nor 
 the cry of that omnipresent baby who is always 
 sure to set up a Varjitus inr/ens, or unappeasable 
 wail, in tiic midmost interest of a classical five- 
 act piece, represented for the first time on the 
 metropolitan boards. Here the story rushed on 
 per fas aut nefas, and the audience went with 
 it. Certes, some man who understood the stage 
 must have put the incidents together, and then 
 left it to each illiterate histrio to find the words 
 — words, my dear confreres, signify so little in 
 an acting play. The movement is the thing. 
 Grand secret ' Analyze, practice it, and restore 
 to grateful stars that lost Pleiad, the British 
 Acting Drama. 
 
 Of course the Bandit was an ill-used and most 
 estimable man. He had some mysterious rights 
 to the Estate and Castle of the Remorseless 
 Baron. That titled usurper, therefore, did all 
 in his power to hunt the Bandit out in his fast- 
 nesses, and bring him to a bloody end. Here the 
 interest centred itself in the Bandit's child, who, 
 we need not say, was the little girl in the wreath 
 and spangles, styled in the playbill " Miss Juliet 
 Araminta Waife," and the incidents consisted 
 in her various devices to foil the pursuit of the 
 Baron and save her father. Some of these in- 
 cidents were indebted to the Comic Muse, and 
 kept the audience in a broad laugh. Her arch 
 playfulness here was requisite. AYith what vi- 
 vacity she duped the High Sheriff", who had the 
 commands of his king to take the Bandit alive 
 or dead, into the belief that the very Lawyer 
 employed by the Baron was the criminal in dis- 
 guise, and what pearly teeth she showed when 
 the lawyer was seized and gagged ; how dex- 
 terously she ascertained the weak point in the 
 character of the "King's Lieutenant" (jeunepre- 
 r/iie)-), who was deputed by his royal master to 
 aid the Remorseless Baron in trouncing the Ban- 
 dit ; how cunningly she learned that he was in 
 love with the Baron's ward (jeune amoreuse), 
 whom that unworthy noble intended to force 
 into a maiTiage with himself on account of her 
 fortune ; how prettily she passed notes to and 
 fro, the Lieutenant never suspecting that she 
 was the Bandit's child, and at last got the King's 
 soldier on her side, as the event proved. And 
 oh how gayly, and with what mimic art, she stole 
 into the Baron's castle, disguised herself as a 
 witch, startled his conscience with revelations 
 and f)redictions, frightened all the vassals with 
 blue lights and chemical illusions, and ventur- 
 ing even into the usurper's own private chamber 
 while that tyrant was tossing restless on the 
 couch, over which hung his terrible sword, ab- 
 stracted from his coff'er the deeds that proved 
 the better rights of the persecuted Bandit. Then, 
 when he woke before she could escape with her 
 
10 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 treasure, and pursued lier with his sword, with 
 what glee she apparently set herself on fire, and 
 skipped out of the casement in an explosion of 
 crackers. And when the drama ajjproached its 
 denouement, when the Baron's men, and the I'oy- 
 al officers of justice, had, despite all her arts, 
 tracked the Bandit to the cave, in which, after 
 various retreats, he lay hidden, wounded bv 
 shots, and bruised by a fall from a precipice— 
 witli what admirable by-play she hovered around 
 the spot, with what pathos she sought to decoy 
 away the pursuers — it was the sky-lark playing 
 round the nest. And when all was vain — when, 
 no longer to be deceived, the enemies sought 
 to seize her, how mockingly she eluded them, 
 bounded uj) the rock, and shook her slight finger 
 at them in scorn. Surely she will save that esti- 
 mable Bandit still ! Now, hitherto, thougli the 
 Bandit was the nominal hero of the piece, though 
 )'ou were always hearing of him — his wrongs, 
 virtues, hair-breadth escapes — he had never been 
 seen. Not Mrs. Harris, in the immortal narra- 
 tive, was more quoted and more mythical. But 
 in the last scene there 2ras the Bandit, there 
 in his cavern, helpless with bruises and wounds, 
 lying on a rock. In rushed the enemies. Baron, 
 High Sheriff, and all, to seize him. Not a word 
 spoke the Bandit, but his attitude was sublime 
 — even Vance cried "Bravo ;" and just as he is 
 seized, halter round his neck, and about to be 
 hanged, down from the chasm above leaps his 
 child, holding the title-deeds, filched from the 
 Baron, and by her side the King's Lieutenant, 
 who proclaims the Bandit's pardon, with due 
 restoration to his honors and estates, and con- 
 signs, to the astounded Sherifl:', the august person 
 of the Kemorseless Baron. Then the affecting 
 scene, father and child in each other's arms ; 
 and then an exclamation, which had been long 
 hovering about the lips of many of the audience, 
 broke out, "Waife, Waife !" Yes, the Bandit, 
 who appeared but in the last scene, and even 
 then uttered not a word, was the once great 
 actor on that itinerant Thespian stage, known 
 through many a Fair for his exuberant humor, 
 his impromptu jokes, his arch eye, his redun- 
 dant life of drollery, and the strange pathos or 
 dignity with which he could suddenly exalt a 
 jester's part, and call forth tears in the startled 
 hash of laughter ; he whom the Cobbler had 
 rightly said, " might have made a fortune at Cov- 
 ent Garden." There was the remnant of the old 
 popular mime ! — all his attributes of eloquence 
 reduced to dumb show ! Masterly touch of na- 
 ture and of art in this representation of him — 
 touch which all, who had ever in former years 
 seen and heard him on that stage, felt simulta- 
 neously. He came in for his personal portion 
 of dramatic tears. "Waife, Waife !" cried many 
 a village voice, as the little girl led him to the 
 front of the stage. He hobbled ; there was a 
 bandage round his eyes. The plot, in describ- 
 ing the accident that had befallen the Bandit, 
 idealized the genuine infirmities of the man — 
 infirmities that had befallen him since last seen 
 in that village. He was blind of one eye; he 
 had become crippled ; some malady of the tra- 
 chea or larynx had seemingly broken up the 
 once joyous key of the old pleasant voice. He 
 did not trust hrmself to speak, even on that 
 stage, but silently bent his head to the rustic 
 audience ; and Vance, who was an habitual 
 
 phiy-goer, saw in that simple salutation that the 
 man was an artistic actor. All was over, the 
 audience streamed out affected, and talking one 
 to the other. It had not been at all like the or- 
 dinarystage-exhibitionsat a village Fair. Vance 
 and Lionel stared at each other in surprise, and 
 then, by a common impulse, moved toward the 
 stage, pushed aside the curtain, which had fallen, 
 and were in that strange world which has so 
 many reduplications, fragments of one broken 
 mirror, whether in the proudest theatre, or the' 
 lowliest barn — nay, whether in the palace of 
 kings, the cabinet of statesmen, the home of do- 
 mestic life — the world we call "Behind the 
 Scenes." 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 striking illustrations of lawless tyranny and infant ava- 
 rice exemplified in the social conditions of Great Brit- 
 ain. — Superstitions of the Dark Ages still in force among 
 the Trading Community, furnishing valuable hints to 
 certain American journalists, and highly suggestive of 
 reflections humiliating to the national vanity. 
 
 The Eemorseless Baron, who was no other 
 than the managerial proprietor of the stage, W'as 
 leaning against a side-scene, with a pot of porter 
 in his hand. The King's Lieutenant might be 
 seen on the background, toasting a piece of 
 cheese on the point of his loyal sword. The 
 Bandit had crept into a corner, and the little 
 girl was clinging to him fondly, as his hand was 
 stroking her fair hair. Vance looked round, 
 and approached the Bandit — " Sir, allow me to 
 congratulate you ; your bow was admirable. I 
 have never seen John Kemble — before my time ; 
 but I shall fancy I have seen him now — seen 
 him on the night of his retirement from the 
 stage. As to your grandchild. Miss Juliet Ara- 
 minta, she is a perfect chrysolite." 
 
 Before Mr. Waife could reply, the Remorse- 
 less Baron stepped up in a spirit worthy of his 
 odious and arbitrary character. " What do you 
 do here, Sir? I allow no gents behind the 
 scenes earwigging my people." 
 
 " I beg pardon respectfully : I am an artist — 
 a pupil of the Royal Academy ; I should like to 
 make a sketch of ]\Iiss Juliet Araminta." 
 
 " Sketch ! nonsense." 
 
 "Sir," said Lionel, with the seasonable ex- 
 travagance of early youth, "my friend would, I 
 am sure, pay for the sitting — handsomel}' !" 
 
 " Ha !" said the manager, softened, " you 
 speak like a gentleman. Sir; but. Sir, IMiss Ju- 
 liet Araminta is under my protection — in fact, 
 she is my property. Call and speak to me 
 about it to-morrow, before the first performance 
 begins, which is twelve o'clock. Happy to see 
 any of your friends in the reserved seats. Busy 
 now, and — and — in short — excuse me — servant, 
 Sir — servant, Sir." 
 
 The Baron's manner left no room for further 
 parley. Vance bowed, smiled, and retreated. 
 But, meanwhile, his young friend had seized 
 the opportunity to speak both to Waife and his 
 grandchild ; and when Vance took his arm and 
 drew him away, there was a puzzled, musing 
 expression on Lionel's face, and he remained 
 silent till they had got through the press of 
 such stragglers as still loitered before the stage, 
 and were in a quiet corner of the sward. Stars 
 and moon were then up — a lovely summer night. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 11 
 
 ♦'What on earth are vou thinking of, Lionel? 
 I have put to you three questions, and you have 
 not answered one." 
 
 *' Vance," answered Lionel, slowly, " the odd- 
 est thing ! I am so disappointed in that little 
 girl — p-eedy and mercenary !" 
 
 '• Precocious villain I how do you know^ that 
 she is greedy and mercenary ?" 
 
 "Listen :' when that surly old manager came 
 np to you, I said something — civil, of course — 
 to Waife, who answered in a hoarse, broken 
 voice, but in very good language. Well, when 
 I told the manager that you would pay for the 
 sitting, the child caught hold of my arm hastily, 
 pulled me down to her own height, and whis- 
 pered, ' How much will he give ?' Confused by 
 a question so point-blank, I answered at ran- 
 dom, 'I don't know; ten shillings, perhaps.' 
 You should have seen her face !" 
 
 "Seen her face! radiant, I should think so. 
 Too much by halfl" exclaimed Vance. "Ten 
 shillings I spendthrift I" 
 
 " Too much 1 she looked as you might look 
 if one offered you ten shillings for your picture 
 of ' Julius Cffisar considering whether he should 
 cross the Rubicon.' But when the manager had 
 declared her to be his property, and appointed 
 you to call to-morrow — implying that he was to 
 be paid for allowing her to sit — her countenance 
 became overcast, and she muttered, sullenly, 
 ' I'll not sit ; I'll not !' Then she turned to her 
 grandfather, and something very quick and close 
 was whispered between the two ; and she pulled 
 me by the sleeve, and said in my ear — oh, but 
 so eagerly 1 — ' I want three pounds ; oh, three 
 pounds 1 if he would give three pounds I And 
 come to our lodgings — Mr. Merle, Willow Lane. 
 Three pounds — three 1' And with those words 
 hissing in my ear, and coming from that fairy 
 mouth, which ought to drop pearls and dia- 
 monds, I left her," added Lionel, as giavely as 
 if he were sixty, •' and lost an illusion." 
 
 "Three pounds!" cried Vance, raising his eye- 
 brows to the highest arch of astonishment, and 
 lifting his nose in the air toward the majestic 
 moon — " three pounds I a fabulous sum ! Who 
 has three pounds to throw away ? Dukes, with 
 a hundred thousand a year in acres, have not 
 three pounds to draw out of their pockets in 
 that reckless, profligate manner. Three pounds I 
 what could I not buy for three pounds ? I could 
 buy the Dramatic Library, bound in calf, for 
 three pounds; I could buy a dress-coat for three 
 pounds (silk lining not included) ; I could be 
 lodged for a month for three pounds! And a 
 jade in tinsel, just entering on her teens, to ask 
 three pounds for what ? for becoming immortal 
 on the canvas of Francis Vance ? bother !" 
 
 Here Vance felt a touch on his shoulder. He 
 turned round quickly, as a man out of temper 
 does under similar circumstances, and beheld 
 the swart face of the Cobbler. 
 
 "Well, master, did not she act fine? — how 
 d'ye like her?" 
 
 "Not much in her natural character; but 
 she sets a mighty high value on herself." 
 
 "Anan, I don't take you." 
 
 "She'll not catch me taking her! Three 
 pounds I — three kingdoms." 
 
 "Stay," cried Lionel to the Cobbler; "did 
 not you say she lodged with you? Are you 
 Mr. Merle?" 
 
 " Merle's my name, and she do lodge with me 
 — Willow Lane." 
 
 " Come this way, then, a few yards down the 
 road — more quiet. Tell me what the child 
 means, if you can ?" and Lionel related the offer 
 of his friend, the reply of the manager, and the 
 grasping avarice of Miss Juliet Araminta. 
 
 The Cobbler made no answer ; and ■when the 
 young friends, sui-prised at his silence, turned to 
 look at him, they saw he was wiping his eyes 
 with his sleeve. 
 
 "Poor little thing!" he said at last, and still 
 more pathetically than he had uttered the same 
 words at her appearance in front of the stage ; 
 " 'tis all for her grandfather, I guess — I guess." 
 "Oh," cried Lionel, joyfully, "I am so glad 
 to think that. It alters the whole case, you see, 
 Vance." 
 
 " It don't alter the case of the three pounds," 
 grumbled Vance. " What's her grandfather to 
 me, that I should give his grandchild three 
 pounds, when any other child in the village 
 would have leaped out of her skin to have her 
 face upon my sketch-book and five shillings in 
 her pocket. Hang her grandfather !" 
 
 They were now in the main road. The 
 Cobbler seated himself on a lonely milestone, 
 and looked first at one of the faces before him, 
 then at the other; that of Lionel seemed to 
 attract him the most, and in speaking it was 
 Lionel whom he addressed. 
 
 "Young master," he said, "it is now just 
 four years ago when Mr. Rugge, coming here, 
 as he and his troop had done at Fair-time ever 
 sin' I can mind of, brought with him the man 
 you have seen to-night, William Waife ; I calls 
 him Gentleman Waife. However that man fell 
 into such straits — how he came to join such a 
 carawan would puzzle most heads. It puzzles 
 Joe Spruce uncommon ; it don't puzzle me." 
 "Why?" asked Vance. 
 "Cos of Saturn!" 
 "Satan?" 
 
 " Saturn — dead agin his Second and Tenth 
 House, I'll swear. Lord of ascendant, mayhap 
 in combustion of the sun — who knows?" 
 
 " You're not an astrologer?" said Vance, sus- 
 piciously edging off. 
 
 " Bit of it — no offense." 
 "What does it signify?" said Lionel, impa- 
 tiently; "go on. So you called Mr. Waife, 
 j ' Gentleman Waife ;' and if you had not been 
 I an astrologer you would have been puzzled to 
 I see him in such a calling." 
 
 "Ay, that's it ; for he wam't like any as we 
 
 ' ever see on these boards hereabouts ; and yet he 
 
 \ warn't exactly like a Lunnon actor, as I've seen 
 
 j 'em in Lunnon, either, but more like a clever 
 
 fellow who acted for the spree of the thing. 
 
 He had such droll jests, and looked so comical, 
 
 ' yet not commonlike, but always what I calls a 
 
 ! gentleman — just as if one o' ye two were doing 
 
 j a bit of sport to please your friends. Well, he 
 
 drew hugely, and so he did, every time be came, 
 
 so that the" great families in the neighborhood 
 
 would go to hear him ; and he lodged in my 
 
 house, and had pleasant ways with him, and 
 
 was what I call a scollard. But still I don't 
 
 want to deceive ye, and I should judge him to 
 
 have been a wild dog in his day. Mercury ill- 
 
 aspected — not a doubt of it. Last year it so 
 
 happened that one of the ^reat gents who be- 
 
12 
 
 so he went. But bad I, rl " " '" ^"^ 
 
 ™s sore and ,pitef„l at iSflea,". I . fir' S"*!'' 
 
 ;; You mean Juliet Araminta?" saiil v,„™ 
 plays for h°e I'dCL "'J' '"S""'" ""> 
 
 - No^^h! V""^'-^ '^^"^^"^^^ '•" ««id Vance 
 and heel's i' ''?'•, ^"^ ^'^ ^« ^-^o^t 
 four shinty gesr'':^' v", T"\^"-' ->^ 
 about the tou2y7hisZnt^'^ '?'''''''''''' 
 and now they be hero ^Tf i^""^ "^""^ ""'^"' 
 shocking hard to botr'n 'It tl? ^""'^T' 
 here he has anv ri.rht t ' i •' ,"^ ^ ^o" t be- 
 tends-only a sort of °,'''' '" ^''''-' ^« ''« pre- 
 and herSdfather coum'''';"'^-^"S "'^^^^-^^ she 
 and tha^. what hev" h o'do '\ '"f"^ '^'^''^^'^ ' 
 I'ttle Soph, wants "the Ihke ^S.^ ' '"'^ "^^ 
 
 three p^u^drcStrel- "T"' •^■- ^^ ^'^-^ '-^ 
 did, how cou d teV 4?' ^r' ''"^ "' ^^^^3^ 
 go?" -^ ^'^^'^ U'here could tliey 
 
 -ih?£ St'?!?/'- ^"\J'^°-rJ Waife say 
 could get li^^f^oSt^^^^^^^^^ 
 
 beandependentW-'l^e^rJ;^Ta?;;;;Vi: 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 such a wreck. But ho wn. f , ° ^® ^^^n 
 
 and so he contrived to\ " up'thft If ^"^ '"' 
 and appear hisself -.r 1 1,„ ) . • , ''aj-stoiy, 
 
 "M>'good'Sni''SiS\:;:^:'i.^^^fi"^'' 
 
 are greatly obliged to you ^,? " "^'' "'« 
 ^ve should-muclUike to'see H^tir."' T""'^-^"^ 
 grandfatheratyourhou's;^^ 4^^^^^ 
 
 to-nS;x:;;nii;:".-"-^^-'^epi^:^^^-^ 
 
 '']\o, to-morrow : yon spo Tn,- a- i • . 
 tient to get back noJ-Ve 'inL^l^o '' ^P^' 
 " Tis flip lof 1 "'^ ""' call to-morrow " 
 
 Cobblen ''But yl?;''. '•?"•■ ''^y'" ^^-^ the 
 safely at mytoUZoZV ^' ''r *" '^^ '^'^^ 
 andLardrK5^,r-j;^^^ 
 
 "goo'^^night'Tyc^r"^"^'^^'" ^^'--^ I^--l; 
 
 on'2::3j:i::^^?: Cobbler stil, seated 
 minating. They walkoA , /^'"' ^'^^ »•«- 
 
 ,/'it is I ^vi;:^ra.i'tcuh?t'r"'""^°'^^; 
 
 I^'onel, in his softest tone H^ . T' '^''^ 
 coaxing three pounds n,.l e , • '""^ ^''''^ on 
 and that mi'lnreonl "'^'^' ^"^»d, 
 
 amonc the w Id v^, "''■ ^^^agement. For 
 
 fession, the e tan "i!,°''''' '''■^^'- ^^"^'^'^ P'^O" 
 with which he .arriS'S-o" f^' "* '^^ ^'^''l 
 purse; and thL'Sm' n^whh l"'"^^' °" '"« 
 than usually in the li^.^nv; '"' "°-''^ "^o-'e 
 
 such scoffeii '"that ihey ^ "^' ''°'" ""^^^^"'^d ^o 
 any joke at his l^^J'llZ.Z''V'''r' '"> 
 "At your expens^ Don '?; '! .'^^f ,'"' '™^'^' 
 worth a farthina vm, ,T^^ n ' ^^ a joke were 
 mission." "^'°S'>°^^^^oaldneyergiye thatper- 
 
 the''°softt"ss'^riL°'t'o'' '''* ^°"°^-* --ark, 
 somesn^kein tie Jr T?.''^ ^'^^ ^"^^ ^f 
 mained silent Lif, t] ~''"'' ^" prudently re- 
 repeated, '•! is I V n ';?"" '^'" ^^^-eeter, 
 ''Naturilly •' fh ^'^''^ '''" ^'^« 'alk now !" 
 I7 .vou W- for t'is'rT" ^^"^^' "-^-al- 
 have the intention opi> for it "S "'° ^'"f 
 appear to be the pricl' D^^l-isll^'lSf^P^-d^ 
 
 4ushTTnd'^"^^^^^^^'-'^«I-™d;r' 
 
 t-e?:.^tS;:crIS;^X—^e young 
 and reached a smn^? down a green Jane, 
 
 Thames. He^eXvb'^'' ''" '^^ *^^"^ °f tl>e 
 few davi sretcTiinl- ^ ^^Joarned for the last 
 countr^^om tnrise 1^"' '°""^'"S '''^^"t the 
 and bed at^. S, ' iT. '?,""'"» ^« ^"PP^^ 
 
 to theS[:;:::3^^ i;^^*^ -^°^" "ied Vance 
 
 -e turn in ^o Sou^ 1 a^d'^^^'lJd f \"'"^ 
 quart jug of that capital Mhisky.t^^ ''"'^"' " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "■■••'s!::R,:ia;s;si~-...>. 
 
 s=SB:S?SS; 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 13 
 
 Vance ladled out the toddy and lijjhted his 
 cisar, then, leaning his head on his hand, and 
 his elbow on the table, he looked with an artist's 
 eve alon;!; tiie ^luncin^ river. 
 " "After all," said he. "I am glad I am a 
 painter; and I hope I may live to be a great 
 one." 
 
 " No doubt, if you live, you will be a great 
 one," cried Lionel, with cordial sincerity. "And 
 if I, who can only just paint well enough to 
 please myself, find that it gives a new charm to 
 nature — " 
 
 "Cut sentiment," quoth Vance, "and go on." 
 
 "What," continued Lionel, unchilled by the 
 admonitory interruption, "must you feel who 
 can fix a fading sunsliine — a Heeting face — on 
 a scrap of canvas, and say, ' Sunshine and Beau- 
 ty, live there forever!'" 
 
 Vance. "Forever! no! Colors perish, can- 
 vas rots. What remains to us of Zeuxis? Still 
 it is prettily said on behalf of the ])oetic side of 
 the profession ; there is a prosaic one — we'll 
 blink it. Yes ; I am glad to be a painter. But 
 you must not catch the fever of my calling. 
 Your poor mother would never forgive me if she 
 thought I had made you a dauber by my ex- 
 ample." 
 
 Lionel (gloomily). " No. I shall not be a 
 painter! Bat what can I be ? How shall I ever 
 build on the earth one of the castles I have built 
 in the air? Fame looks so far — Fortune so im- 
 possible ! But one thin 4 1 am bent upon" (speak- 
 ing with knit brow and clenched teeth), "I will 
 gain an independence somehow, and support my 
 mother." 
 
 Vance. " Your mother is supported — she has 
 the pension — " 
 
 LiON'EL. "Of a captain's widow; and" (he 
 adde 1, witii a flushed cheek) "a first floor that 
 she lets to lodj;ers !" 
 
 Vance. "Xo shame in that! Peers let houses; 
 and on the Continent, princes let not only first 
 floors, bat fifth and sixth floors, to say nothing 
 of attics and cellars. In beginning the world, 
 friend Lionel, if you don't wish to get chafed at 
 every turn, fold up your pride cai-efully, put it 
 nnder lock and key, and only let it out to air 
 upon grand occasions. Pride is a garment all 
 stiffs brocade outside, all grating sackcloth on the 
 Bide next to the skin. Even kings don't wear 
 the dalmaticum except at a coronation. Inde- 
 pendence you desire ; good. But are you de- 
 pendent now? Your mother has given you an 
 excellent education, and you have already put 
 it to profit. My dear boy," added Vance, with 
 unusual warmth, '' I honor you, at your age, on 
 leaving school, to have shut yourself up, trans- 
 lated Greek and Latin per sheet for a bookseller 
 at less than a valet's wages, and aH for the pur- 
 pose of buying comforts for your mother ; and 
 having a few ix)unds in your own pockets, to 
 rove your little holiday with me, and pay your 
 share of the costs! Ah, there are energy and 
 spirit and life in all that, Lionel, which will 
 found upon rock some castle iis fine as any you 
 have built in air. Your hand, my boy." 
 
 This burst was so unlike the practical dryness, 
 or even the more unctuous humor, of Frank 
 Vance, that it took Lionel by suqjrise, and his 
 voice faltered as he pressed the hand held out 
 to iiim. He answered, •' I don't desene your 
 praise, Vance, and I fear the pride you tell me 
 
 to put under lock and key, has the larger share 
 of the merit you ascribe to better motives. In- 
 dependent? No! I Imve never been so." 
 
 Vance. "Well, you depend on a parent — 
 who, at seventeen, does not ?" 
 
 Lionel. " I did not mean my mother ; of 
 course, I could not be too proud to take bene- 
 fits from her. But the truth is simjjly this : my 
 father had a relation, not very near, indeed — a 
 cousin, at about as distant a remove, I fancy, 
 as a cousin well can be. To this gentleman my 
 mother wrote when my poor father died — and 
 he was generous, for it is he who paid for my 
 schooling. I did not know this till veiy lately. 
 I had a vague impression, indeed, that I had a 
 powerful and wealthy kinsman who took inter- 
 est in me, but whom I had never seen." 
 
 Vance. " Never seen ?" 
 
 Lionel. "No. And here comes the sting. 
 On leaving school last Christmas, my mother, 
 for the first time, told me the extent of my ob- 
 ligations to this benefactor, and informed me 
 that he wished to know my own choice as to a 
 profession — that if I preferred Church or Bar, 
 he would maintain me at college." 
 
 Vance. " Body o' me! where's the sting in 
 that ? Help yourself to toddy, my boy, and take 
 more genial views of life." 
 
 Lionel. " You have not heard me out. I 
 then asked to see my benefactor's letters ; and 
 my mother, unconscious of the pain she was 
 about to inflict, showed me not only the last 
 one, but all she had received from him. Oh, 
 Vance, they were terrible, those letters ! The 
 first began by a dry acquiescence in the claims 
 of kindred — a curt proposal to pay my schooling, 
 but not one word of kindness, and a stern pro- 
 nso that the writer was never to see nor hear 
 from me. He wanted no gratitude — he disbe- 
 lieved in all professions of it. His favors would 
 cease if I molested him. ' Molested' was the 
 word ; it was bread thrown to a dog." 
 
 Vance. " Tut ! Only a rich man's eccentric- 
 ity. A bachelor, I presume ?" 
 
 Lionel. " My mother says he has been mar- 
 ried, and is a widower." 
 
 Vance. " Any children ?" 
 
 Lionel. "My mother says none living ; but 
 I know little or nothing about his family." 
 
 Vance looked with keen scrutiny into tlie face 
 of his boy-friend, and, after a pause, said, dryly 
 — " Plain as a pikestaffs Your relation is one 
 of those men who, having no children, suspect 
 and dread the attention of an heir-presumjnive ; 
 and what has made this sting, as you call it, 
 keener to you, is — pardon me — is in some silly 
 words of your mother, who, in showing you the 
 letters, has hinted to you that that heir you 
 might be, if you were sufticiently pliant and 
 subservient. Am I not right ?" 
 
 Lionel hung his head, without reply. 
 
 Vance (cheeringly). " So, so ; no great harm 
 as yet. Enough of "the first letter. What was 
 the" last?" 
 
 Lionel. " Still more offensive. He, this kins- 
 man, this patron, desired ray mother to spare 
 him those references to her son's ability and 
 i promise, which, though natural to herself, had 
 j slight interest to him— him, the condescending 
 i benefactor ! — As to his opinion, what could I 
 ' care for the opinion of one I had never seen? 
 All that could sensibly atfect my — oh, but I can 
 
14 
 
 _v.i.NCE Cemphaticallv). " wfthonf- k • 
 
 to maintain me at college v?h''?-P^ '^," °^'^^- 
 ter closed. Luckily DAtCir^?'? '^ ^'^'- 
 ter of my school) ihn\\t '^ ^^^^ head-mas- 
 tind to me, had ji'st indeml "'^'^ ^^^'^ ^■^••>- 
 
 popula. translatiinof^tlfe ciSrc;" ^^l^^^^"^^^ ^ 
 mended mc at mv ^^^ '"<^ "-^assies. He recom- 
 
 gaged in thelZtS'\'° ' ^"'"^'^^ ^"■ 
 
 translating somo of i f' V°' incapable of 
 
 thors-sufiec°Tohfs '!^^^'^^ffi^"^t ^^^i" ''^"- 
 
 finished the first itt°r'''°"'; ^^'^^^n I had 
 
 • intrusted to me m" ' "'I!'"' °^ '^' ''°'^ ^'^"« 
 
 mv health liS%^LT ^' ^'*'"' ^^^''med for 
 
 reation. Yo weTe fh, T.""''' ''^^^^^ ^°°^« ^-^e- 
 
 trian tour iCf ^" /« «^' «"' on a pedes- 
 
 ™J pocket; and lui \L^^' '""'^ P°™ds in 
 
 the merriest davs of ly ife '' ^^'^^^^ ^"^^ ^^'^ 
 
 your'S^a'lT^o to'l'ir" ""^ ^^"^^'^ ^^en 
 him ?" SO to college was conveyed to 
 
 comS';atiL?to'^ihareVL".'T-n "'-^ ^^^^^^^"'^ 
 left home, and tl en-l ?f ''" J"** ^^^^^'^ I 
 ter from ^hich reT S T^'"''' "^ ^^^^ let- 
 tract— no th« / ■'/'^Pe'^ted that wither nc ev- 
 it -h -j' , '^^'^ ^™s more eallino- still f ■ 
 It he said, that if, in spite of /l o^ i ' ^°'' '" 
 promise that hirl hpir, ^ ^'^'^ ^^'^i^^ty and 
 
 of a collete and ^h^ i'? ''""f "'^' ^^^^ dullness 
 
 sions wereno^Sfst2 eSl't; ^^VlieT^l ^^'^^f^" 
 sire to dictitP tr> r„ , . ^^' "^ had no de- 
 
 no. wi,h'„TeVl>o^:;.'''S '"" ""■" •■■' '•' ■!" 
 blood, .„<1 bore tlMSme of H?"!!""'-'' ""^ 
 
 .h.t^.jo,p«w:.-'vL'::5ti7-.'"^^^ 
 
 Liovpr r "^' -^'o*^ fake ?" 
 
 ■L'IO^EL (iiassionatp]\-> "-iir, . , , 
 
 -M'hich?_ofconre,i;;T. ? '^''' " so oiJered 
 the tone of myToth • ■'' f"^' ^i^t^^ting 
 evening beforf iTf ,? '^l''-',' ^ ^^^^^ ^'^wn, the 
 this cnTel man i1 d nT'^ '^ ^™^*^ ^^-^'^e^f to 
 niother-did S^t td/licT f1r"|T^"^^^^« -3- 
 —that, if he ,™i,j,| "^l 2'- , ^ '™te, shortly 
 would not accent hi^ >° ^'^P* .™>' gratitude, I 
 might be-pTcl?ock'.t ?'%' '^''' shoeblack J 
 fearIshoul5Kt?'h"'h/'''/ ^^*^ "^^^ "ot 
 andthatlwoul^io Jft;n"°'^ °^' "^.>- ^^'^e ,• 
 had paid him back all thaT'l'°?'''' T ^^^"•' ^ 
 felt relieyed from tho 1 had cost him, and 
 
 which-whicl -» Tlie boy r '' ?" ^^^^^ation 
 face with his hands, and'jbC' '"'""'^^^^ 
 scoiJ'lSSnfCt""^^^'-^^-'^'^'^ to 
 fairly rose, ."u id L a "Hro 1'^' ^};^f^ctu.l, 
 him, and drew him fron hi ^'f"''--^^^<^ round 
 ing margin of the dS "^^'^"' ^'^/'^"^ '^'^^-- 
 the Artitt, almost olcmnl ^°™^°"' then said 
 inner depths o 1 ^ char" tt' uJ^'' ''"^^"^ *'- 
 the man came forth iml.,[' ^< ^^-"""^ »^'""s of 
 look roundrLe wi;,^ th^' 'r ^^'""^^°"' '"'^i 
 tide, and h'ow '. il in 1 tl ''^'' ^"terrupts the 
 See,... Where ^fSJ^,:t;^^-^-. 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 noTf^^et nir tnr--"^^ ^^^ --, if 
 miles farther on and the r?r'"^""^ " ^ ^^^ 
 hridge, which bu y ?eet low a ' '' '^'""''^ ^^-^^ ^ 
 side of that bridie nowSn ''°'''"^' b^' the 
 the men who rule Sn^landr^ " Palace;-aU 
 palace. At the reai of tW T^ '°°"^ ^" that 
 old Abbey, where SLk ^T'^'^ soars up the 
 of the nimlrtheVifiWM ''''"■ ^r^^^"'^ght 
 have found tombs" th re n,vf^ '^'j ^^ "« 
 which they made. Thhil rf^ u°^ '^^ names 
 on that bridge with a w' ^ ^'Z ^\^^ ^'"^ ^tand 
 man's steadfast courage AiL.t-^'^'^P^' ^^-^tii a 
 stream, calm with sJariiitfln"™ ''-"'"'" '° ^^^^ 
 the bridge-spite of^S'lSd^pSfs "'^ ^"^'^^''^ 
 
 i^p^^™;;;:tc^*^~g^his 
 
 tened in his ^ye'^'^^^'^''^^^ '^''^' ^ew still glis! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 er'sS-::iS;i^i;-r-s^rS: 
 
 the dash of he o^rr'Ti^ '^'"'^'^^ ^" time to 
 bank of garden-lrou ml . ^^' '?° "^"^^ to the 
 ^vhich fahies might h,eT"f^^ ^"^^^ tuif, on 
 villas neyer seefout " f eXT'^ ' ^^",^^ 
 windows of the vilH thl i; w , -^™tn the 
 ily; oyer the blnS 7l ^ ^' •^^^'^'"^^ «tead- 
 hnng large w'Ltt^^a fclf .\T' /'^ "^^^r, 
 brushed aside their nend«n;>,^ ' ^^'^ ^""^^ g^ntlv 
 rested in a grassy co4 ^°"S^'' ^^^^ ^"^nce 
 
 And "Paith" «mVi +1, . . 
 . ^-ith,"saidt,]ilh J\\^,^-f' .g-nv- 
 is time we should bestow nf' '^"^"^^^gaiV '"it 
 thePvemorsele^s Pnrnr, ^ ^f^^'^™rds more on 
 What a cock-and a bull s. ''^^^'^^dit's Child! 
 
 ns! He must Se thi t"'^' ' ^"'^^^^^ '^^^ 
 Lio.vKL (roused) ^8^^'/^^ precious green." 
 
 derful in the ston- „tj'-''^^^e nothing so won- 
 
 rou must allow ti'.tr^ ""^^^ that is sad. 
 
 good actor-vou beSml f •.°'"-' ^-"^"^ ''^en a 
 at his attitude and r ^^^"^ ^-^"^^^^ ^^erely 
 that he s ould haye hi; '^"'"'■^'' ^^^^^fore^, 
 chance on ?he London st? '""'''''K'^ tiy his 
 that he mar ha.e ™y b^'~"°*i"-^P^""^''^W 
 train, and so lo t iS chan . r'" '' ^'' '^^ 
 then, that he shnn Ir • ^oreyer— natural, 
 
 little gra?ddind- nf;r-:/°:?4":r". ^"i! p«- 
 
 treated, and his nride ,./ i '. ^''^^' ^^^rdly 
 escape." ^ '^ ^""^' ^^^ should wish to 
 
 shouts' w^iitfol,':;"^ T''""' ^''^" ^"' ^^'^^ 1- 
 pounds-the Band t' ^.^^^^^"r pockets three 
 
 -hat is not pr?babt'-th.n1.5"r1'/, '''' ^'^^ 
 posed of that cleycr c i d t, '^'""^^l^"^^ dis- 
 
 Ic„n"i;:t,./;-.;bci.„„e,,,,ordi„.„.chiM. 
 
 tool- nnt 1 • -^ " has interested me " Hr. 
 
 tens:"^.te^--f "^T'^" counting ils con! 
 
 X ha>e nearly three pounds left," he 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 15 
 
 cried, joyously. " £2 18s. if I give up the 
 thought of a "lonjrer excursion with you, and 
 go quietly home." 
 
 Vance. '"Aud not pay your share of the bill 
 yonder';:'" 
 
 LioNKL. "Ah, I forgot that! But come, I 
 am not too proud to borrow from you, and it is 
 not for a selfish purpose." 
 
 Vanck. '• Borrow from me, Cato ! That 
 comes of falling in with bandits and their chil- 
 dren. No, but let us look at the thing like 
 men of sense. One story is good till another is 
 told. I will call by myself on Kugge to-mor- 
 row, and hear what he says ; and then, if we 
 judge favorably to the Cobbler's version, we 
 will go at nigiit and talk with the Cobbler's 
 lodgers; and 1 daresay," added Vance, kindly, 
 but with a sigh — "I daresay the three pounds 
 will be coaxed out of me ! After all, her head 
 is worth it. I want an idea for 'J'itania." 
 
 Lionel (joyously). "My dear Vance, you are 
 the best fellow in the world." 
 
 Vance. " Small compliment to human-kind. 
 Take the oars — it is your turn now." 
 
 Lionel obeyed ; the boat once more danced 
 along the tide — thoro' reeds, thoro' waves, skirt- 
 ing tlie grassy islet — out into pale moonlight. 
 They talked but by tits and starts. What of? 
 — a thousand things. Bright young hearts, 
 eloquent young tongues! No sins in the past; 
 hopes gleaming through the future. Oh sum- 
 mer nights, on the glass of starry waves ! Oh 
 Youth, Youth! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Wherein the Historian tracks the Public Characters that 
 fret their hour on the stage, into tlie bosom of private 
 life. — The reader is invited to arrive at a conclusion 
 which may often, in periods of perplexity, restore ease 
 to his mind ; viz., that if man will reflect on all the 
 hopes he has nourished, all the fears he has admitted, 
 all the projects he has formed, the wisest thing he can 
 do, nine times out of ten, with hope, fear, and project, 
 is to let them end with the chapter — in smoke. 
 
 It was past nine o'clock in the evening of the 
 following day. The exhibition at Mr. Rugge's 
 theatre liad closed for the season in that village, 
 for it was the conclusion of the Fair. The final 
 performance had been begun and ended some- 
 what earlier than on former nights. The thea- 
 tre was to be cleared from the ground by day- 
 break, and the whole comjiany to proceed on- 
 ward betimes in the morning. Another Fair 
 awaited them in an adjoining county, and they 
 had a long journey before them. 
 
 Gentleman Waife and his Juliet Araminta 
 had gone to their lodgings over the Cobbler's 
 stall. The rooms were homely enough, but had 
 an air not only of the comfortable, but the pic- 
 turesque. The little sitting-room was very old- 
 fashioned— paneled in wood that had once' been 
 painted blue — with a quaint chimney-piece that 
 reached to the ceiling. That part o'f the house 
 sjKtke of the time of Charles I. It might have 
 been tenanted by a religious Roundhead ; and 
 framed-in over the low door there was a grim 
 faded portrait of a pinched -faced saturnine 
 man, with long lank hair, starched band, and 
 a length of upper-lip that betokened relentless 
 obstinacy of character, and might have curled 
 in sullen glee at the monarch's scaffold, or 
 
 preached an interminable sermon to the stout 
 I'rotector. On a table, under the deej)-sunk 
 window, were neatly arrayed a few sober-look- 
 ing old books; you would find among them Col- 
 lei/'s Astrolof/i/, Owen Kelt/utm^s liesolces, Ulan- 
 vilk 0)1 Witches, The J'ilijiiiii's J^rvyress, an early 
 edition of Paradise Lost, and an old Bible ; also 
 two fiower-pots of clay brightly reddened, and 
 containing stocks ; also two small woi-sted rugs, 
 on one of which rested a carved cocoa-nut, on 
 the other an egg-shaped ball of crystal — that 
 last the pride and joy of the Cobbler's visionary 
 soul. A door left wide open communicated with 
 an inner room (very low was its ceiling), in which 
 the Bandit slept, if the severity of his persecu- 
 tors permitted him to sleep. In the corner of 
 the sitting-room, near that door, was a small 
 horse-hair sofa, which, by the aid of sheets and 
 a needlework coverlid, did duty for a bed, and 
 was consigned to the Bandit's child. Here the 
 tenderness of the Cobbler's heart was visible, 
 for over the coverlid were strewed sprigs of lav- 
 ender, and leaves of vervain — the last, be it 
 said, to induce hapjn' dreams, and scare away 
 Avitchcraft and evil spirits. On another table, 
 near the fire-place, the child was busied in set- 
 ting out the tea-things for her grandfather. She 
 had left in the property-room of the theatre her 
 robe of spangles and tinsel, and appeared now 
 in a simple frock. Sjhe had no longer the look 
 of Titania, but that of a lively, active, affection- 
 ate human child; nothing theatrical about her 
 now, yet still, in her graceful movements, so 
 nimble but so noiseless, in her slight fair hands, 
 in her transparent coloring, there was Nature's 
 own lady — that something which strikes us all 
 as well-born and high-bred ; not that it neces- 
 sarily is so — the semblances of aristocracy, in 
 female childhood more especially, are often de- 
 lusive. The souvenance flower wrought into the 
 collars of princes springs up wild on field and 
 fell. 
 
 Gentleman Waife, wrapped negligently in a 
 gray dressing-gown, and seated in an old leath- 
 ern easy-chair, was evidently out of sorts. He 
 did not seem to heed the little preparations for 
 his comfort, but, resting his cheek on his right 
 hand, his left drooped on his crossed knees — an 
 attitude rarely seen in a man when his heart is 
 light and his spirits high. His lips moved — he 
 was talking to himself. Though he had laid 
 aside his theatrical bandage over both eyes, he 
 wore a black patch over one, or rather where 
 one had been ; the eye exposed was of singular 
 beauty, dark and brilliant. For the rest, the 
 man "had a striking countenance, rugged, and 
 rather ugly than othenvise, but by no means 
 unprepossessing ; full of lines and ^mnkles and 
 strong muscle, with large lips of wondrous pli- 
 ancy, and an asjiect of wistful sagacity, that, no 
 doubt, on occasion could become exquisitely 
 comic — diT comedy — the comedy that makes 
 others roar when the comedian himself is as 
 grave as a judge. 
 
 You might see in his countenance, when quite 
 in its natural repose, that Sorrow had passed by 
 there ; yet the instant the countenance broke 
 into play, you would think that Sorrow must 
 have been sent about her business as soon as 
 the respect due to that visitor, so accustomed 
 to have her own way, would permit. Though 
 the man was old, you could not call him aged. 
 
16 
 
 Orie-eyed and crippled, still, marking the rn,« 
 
 seal cely tailed him broken or infirm. And hence 
 there was a certain indescribable pathos n his 
 Se a,K"""'t' '^ '' ^^-'- I^ad^randJc^ o 
 reidhe, . .7' ^''^^'^^^^'-^ i" ^'^ch migh be 
 read liei agencies on career and mind— plucked 
 
 ?org-e's ?'" "^^^"^^-»f^. ^l^ortened oie linb 
 for htes progress, ^-et left whim sparklin.r out 
 H. the eye she had spared, and a iol t Se.rt's 
 wid spring in the hmb she had maimei no 
 
 coaxS'h'' ^/■'"'^^' '°^^'" ^^^'^1 '^' J«tle^i,-1, 
 coaxingl^ ; 'your tea will get quite cold- vo„ • 
 
 S," "''^-'' ''^"'^ ^''^ ''' ^"'^^ '- nice egg-C 
 Meile says you may be sure it is new laid 
 Come, don't let that hateful man ft-e you 
 smde on your own Sophy-come " ^ ' 
 
 tone '^f'r '^ ^^"- 7""'^^' ^" ^ J^o"o^^ "nder 
 unu , n ''T^ ^^^^'^ ^" the world." 
 Un ! Grandy." 
 
 Dehghtful prospect, not to be indul-ed • for if 
 In ?? '^ P^^'^ ^' °"^ end of thefop; whit 
 wouW chance to my Sophy, left forlor^'at the 
 
 " Don't talk so, or I shall think you are sorrv 
 to have taken care of me." ^ "" aie sorry 
 
 . ''^^'■'^ of thee, O child! and what rirp v Tf 
 IS thou who takest care of me Put tSy hLds 
 from my mouth; sit down, darlin.. tW on 
 
 orten said that thou wouldst be glad to bp n„t 
 
 wt."ht,.tif "-^^ f- -e l-mbler^ild 
 naiuci . tnmk well — is it so ? 
 
 II Oh! yes, indeed, grandfather." 
 
 Ao more tinsel dresses and flowery wreaths • 
 
 no more applause; no more of the dei divin; 
 
 stage excitement ; the heroine and fah-y vanish 
 
 ed; only a ittle commonplace c Inld [n d"m y 
 
 gingham, with a purblind cripple for t"iy sole 
 
 ratSr' "'"'""''V J"lieti'raminta ivapt 
 rated evermore into little Sophy i" ^ 
 
 Phv. ^;S"i'4te".,f ''""""""' """=^- 
 
 "What would make it nice?" asked the come 
 
 Jriends, thev were ennnlc ti,-. ■'■ , 
 
 affront you, we should be all by oursel es ^?n 
 
 piav in the fields, and gather daisies • nnd T 
 could run after buttei-flie.^ and when I am t"red 
 I s ould come here, where I am now, Z t me 
 
 P et y vcV: ""'^ 'T ^^'^^'^ *^" ^- storieVand 
 pretty .erses, and teach me to write a little 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 and oh, would it not be nice t" ' '° '^"^ '' 
 
 stars-with all my heait ^?,/t " ^''^ 
 
 not go to the ^l\ ^ \L l}'^ ^'^^'^ ^i" 
 
 of me Anr fj,-^ 1, , ^^"^ workhouse instead 
 we^o.'" °"^^ '^""^ ^'^^^ "°tl^i"g to eat, 
 
 fbr?""! ^'"n"'^-^' ^'""^ ^^^'° ^^^id every day since 
 t^vn T r^ ■''''' '""'^ "f'er <^oniing heie ha? 
 you had three pounds, we could get a w and 
 Ine by ourselves, and make a fortune '^ ^ 
 
 stand^ Ar^i^e^ttttiir-^^firfh'- ^f ^^ 
 should be free of thifthn-ce' eSb e'Str 
 
 aLS^=^^;s;:rS-^^rtKT 
 
 dwell in towns, and exhibit -" '''^ ^'^ 
 
 bvus^on-owfr' """^'^ '" ^"^"^ «°P^>'' --g-d 
 
 "No." 
 
 ;; And we should be quite alone, you and I ?" 
 
 . Hum ! there would be a third." ' 
 
 y^^.^^nkingofjoining\^^;rLt'?;;: 
 
 s2t'7^^T ^"^^.-'^ """^^^^ relaxed). " A well- 
 Sluck th?!''^"^" gentlewoman'. But no 
 
 SoPHT UT ^Tf ' ''""^^ "«t buy her." 
 muchfor'the m'" ^^m "^*'^"* ^ I don't care so 
 But oh" ^'/i'^^^id-she's dead and stuffed. 
 
 sSted Boy!'' "■ ""''"^' " P^^^^^?^ ''- the 
 Mr. Waife. " Calm your sanc^uine imacinn 
 
 ever t ft . '•°™P''^"^o». whatsoever or whoso- 
 will like " '""^P"^^°^ ™«y be, wiU be one you 
 
 head^ '^°"t ^f 'r"; ''" ^""'^ ^«I^'^-^' ^*'^^^"g ^er 
 
 . ; , I, °"'^' ^'^e yo"- But who is it V' 
 
 Alas ! said Mr. Waife, " it is no use pam- 
 
 penng ourselves with vain hopes; the three 
 
 irb?uleV°' ^°"'??°T"g- You 'heard wia^ 
 
 wanted n t^l-?^' '^'^' '^^' '^'^ gentleman who 
 T^ anted to take your portrait had called on him 
 his morning, and offered 10s. for a sitting™ 
 that IS, 6s. for you, 5s. for Euffge • and Ruao-P 
 thought the terms reasonable.'' ^^ 
 
 " But I said I would not sit." 
 ' And when you did say it, you heard Rugge's 
 la iguage to me-to you. And now we must 
 think of packing up, and be off at dawn mih 
 
 ■ l^ x: "'^'" ^'^^''^ the comedian, color- 
 ing nigh ' I must again parade, to boors and 
 c owns, ,h,s mangled form ; again set mvself 
 out as a spectacle of bodily infirmity-nian's 
 last degradation. And this I have c'ome to- 
 
 will ^l!; ".?' ^'^^'^^y^ it will not last long! we 
 NMlI i?et the three pounds. We have always 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 17 
 
 hoped on I — hope still ! And besides, I am sure 
 those gentlemen will come here to-night. Mr. 
 Merle said they would, at ten o'clock. It is 
 near ten now, and your tea cold as a stone." 
 
 Slie hung on his neck caressingly, kissing his 
 furrowed brow, and leaving a tear there, and 
 thus coaxed him till he set to quietly at his 
 meal ; and Sophy shared it, though she had no 
 appetite in sorrowing for him — but to keep him 
 company ; that done, she lighted his pipe with 
 the best canaster — his sole luxury and expense ; 
 but she always contrived that he should afford it. 
 
 Mr. Waife' drew a long whiff, and took a more 
 serene view of affairs. He who doth not smoke 
 hath either known no great griefs, or refuseth 
 himself the softest consolation, next to that 
 which comes from heaven. " What softer than 
 woman ?" whispers the young reader. Young 
 reader, woman teases as well as consoles. Wo- 
 man makes half the sorrows which she boasts 
 the privilege to soothe. Woman consoles tis, it 
 is true, while we are young and handsome ; 
 when we are old and ugly, woman snubs and 
 scolds us. On the whole, then, woman in this 
 scale, the weed in that, Jupiter, hang out thy 
 balance, and weigh them both ; and if thou give 
 the preference to woman, all I can say is, the 
 next time Juno ruffles thee — O Jupiter, try the 
 weed ! 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Historian, in pursuance of his stern dutie.?, reveals 
 to the scorn of future ages some of the occult practices 
 which discredit the March of Light In the Xineteenth 
 C'entur)-. 
 
 "Mat I come in?" asked the Cobbler out- 
 side the door. 
 
 " Certainly come in," said Gentleman Waife. 
 Sophy looked wistfully at the aperture, and 
 sighed to see that Merle was alone. She crept 
 up to him. 
 
 "Will they not come?" she whispered. 
 
 "I hope so, pretty one; it ben't ten yet." 
 
 "Take a pipe, Merle," said Gentleman Waife, 
 with a grand Comedian air. 
 
 "No, thank you kindly; I just looked in to 
 ask if I could do any thing for ye, in case — in 
 case ye must go to-morrow." 
 
 " Nothing ; our luggage is small, and soon 
 packed. Sophy has the money to discharge the 
 meaner pait of our debt to you." 
 
 " I don't value that," said the Cobbler, color- 
 ing. 
 
 " But we value your esteem," said Mr. Waife, 
 with a smile that would have become a field- 
 marshal. "And so. Merle, you think, if I am 
 a broken-down vagrant, it must be put to the 
 long account of the celestial bodies I" 
 
 "Not a doubt of it," returned the Cobbler, 
 solemnly. " I wish you would give me date and 
 place of Sophy's birth — that's what I want — I'd 
 »ake her horiyscope. I'm sure she'd be lucky." 
 
 " I'd rather not, please," said Sophy, timidly. 
 
 "Rather not? — very odd. Why?" 
 
 "I don't want to know the future." 
 
 "That is odder and odder," quoth the Cob- 
 bler, staring; "I never heard a girl say that 
 afore." 
 
 "Wait till she's older, Mr. Merle," said 
 Waife; "girls don't want to know the future 
 till they want to be married." 
 B 
 
 " Summat in that," said the Cobbler. He 
 took up the crystal. "Have you looked into 
 this ball, pretty one, as I bade ye?" 
 
 " Yes, two or three times." 
 
 "Hal and what did you see?" 
 
 "My own face made very long," said Sophy 
 — " as long as that" — stretching out her hands. 
 
 The Cobbler shook his head dolefully, and, 
 screwing up one eye, applied the other to the 
 mystic ball. 
 
 ^Ir. Waife. " Perhaps you will see if those 
 two gentlemen are coming." 
 
 SoPHT. "Do, do! and if they will give us 
 three pounds!" 
 
 The Cobbler (triumphantly). " Then you do 
 care to know the future, after all ?" 
 
 Sophy. " Yes, so far as that goes ; but don't 
 look any farther, pray." 
 
 The Cobbler (intent upon the ball, and 
 speaking slowly, and in jerks). " A mist now. 
 Ha! an arm with a besom — sweeps all before it." 
 
 Sophy (frightened). — " Send it away, please." 
 
 Cobbler. "It is gone. Ha! there's Rugge 
 — looks verj' angry — savage, indeed." 
 
 Waife. " Good sign that I proceed." 
 
 Cobbler. "Shakes his fist; gone. Ha! a 
 young man, boyish, dark hair." 
 
 Sophy (clapping her hands). "That is the 
 young gentleman — the very young one, I mean 
 — with the kind eves; is he coming? — is he, is 
 he ?" 
 
 Waife. "Examine his pockets! do yon see 
 there three pounds ?" 
 
 Cobbler (testily). "Don't be a interrupting. 
 Ha ! he is talking with another gentleman, 
 bearded." 
 
 Sophy (whispering to her grandfather). " The 
 old young gentleman." 
 
 Cobbler (putting down the crv'stal, and with 
 great decision). "They are coming here ; I see'd 
 them at the corner of the lane, by the pubhc- 
 house, two minutes' walk to this door." He 
 took out a great silver watch : "Look, Sophy, 
 when the minute-hand gets there (or before, if 
 they walk briskly), you will hear them knock." 
 
 Sophy clasped her hands in mute suspense, 
 half-credulous, half-doubting ; then she went 
 and opened the room-door, and stood on the 
 landing-place to listen. 
 
 Merle approached the Comedian, and said, in 
 a low voice, "I wish for your sake she had the 
 gift." 
 
 Waife. " The gift I — the three pounds ! — so 
 do I !" 
 
 Cobbler. "Pooh! worth a hundred times 
 three pounds ; the gift — the spirituous gift." 
 
 Waife. "Spirituous! don't like the epithet 
 — smells of gin!" 
 
 Cobbler. " Spirituotis gift to see in the 
 crystal : if she had that, she might make your 
 fortune." 
 
 Gentleman Waife (with a sudden change of 
 I countenance). '• Ah ! I never thought of that. 
 ' But if she has not the gift, I could teach it her 
 I —eh ?" 
 
 I The Cobbler (indignantly). " I did not think 
 \ to hear this from you, Mr. Waife. Teach her 
 — you! make her an impostor, and of the wick- 
 ! edest kind, inventing lies between earth and 
 them as dwell in the seven spheres ! Fie ! No, 
 : if she hasn't the gift natural, let her alone ; 
 i what here is not heaven-sent, is devil-taught." 
 
u 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Waife (awed, but dubious). " Then you real- 
 ly think you saw all that you described, in that 
 glass egg ?" 
 
 Cobbler. "Think! — am I a liar? I spoke 
 truth, and the proof is there!" — Eat-tat went 
 the knocker at the door. 
 
 " The two minutes are just up," said the Cob- 
 bler; and Cornelius Agrippa could not have 
 said it with more wizardly effect. 
 
 " They are come, indeed," said Sophy, re- 
 entering the room softly; "I hear their voices 
 at the threshold." 
 
 The Cobbler passed by in silence, descended 
 the stairs, and conducted Vance and Lionel 
 into the Comedian's chamber; there he left 
 them, his brow overcast. Gentleman Waife had 
 displeased him sorely. 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 Showing tlie arts by ■vvhicli a man, however high in the 
 air Nature may have formed his nose, may be led by 
 that nose, and in directions perversely opposite to those 
 which, in following his nose, he might be supposed to 
 take; and therefore, that nations the most liberally 
 endowed with practical good sense, and in conceit 
 thereof, cai-rying their noses the most horizontally 
 aloof, when they come into conference with nations 
 more skilled in diplomacy, and more practiced in 
 "stage-play,"' end by the surrender of the precise ob- 
 ject whicli' it was intended they should surrender be- 
 fore they laid their noses together. 
 
 We all know that Demosthenes said, Every 
 thing in oratory was acting — stage-play. Is it 
 in oratory alone that the saying holds good ? 
 Apply it to all circumstances of life — "stage- 
 play, stage-pla)-, stage-i)lay !" — only ars est celare 
 artcm, conceal the art. Gleesome in soul to be- 
 hold his visitors, calculating already on the 
 three pounds to be extracted from them, seeing 
 in that hope the crisis in his own checkered ex- 
 istence, ]\lr. Waife rose from his seat in superb 
 upocrisia or stage-play, and asked, with mild 
 dignity — "To -what am I indebted, gentlemen, 
 for the honor of yoiu* visit?" 
 
 In spite of his nose, even Vance was taken 
 aback. Pope says that Lord Bolingbroke had 
 " the nobleman air." A great comedian Lord 
 Bolingbroke surely was. But, ah, had Pope 
 seen Gentleman Waife ! Taking advantage of 
 the impression he had created, the actor added, 
 with the finest imaginable breeding — "But pray 
 be seated ;" and, once seeing them seated, re- 
 sumed his easy-chair, and felt himself master of 
 the situation. 
 
 "Hum !" said Vance, recovering his self-pos- 
 session, after a pause — "hum!" 
 
 " Hem !" re-echoed Gentleman Waife ; and 
 the two men eyed each other much in the same 
 way as Admiral Napier might have eyed the 
 fort of Cronstadt, and the fort of Cronstadt have 
 eyed Admiral Napier. 
 
 Lionel struck in with that youthful boldness 
 which plays the deuce with all dignified, stra- 
 tegical science. 
 
 " You must be aware why we come, Sir ; IMr. 
 Merle will have explained. My friend, a dis- 
 tinguished artist, wished to make a sketch, if 
 you do not object, of this young lady's verj' — " 
 " Pretty little face," quoth Vance, taking up 
 the discourse. " Mr. Rugge, this morning, was 
 willing — I understand that your grandchild re- 
 fused. We are come here to see if she will 
 
 be more complaisant under your own roof, or 
 under Mr. Merle's, Avhich, I take it, is the same 
 thing for the present" — Sophy had sidled up to 
 Lionel. He might not have been flattered if 
 lie knew why she preferred him to Vance. She 
 looked on him as a boy — a fellow-child — and 
 an instinct, moreover, told her, that more easily 
 through him than his shrewd-looking, bearded 
 guest could she attain the object of her cupidity 
 — "three pounds!" 
 
 "Three pounds!" whispered Sophy, ^^ith the 
 tones of an angel, into Lionel's thrilling ear. 
 
 Mr. Waife. " Sir, I will be frank with you." 
 At that ominous commencement Mr. Vance re- 
 coiled, and mechanically buttoned his trowsers 
 pocket. INIr. Waife noted the gesture with his 
 one eye, and proceeded cautiously, feeling his 
 way, as it were, toward the interior of the re- 
 cess thus protected. "My grandchild declined 
 your flattering proposal with my full approba- 
 tion. She did not consider — neither did I — that 
 the managerial rights of Mr. llugge entitled 
 him to the moiety of her face — off the stage." 
 The Comedian paused, and Mltli a voice, the 
 mimic drollery of which no hoarseness could 
 altogether mar, chanted the old line, 
 
 " ' 3Iy face is my fortune, Sir,' she said." 
 
 Vance smiled — Lionel laughed; Sophy nes- 
 tled still nearer to the boy. 
 
 Gentleman W-wfe (with pathos and dignity). 
 " You see before you an old man ; one way of 
 life is the same to me as another. But she — 
 do you think Mr. Eugge's stage the right place 
 for her?" 
 
 Vance. " Certainly not. "WHiy did yon not in- 
 troduce her to the London manager who would 
 have engaged yourself?" 
 
 Waife could not conceal a sliglit change of 
 countenance. "How do I know she would have 
 succeeded ? She had never then trod the boards. 
 Besides, what strikes you as so good in a village 
 show may be poor enough in a metropolitan the- 
 atre. Gentlemen, I did my best for her — you 
 can not think otherwise, since she maintains me! 
 I am no CEdipus, yet she is my Antigone." 
 
 Vance. "You know the classics. Sir. Mr. 
 Merle said you were a scholar ! — read Sophocles 
 in his native Greek, I presume. Sir ?" 
 
 Mr. Waife. " You jeer at the unfortunate ; 
 I am used to it." 
 
 Vance (confused). "I did not mean to wound 
 you — I beg pardon. But your language and 
 manner are not what — what one miglit expect 
 to find in a— in a — Bandit persecuted by a re- 
 morseless Baron." 
 
 Mr. Waife. " Sir, you say you are an artist. 
 Have you heard no tales of your professional 
 brethren — men of genius the liighest, who won 
 fame which I never did, and failed of fortune 
 as I have done ? Their own fault, jierhaps — 
 improvidence, wild habits — ignorance of tlic 
 way how to treat life and deal with their fellow- 
 men ; such fault may have been mine, too. I 
 sufler for it ; no matter — I ask none to save me. 
 You are a painter — you would place her features 
 on your canvas- — you would have her rank among 
 your own creations. She may become a ];art of 
 your immortality. Princes may gaze on the 
 effigies of the innocent, happy childhood, to 
 which your colors lend imperishable glow. They 
 may ask who and what was this fair creature? 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 19 
 
 Will yoa answer, ' One whom I found in tinsel, : 
 and so left, sore that she would die in rags I' — 
 Save her 1" 
 
 Lionel drew forth his purse, and poured its 
 contents on the table. Vance covered them 
 with his broad hand, and swept them into his 
 own jKJcket I At that sinister action Waife felt 
 his heart sink into his shoes ; but his face was ' 
 calm as a Roman's, only he resumed his pipe 
 with a prolonged and testy whiff. 
 
 " It is I who am to take the portrait, and 
 it is I who will pay for it," said Vance. '• I 
 understand that you have a pressing occasion 
 for — ■' ''Three jxjunds I" muttered Sophy, 
 sturdily, through the tears which her grand- 
 fathers pathos had drawn forth from her 
 downcast ieyes — "Three pounds — three — ' 
 three." | 
 
 "You shall have them. But listen ; I meant 
 only to take a sketch — I must now have a fin- 
 ished portrait. I can not take this by candle- 
 light. Yon must let me come here to-morrow ; 
 and yet to-morrow, I understand, you meant to 
 leave?" 
 
 Waife. " If you will generously bestow on 
 us the sum you say, we shall not leave the vil- 
 lage till you have completed your picture. It is 
 Mr. Uugge and his company we will leave." 
 
 Vance. " And may I venture to ask what you 
 propose to do toward a new livelihood for your- 
 self and your grandchild, by the help of a sum 
 which is certainly much for we to pay — enor- 
 mous, I might say. quoad me — but small for a 
 capital whereon to set up a business?"' 
 
 Waife. " Excuse me if I do not answer that , 
 \er\ natural question at present. Let me as- 
 sure you that that precise sum is wanted for an 
 investment which promises her and myself an 
 easy existence. But to insure my scheme I 
 must keep it secret. Do you believe me ?" . 
 
 '• I do I" cried Lionel ; and Sophy, whom, by 
 this time he had drawn upon his lap, put her \ 
 arm gratefully round his neck. | 
 
 '• There is your money. Sir, beforehand," said 
 Vance, declining downward his betrayed and ' 
 resentful nose, and depositing three sovereigns 
 on the table. ; 
 
 •'And how do you know," said Waife, smil- j 
 ing, "that I may not be off to-night with your \ 
 money and your model ?" 
 
 "Well," said Vance, curtly, "I think it is on 
 the cards. Still, as John Kemble said when re- 
 buked for too large an alms, 
 
 ' It is not often that I do these things. 
 But when 1 do, I do them handsomely.' '' 
 
 " Well applied, and well delivered. Sir," said ' 
 the Comedian, " only you should put a little 
 more emphasis on the word rfo." 
 
 •• Did I not put enough ? I am sure I felt it 
 strongly ; no one can feel the do morel" 
 
 Waife's pliant face relaxed into genial bright- 
 ness — the equivoque charmed him. However, 
 not affecting to comprehend it, he thrust back 
 the money and said, "No, Sir — not a shilling 
 till the picture is completed. Nay, to relieve 
 your mind, I will own that, had 1 no scruple 
 more deUcate, I would rather receive nothing 
 till Mr. Rugge is gone. True, he has no right 
 to any share in it. But you see before you a 
 man who, when it comes to arguing, could nev- 
 er take a wrangler's degree — never get over the 
 
 Ass's Bridge, Sir. Plucked at it scores of times 
 clean as a feather. But do not go yet. You 
 came to give us money ; give us what, were I 
 rich, I should value more highly — a little of your 
 time. You, Sir, are an artist ; and you, young 
 gentleman?" addressing Lionel. 
 
 Lionel (coloring). "I — am nothing as yet." 
 
 Waife. " You are fond of the drama, I pre- 
 sume, both of you. Apropos of John Kemble, 
 yon, Sir, said that you have never heard him. 
 Allow me, so far as this cracked voice can do 
 it, to give you a faint idea of him." 
 
 "I shall be delighted," said Vance, drawing 
 nearer to the table, and feeling more at his ease. 
 " But since I see you smoke, may I take the lib- 
 erty to light my cigar?" 
 
 " Make yourself at home," said Gentleman 
 Waife, with the good-humor of a fatherly host. 
 And all the while Lionel and Sophy were bab- 
 bling together, she still upon his lap. 
 
 Waife began his imitation of John Kemble. 
 Despite the cracked voice it was admirable. 
 One imitation drew on another ; then succeed- 
 ed anecdotes of the Stage, of the Senate, of the 
 Bar. Waife had heard great orators, whom ev- 
 ery one still admires for the speeches which no- 
 body, nowadays, ever reads ; he gave a lively 
 idea of each. And then came sayings of dry 
 humor, and odd scraps of worldly observation ; 
 and time flew on pleasantly till the clock struck 
 twelve, and the young guests tore themselves 
 away. 
 
 •• Merle, iferle !" cried the Comedian, when 
 they were gone. 
 
 Merle appeared. 
 
 " We don't go to-morrow. When Rngge 
 sends for us (as he will do at daybreak), say so. 
 Y'ou shall lodge us a few days longer, and then 
 — and then — my httle Sophy, kiss mc, ki?s me ; 
 You are saved at least from those horrid paint- 
 ed creatures I" 
 
 "Ah, ah," growled Merle from below, "he 
 has got the money 1 Glad to hear it. But," 
 he added, as he glanced at sundrv- weird and 
 astrological s^-mbols with which he had been 
 diverting himself, "that's not it. The true ho- 
 rary question is, Wh-vt avill he do vmu. it ?" 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The Historian shovrs that, notwithstanding the progress- 
 ive Fpirit of the times, a Briton is not permitted, with- 
 out an effort, '"to progress" according to his own incli- 
 nations, 
 
 SopHT could not sleep. At first she was too 
 happy. Without being conscious of any degra- 
 dation in her lot among the itinerant anists of 
 Mr. Rugge's exhibition (how could she, when 
 her beloved and revered protector had been one 
 of those artists for years ?), yet, instinctively, she 
 shrunk from their contact. Doubtless, while ab- 
 sorbed in some stirring part, she forgot compan- 
 ions, audience, all, and enjoyed what she per- 
 formed — necessarily enjoyed, for her acting was 
 really excellent, and where no enjoyment there 
 no excellence ; but when the histrionic enthusi- 
 asm was not positively at work, she crept to her 
 grandfather with something between loathing 
 and terror of the "painted creatures" and her 
 own borrowed tinsel. 
 
20 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 But more than all, she felt acutely eveiy in- 
 dignity 01- affront offered to Gentleman Waife. 
 Heaven knows these were not few ; and to es- 
 cape from such a life — to be with her grand- 
 father alone, have him all to lierself to tend and 
 to pet, to listen to, and to prattle with, seemed 
 to her the consummation of human felicity. Ah, 
 but should she be all alone? Just as she was 
 lulling herself into a doze, that question seized 
 and roused her. And then it was not happiness 
 that ke]3t her waking — it was what is less rare 
 in the female breast — curiosity. Who was to 
 be the mysterious third, to whose acquisition 
 the three pounds were evidently to be devoted? 
 What new face had she purchased by the loan 
 of her own ? Not the Pig-faced Lad}-, nor the 
 Spotted Boy. Could it be the Norfolk Giant, 
 or the Calf with Two Heads ? Horrible idea ! 
 Monstrous phantasmagoria began to stalk before 
 her eyes ; and, to charm them away, with great 
 fervor she fell to saying her prayers — an act of 
 devotion Avhich she had forgotten, in her excite- 
 ment, to ]jerform before resting her head on her 
 pillow — but, could we peep into the soft spirit- 
 world around us, we might find the omission not 
 noted down in very dark characters by the re- 
 cording angel. 
 
 That act over, her thoughts took a more come- 
 ly aspect than had been worn by the preceding 
 phantasies, reflected Lionel's kind looks, and re- 
 peated his gentle words. " Heaven bless him !" 
 she said, with emphasis, as a supplement to the 
 habitual prayers ; and then tears gathered to her 
 grateful eyelids, for she was one of those beings 
 whose tears come slow from sorrow, quick from 
 affection. And so the gi-ay dawn found her still 
 wakeful, and she rose, bathed her cheeks in the 
 cold fresh water, and drew them forth with a 
 glow like Hebe's. Dressing herself with the 
 quiet activity which characterized ail her move- 
 ments, she then opened the casement and in- 
 haled the air. All was still in the narrow lane, 
 the shops yet unclosed. But on the still trees 
 behind the shops the birds were beginning to 
 stir and chirp. Chanticleer, from some neigh- 
 boring yard, rung out his brisk reveilke. Pleas- 
 ant English summer dawn in the pleasant En- 
 glish country village. She stretched her grace- 
 ful neck far from the casement, trying to catch 
 .1 glimpse of the blue river. She had seen its 
 majestic flow on the day they had an-ived at 
 the fair, and longed to gain its banks ; then her 
 servitude to the stage forbade her. Now she 
 was to be free ! Oh, joy ! Now she might have 
 her careless hours of holiday; and, forgetful of 
 Waife's warning that their vocation must be 
 plied in towns, she let her fancy run riot amidst 
 visions of green fields and laughing waters, and 
 in fond delusion gathered the daisies and chased 
 the butterflies. Changeling transferred into that 
 lowest world of Art from the cradle of simple 
 Nature, her human child's heart yearned for the 
 human childlike delights. All children love the 
 country, the flowers, the sward, the bii"ds, the 
 butterflies, or, if some do not, despair, oh. Phi- 
 lanthropy, of their after-lives ! 
 
 She closed the window, smiling to herself, 
 stole through the adjoining door-way, and saw 
 that her grandfather was still asleep. Then she 
 busied herself in ])utting the little sitting-room 
 to rights, reset the table for the morning meal, 
 watered the stocks, and, finally, took up the 
 
 crystal and looked into it ■ndth awe, wondering 
 
 \ why the Cobbler could see so much, and she 
 
 : only the distorted reflection of her own face. 
 
 ' So interested, however, for once, did she become 
 
 in the inspection of this mystic globe that she 
 
 did not notice the dawn pass into broad daylight, 
 
 nor hear a voice at the door below — nor, in short, 
 
 take into cognition the external world, till a 
 
 heavy tread shook the floor, and then, starting, 
 
 she beheld the Remorseless Baron, with a face 
 
 black enough to have darkened the crystal of Dr. 
 
 Dee himself. 
 
 " Ho, ho !" said Mr. Eugge, in hissing accents, 
 which had often thrilled the threepenny gallery 
 with anticipative horror. "Rebellious, eh?-^ 
 won't come ? Where's your grandfather, bag- 
 gage ?" 
 
 Sophy let fall the crystal — a mercy it was not 
 broken — and gazed vacantly on the Baron. 
 
 "Your vile scamp of a grandfather?'' 
 
 Sophy (with spirit). " He is not vile. You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself speaking so, 
 Mr. Rugge !" 
 
 Here, simultaneously, Mr. Waife hastily, en- 
 dued in his gray dressing-gown, presented him- 
 self at the aperture of the bedroom door, and the 
 Cobbler on the threshold of the sitting-room. 
 The Comedian stood mute, trusting, perha]js, to 
 the imposing effect of his attitude. The Cobbler, 
 yielding to the impulse of untheatric man, put 
 his head doggedly on one side, and, with both 
 hands on his hips, said, 
 
 " Civil words to my lodgers, master, or out 
 yon go!" 
 
 The Remorseless Baron glared vindictively 
 first at one, and then at the other; at length he 
 strode up to Waife, and said, with a withering 
 grin, " I have something to say to you ; shall I 
 say it before your landlord?" 
 
 The comedian waved his hand to the Cobbler. 
 
 "Leave us, my friend ; I shall not require you. 
 Step this way, ]\Ir. Rugge." Rugge entered the 
 bedroom, and Waife closed the door behind 
 them. 
 
 "Anan," quoth the Cobbler, scratching his 
 head. "I don't quite take your gi-andfather's 
 giving in. British ground here ! But your as- 
 cendant can not surely be in such malignant 
 conjunction with that obstreperous tyrant as to 
 bind you to him hand and foot. Let's see what 
 the Crystal thinks of it. Take it up gently, and 
 come down stairs with me." 
 
 " Please, no ; I'll stay near grandfather," said 
 Sophy, resolutely. "He shan't be left helpless 
 with that rude man." 
 
 The Cobbler could not help smiling. "Lord 
 love you," said he; "you have a spirit of your 
 own, and, if you were my ^yife, I should bo 
 afraid of you. But I won't stand here eaves- 
 dropping ; mayhap your grandfather has secrets 
 I'm not to hear; call me if I'm wanted." He 
 descended. Sophy, with less noble disdain of 
 eaves-dropping, stood in the centre of the room, 
 holding her breath to listen. She heard no 
 sound — she had half a mind to put her ear to 
 the key-hole, but that seemed, even to her, a 
 mean thing, if not absolutely required by the 
 necessity of the case. So there she still stood, 
 her head bent down, her finger raised: oh that 
 Vance could have so jjuinted her! 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 21 
 
 CHATTER X. 
 
 Showing the causes why Men and Nation?, when one Man 
 or Nation wishes to get for its own arbitraiy purposes 
 what the other Man or Nation does not desire to part 
 •with, are apt to ignore the mild precepts of Christiani- 
 ty, shock the sentiments, and upset the theories of Peace 
 Societies. 
 
 " Am I to understand," said Mr. Ragge, in a 
 whisper, when Waife had drawn him to the far- 
 thest end of the inner room, with the bed-cur- 
 tains between their position and the door dead- 
 ening the sound of their voices — " am I to un- 
 derstand that, after mv taking you and that 
 child to my theatre out of charity, and at your 
 own request, you are going to quit me without 
 warning — French leave — is that British con- 
 duct ?" 
 
 " Mr. Rugge," replied Waife, deprecatingly, 
 " I have no" engagement with you beyond an 
 experimental trial. We were free on both sides 
 for three months — you to dismiss us any day, 
 we to leave you. The experiment does not 
 please us ; we thank you, and depart." 
 
 RfGGE. " That is not the truth. I said /was 
 free to dismiss you both if the child did not suit. 
 You. poor helpless creature, could be of no use. 
 But I never heard you say you were to be free, 
 too. Stand to reason not ! Put my engage- 
 ments at a Waife's mercy I — I, Lorenzo Rugge ! 
 — stuff 1 But I'm a just man, and a liberal man, 
 and if you think you ought to have a higher sal- 
 ary — if this ungrateful proceeding is only, as I 
 take it, a strike for wages — I will meet you. Ju- 
 lia Araminta does play better than I could have 
 supixjsed ; and I'll conclude an engagement on 
 good terms, as we were to have done if the ex- 
 periment answered, for three years." 
 
 Waife shook his head. " You are very good, 
 Mr. Rugge, but it is not a strike. My little girl 
 does not like the life at any price : and since she 
 supports me, I am bound to please her. Besides," 
 said the actor, with a stiffer manner, '• you have 
 broken faith with me. It was fully understood 
 that I was to appear no more on your stage ; all 
 mv task was to advise with you in the perform- 
 aiices, remodel the plays, help in the stage-man- 
 agement ; and you took advantage of my penu- 
 rv, and, when 1 asked for a small advance, in- 
 sisted on forcing these relics of what I was upon 
 the public pity. Enough — we part. I bear no 
 malice." 
 
 KcGGE. "Oh, don't you? Xo more do I. 
 But I am a Briton, and I have the spirit of one. 
 You had better not make an enemy of me." 
 
 W.\iFE. " I am above the necessity of making 
 enemies. I have an enemv ready made in my- 
 self." 
 
 Rugge placed a strong bony hand upon the 
 cripple's arm. " I dare say you have I A bad 
 conscience, Sir. How would yon like your past 
 life looked into and blabbed out ?" 
 
 Gentleman Waife (mournfully). '• The last 
 
 four years of it have been spent in your ser\ice, 
 
 ■ Mr. Rugge. If their record had been blabbed 
 
 out for my benefit, there would not have been a 
 
 dry eye in the house." 
 
 Rugge. " I disdain your sneer. When a scor- 
 pion nursed at my bosom sneers at me, I leave 
 it to its own reflections. But I don't speak of 
 the years in which that scorpion has been en- 
 joying a salary and smoking canaster at my ex- 
 pense. I refer to an earlier dodge in its check- 
 
 ered existence. Ha, Sir, you wince! I sus- 
 pect I can find out something about you which 
 would — " 
 
 Waife (fiercely). "Would what?" 
 Rcgge. -'Oh, lower your tone, Sir — no bully- 
 ing me. I suspect ! I have good reason for sus- 
 picion; and if you sneak off in this way, and 
 cheat me out of my property in Julia Araminta, 
 I will leave no stone imturned to prove what I 
 suspect. Look to it. slight man ! Come, I don't 
 wish to quarrel; make it up, and" (drawing out 
 his pocket-book) " if you want cash down, and 
 will have an engagement in black and white for 
 three years for Julia Araminta, you may squeeze 
 a good sum out of me, and go yourself where you 
 please ; you'll never be troubled by mc. What 
 I want is the girl." 
 
 All the actor laid aside, Waife growled out, 
 "And hang me. Sir, if you shall have the girl !" 
 At this moment Sophy opened the door wide, 
 and entered boldly. She had heard her grand- 
 father's voice raised, though its hoarse tones did 
 not allow her to distinguish his words. She was 
 alarmed for him. She came in, his guardian 
 fairv, to protect him from the oppressor of six 
 feet high. Rugge 's arm was raised, not indeed 
 to strike, but rather to declaim. Sophy slid be- 
 tween him and her grandfather, and clinging 
 round the latter, flung out her own arm, the 
 forefinger raised menacingly toward the Re- 
 morseless Baron. How you would have clapped 
 if you had seen her so at Covent Garden. But 
 I'll swear the child did not know she was act- 
 ing. Rugge did, and was struck with admira- 
 tion and regretful rage at the idea of losing her. 
 "Bravo I" said he, involuntarily. "Come — 
 come, Waife, look at her — she was bom for the 
 stage. My heart swells with pride. She is my 
 property, morally speaking ; make her so legal- 
 ly — and hark, in your ear — fifty pounds. Take 
 me in the humor. Golgonda opens — fifty 
 pounds I" 
 
 "Xo," said the vagrant. 
 "Well," said Rugge, sullenly, "let her speak 
 for herself." 
 
 " Speak, child. Yon don't wish to return to 
 ;Mr. Rugge — and without me, too — do you, So- 
 phv?" 
 
 " Without you, Grandy ! Td rather die first." 
 "You hear her; allis settled between us. 
 Yon have had our services up to last night ; you 
 have paid us up to last night ; and so good- 
 morning to you, Mr. Rugge." 
 
 " Mv dear child," said the manager, softening 
 his voice as much as he could, "do consider. 
 I You shall be so made of, without that stupid old 
 I man. You think me cross, but 'tis he who irri- 
 ', tates and puts me out of temper. I'm uncom- 
 mon fond of children. I had a babe of my own 
 once — upon my honor I had — and if it had not 
 been for convulsions, caused by teething, I should 
 be a father still. Supply to nie the place of that 
 beloved babe. You shall have such fine dresses ; 
 all new — choose 'em yourself — minced veal and 
 raspberr)- tarts for dinner every Sunday. In 
 three years, under my care, you will become a 
 great actress, and make your fortune, and marry 
 a lord — lords go out of their wits for great act- 
 resses — whereas, with him, what will you do ? 
 Drudge, and rot, and starve; and he can't live 
 long, and then where will you be ? 'Tis a shame 
 . to hold her so, you idle old vagabond." 
 
22 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 " I don't hold her," said Waife, trying to push 
 her away. "There's something in what the man 
 says. Choose for yourself, Sophy." 
 
 Sophy (suppressing a sob). "How can you 
 have the heart to talk so, Grandy? I tell you, 
 Mr. Eugge, you are a bad man, and I hate you, 
 and all about you — and I'll stay with grand- 
 father — and I don't care if I do stane — he 
 shan't 1" 
 
 Mr. RuGGE (clapping both hands on the crown 
 of his hat, and striding to the door). '-William 
 Waife, beware I 'Tis done ! I'm your enemy ! 
 As for you, too dear but abandoned infant, stay 
 with him. You'll find out very soon who and 
 what he is — yoiu' pride will have a fall, when — " 
 
 Waife sprang forward, despite his lameness — 
 both his fists clenched, his one eye ablaze ; his 
 broad, burly torso confronted and daunted the 
 stormy manager. Taller and younger though 
 Rugge was, he cowered before the cripple he had 
 so long taunted and humbled. The words stood 
 arrested on his tongue. " Leave the room in- 
 stantly I" thundered the actor, in a voice no lon- 
 ger broken. ' ' Blacken my name before that child 
 by one word, and I will dash the next down your 
 throat I" 
 
 Rugge rushed to the door, and keeping it ajar 
 between Waife and himself, he then thrust in 
 his head, hissing forth, " Fly, caitiff", fly ! My 
 revenge shall track your secret, and place you in 
 my power. Juliet Araminta shall yet be mine '." 
 With these awful words the Eemoi-seless Baron 
 cleared the stairs in two bounds, and was out of 
 the house. 
 
 Waife smiled, contemptuously. But as the 
 street-door clanged on the form of the angry 
 manager the color faded from the old man's 
 face. Exhausted by the excitement he had gone 
 through, he sank on a chair, and with one quick 
 gasp as for breath, fainted away. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Progress of the Fine Arts. — Biographical Anecdotes. — 
 Fluctuations in the Value of Money. — Speculative 
 Tendencies of the Time. 
 
 Whatever the shock which the brutality of 
 the Remorseless Baron inflicted on the nenotis 
 system of the persecuted but triumphant Bandit, 
 it had certainly subsided by the time Vance 
 and Lionel entered Waife's apartment, for they 
 found grandfather and grandchild seated near 
 the open window, at the corner of the table (on 
 which they had made room for their operations 
 by the removal of the carded cocoanut, the cr}"s- 
 tal egg, and the two flower-pots), eagerly en- 
 gaged, with many a silvery laugh from the lips 
 of Sophy, in the game of dominoes. 
 
 Mr. Waife had been devoting himself, for the 
 last hour and more, to the instruction of Sophy 
 in the mysteries of that intellectual amusement, 
 and such pains did he take, and so impressive 
 were his exhortations, that his happy pupil could 
 not help thinking to herself that this was the 
 new art upon which Waife depended for their 
 future livelihood. She sprang up, however, at 
 the entrance of the visitors, her face beaming 
 with grateful smiles ; and, running to Lionel, 
 and taking him by the hand, while she courtesied 
 with more respect to Vance, she exclaimed, 
 
 "We are free! thanks to you — thanks to you 
 both I He is gone ! Mr. Rugge is gone I" 
 
 " So I saw on passing the green ; stage and 
 all," said Vance, while Lionel kissed the child 
 and pressed her to his side. It is astonishing 
 how paternal he felt — how much she had crept 
 into his heart. 
 
 '■Pray, Sir," asked Sophy, timidly, glancing 
 to Vance, "has the Norfolk Giant gone too?" 
 
 Vance. " I fancy so — all the shows were ei- 
 ther gone or goins." 
 
 SopHT. "The Calf with Two Heads?" 
 
 Vance. " Do you regret it ?" 
 
 Sophy. " Oh, dear, no." 
 
 Waife, who, after a profound bow, and a 
 cheery ''Good-day, gentlemen," had hitherto 
 I'cmained silent, putting away the dominoes, 
 now said — "I suppose, Sir, you would like at 
 once to begin your sketch ?" 
 
 Vanxe. "Yes; I have brought all my tools — 
 see, even the canvas. I wish it were larger, 
 but it is all I have with me of that material — 
 'tis already stretched — just let me arrange the 
 light." 
 
 Waife. "If you don't want ine, gentlemen, 
 I will take the air for half an hour or so. In 
 fact, I may^ now feel free to look after my invest- 
 ment." 
 
 Sophy (whispering Lionel). "You are sure 
 the Calf has gone as well as the Norfolk Giant ?" 
 
 Lionel wonderingly replied that he thought 
 so ; and Waife disappeared into his room, whence 
 he soon emerged, having doft'ed his dressing- 
 gown for a black coat, by no means threadbare, 
 and well brushed. Hat, stick, and gloves in 
 hand, he really seemed respectable — more than 
 respectable — Gentleman Waife eveiy inch of 
 him; and saying, "Look your best, Sophy, and 
 sit still, if you can," nodded pleasantly to the 
 three, and hobbled down the stairs. Sophy — 
 whom Vance had just settled into a chair, with 
 her head bent partially down (three quarters), 
 as the artist had released 
 
 "The loose train of her amber-flowing hair," 
 and was contemplating aspect and position with 
 a painter's meditative eye — started up, to his 
 great discomposure, and rushed to the window. 
 She returned to her seat with her mind much 
 relieved. Waife was walking in an opposite di- 
 rection to that which led toward the whilome 
 quarters of the Norfolk Giant and the Two- 
 headed Calf 
 
 "Come, come," said Vance, impatiently, 
 " you have broken an idea in half. I beg you 
 will not stir till I have jjlaced you — and then, 
 if all else of you be still, you may exercise yoar 
 tongue. I give you leave to talk." 
 
 Sophy (penitentially). "I am so sorry — I beg 
 pardon. Will that do. Sir ?" 
 
 Vance. "Head a little more to the right — 
 so. Titania watching Bottom :.sleep. Will you 
 lie on the floor, Lionel, and do Bottom ?" 
 
 Lionel (indignantly). '-Bottom I Have I an 
 ass's head ?" 
 
 Vance. "Immaterial! I can easily imagine 
 that you have one. I want merely an outline 
 of figure — something sprawling and ungainly." 
 
 Lionel (sulkily). '-^Much obliged to you — 
 imagine that too." 
 
 Vance. " Don't be so disobliging. It is nec- 
 essary that she should look fondly at something 
 — expression in the eye." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH FT ? 
 
 23 
 
 Lionel at once reclined himself incumbent in 
 a position as little sprawling and ungainly as he 
 could well contrive. 
 
 Vance. " Fancy, Miss Sophy, that this young 
 gentleman is ven.' dear to you. Have you got 
 a brother ?" 
 
 Sopnv. " Ah no, Sir," 
 
 Vaxce. " Hum. But you have, or have had, 
 a doll?" 
 
 Sophy. "Oh, yes; grandfather gave me one." 
 
 Vaxce. "And you were fond of that doll?" 
 
 Sophy. '• Very." 
 
 Vance. "Fancy that young gentleman is 
 your doll grown big — that it is asleei». and you 
 are watching that no one hurts it — >lr. Kugge, 
 for instance. Throw your whole soul into that 
 thought — love for doll, apprehension of Rugge. 
 Lionel, keep still and shut your eyes — do." 
 
 Lionel (grumbling). "I did not come here 
 to be made a doll of." 
 
 Vaxce. "Coax him to be quiet, iliss Sophy, 
 and sleep peaceably, or I shall do him a mis- 
 chief. I can be a Rugge too, if I am put out." 
 
 Sophy (in the softest tones). "Do try and 
 sleep. Sir — shall I get you a pillow?" 
 
 Lionel. " No. thank you — Fm very comfort- 
 able now" (settling his head upon his arm, and 
 after one upward glance toward Sophy, the lids 
 closed reluctantly over his softened eyes). A 
 ray of sunshine came aslant through the half- 
 shut ^\•indow, and played along the boy's clus- 
 tering hair and smooth pale cheeL Sophy's 
 gaze rested on him most benignly. 
 
 "Just so," said Vance; "and now be silent 
 till I have got the attitude and fixed the look." 
 
 The artist sketched away rapidly with a bold 
 practiced hand, and all was silent for about 
 half an hour, when he said, "You m.iy get up, 
 Lionel ; I have done with you for the present." 
 
 Sophy. "And me, too — may I see?" 
 
 Vaxce. "No; but you may talk now. So 
 Tou had a doll ? What has become of it?" 
 
 Sophy. "I left it behind. Sir. Grandfather 
 thought it would distract me from attending to 
 his lessons, and learning my part." 
 
 Vaxce. "You love your grandfather more 
 than the doll ?" 
 
 Sophy. " Oh I a thousand million million 
 times more." 
 
 Vaxce. " He brought you up, I suppose. 
 Have you no father — no mother ?" 
 
 Sophy. "I have only grandfather." 
 
 Lionel. " Have you always lived with him ?" 
 
 Sophy. "Dear me, no; I was with Mrs. 
 Crane till grandfather came from abroad, and 
 took me away, and put me with some ver\- kind 
 people ; and then, when grandfather had that 
 bad accident, I came to stay with him, and we 
 have been together ever since." 
 
 Lionel. "Was Mrs. Crane no relation of 
 yours ?" 
 
 SoFFTi". "No, I suppose not, for she was not 
 kind — I was so miserable ; but don't talk of it — 
 I forget that now. I only wish to remember 
 from the time grandfather took me in his lap, 
 and told me to l>e a good child, and love him; 
 and I have been happy ever since." 
 
 " You are a dear good child," said Lionel, 
 emphatically, "and I wish I had you for my 
 sister," 
 
 Vaxce. "TNTien your grandfather has re- 
 ceived from me that exorbitant — not that I 
 
 grudge it — sum, I should like to ask, What will 
 he do with it? As he said it was a secret, I 
 must not pump you." 
 
 Sophy. " What will he do with it ? I should 
 hke to know too, bir; but whatever it is, I 
 don't care, so long as I and grandfather are to- 
 gether." 
 
 Here Waife re-entered. "Well, how goes 
 on the picture ?" 
 
 Vaxce. "Tolerably for the first sitting; I 
 require two more." 
 
 Waife. "Certainly; only — only" (he drew 
 aside Vance, and whispered;, -only, the day 
 after to-morrow, I fear I sha// want the money. 
 It is an occasion that never will occur again — I 
 would seize it." 
 
 Vaxce. "Take the money, now." 
 
 Waife. "Well, thank you. Sir; you are sure 
 now that we shall not run away — and I accept 
 your kindness ; it will make all safe." 
 
 Vance, with surprising alacrity, slipped the 
 sovereigns into the old man's hand ; for, truth 
 to say, though thrifty, the Artist was really 
 generous. His organ of caution was large, but 
 that of acquisitiveness moderate. 3Ioreover, in 
 those moments when his soul expanded with his 
 art, he was insensibly less alive to the value of 
 money. And strange it is that, though states 
 strive to fix for that commodity the most abid- 
 ing standards, yet the value of money, to the 
 indi\-idual who regards it, shifts and fluctuates, 
 goes up and down half a dozen times a day. 
 For my part, I honestly declare that there are 
 hours in the twenty-four — such, for instance, 
 as that just before breakfast, or that succeeding 
 a page of this History in which I have been put 
 out of temper with my performance and my- 
 self, when any one in want of five shillings at 
 my disposal would find my value of that sum 
 put ii quite out of his reach ; while at other 
 times — just after dinner, for instance, or whcM 
 I have efiected what seems to me a happy stroke, 
 or a good bit of color, in this historical composi- 
 tion — the value of those five shillings is so much 
 depreciated that I might be — I think so. at least 
 — I might be almost tempted to give them away 
 for nothing. Lender some such mysterious in- 
 fluences in the money market, Vance, there- 
 fore, felt not the loss of his three sovereigns ; 
 and, returning to his easel, drove away Lionel 
 and Sophy, who had taken that opportunity to 
 gaze on the canvas. 
 
 "Don't do her justice at all," quoth Lionel; 
 " all the features exaggerated." 
 
 "And yon pretend to paint 1" returned Vance, 
 in great scorn, and throwing a cloth over his 
 canvas. '• To-morrow. Mr. Waife, the same 
 hour. Now, Lionel, get your hat, and come 
 away." 
 
 Vance carried off the canvas, and Lionel fol- 
 lowed slowly. Sophy gazed at their departing 
 forms from the open window ; Waife stumped 
 about the room, rubbing his hands — '• He'll do, 
 he'll do ; I always thought so." Sophy turned 
 "Who'll do? — the young gentleman. Do 
 what ?" 
 
 Waife. " The young gentleman — as if I was 
 thinking of him. Our new companion — I hare 
 been with him this last hour. Wonderful natu- 
 ral gifts." 
 
 Sophy (niefully). "It is alive, then?" 
 
 Waife. "Alive '. yes, I should think so. 
 
24 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 SoPHT (half-crving). '-rin very soiTy; I 
 know I shall hate it." 
 
 "Tut, darling — get me my pipe — I'm hap- 
 
 py-" 
 
 Sophy (cutting short her fit of ill-humor). 
 "Are you ? — then I am, and I \yill not hate it." 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 In which it is shown that a man does this or declines to 
 do that for reasons best known to himself — a reserve 
 which is extremely conducive to the social interests of 
 a community; since the conjecture into the origin and 
 nature of those reasons stimulates tlie inquiiing facul- 
 ties, and furnishes the staple of modern conversation. 
 And as it is not to be denied that, if their neighbors 
 left them nothing to guess at, three-fourths of civil- 
 ized humankind, male or female, would have nothing 
 to talk about ; so we can not too gratefully encourage 
 that needful curiosity, termed, by the inconsiderate, 
 tittle-tattle or scandal, which saves the vast majority 
 of our species from being reduced to the degraded con- 
 dition of dumb animals. 
 
 The nest day the sitting was renewed ; but 
 Waife did not go out, and the conversation was 
 a little more restrained; or rather, Waife had 
 the larger share in it. The comedian, when he 
 pleased, could certainly be veiy entertaining. 
 It was not so much in what he said, as his man- 
 ner of saying it. He was a strange combination 
 of sudden extremes, at one while on a tone of 
 easy but not undignified familiarity with his vis- 
 itors, as if their eqiyil in position, their superior 
 in years ; then abruptly, humble, deprecating, 
 almost obsequious, almost servile ; and then, 
 again, jerked, as it were, into pride and stiff- 
 ness, falling back, as if the effort were impossi- 
 ble, into meek dejection. Still, the prevalent 
 character of the man's mood and talk was so- 
 cial, quaint, cheerful. Evidently he was, by 
 original temperament, a droll and joyous hu- 
 morist, with high animal spirits ; and, withal, 
 an infantine simplicity at times, like the clever 
 man who never learns the world, and is always 
 taken in. 
 
 A circumstance, trifling in itself, but suggest- 
 ive of speculation either as to the character or 
 antecedent circumstances of Gentleman Waife. 
 did not escape Vance's observation. Since his 
 rupture with Mr. Rugge, there was a considera- 
 ble amelioration in that affection of the trachea 
 which, while his engagement Mith Rugge last- 
 ed, had rendered the comedian's dramatic tal- 
 ents unavailable on the stage. He now express- 
 ed himself without the pathetic hoarseness or 
 cavernous wheeze which had previously thrown 
 a wet blanket over his efforts at discourse. But 
 Vance put no very stem construction on the dis- 
 simulation which this change seemed to denote. 
 Since Waife was still one-eyed and a cripple, 
 he might very excusably shrink from reappear- 
 ance on the stage, and affect a third infirmity to 
 save his pride from the exhibition of the two in- 
 firmities that were genuine. 
 
 That which most puzzled Vance was that 
 which had most puzzled the Cobbler — What 
 could the man once have been ? — how fallen so 
 low ? — for fall it was ! that was clear. The 
 painter, though not himself of patrician extrac- 
 tion, had been much in the best society. He 
 had been a petted favorite in great houses. He 
 had traveled. He had seen the world. He had 
 the habits and the instincts of good society. 
 
 Now, in what the French term the beau monde, 
 there are little traits that reveal those who have 
 entered it — certain tricks of phrase, certain 
 modes of expression — even the pronunciation 
 of familiar words, even the modulation of an ac- 
 cent. A man of the most refined bearing may 
 not have these peculiarities ; a man, otherwise 
 coarse and brusque in his manner, may. The 
 slang of the beau monde is quite apart from the 
 code of high-breeding. Now and then, some- 
 thing in Waife's talk seemed to show that he 
 had lighted on that beau-world ; now and then, 
 that something wholly vanished. So that Vance 
 might have said, "He has been admitted there, 
 not inhabited it." 
 
 Yet Vance could not feel sure, after all ; co- 
 medians are such takes-in. But was the man, 
 by the profession of his earlier life, a comedian? 
 Vance asked the question adroitly. 
 
 "You must have taken to the stage young?" 
 said he. 
 
 " The stage !" said Waife ; " if you mean the 
 public stage — no. I have acted pretty often in 
 youth, even in childhood, to amuse others, never 
 professionally to support myself, till 3Ir. Rtigge 
 civilly engaged me four years ago." 
 
 "Is it possible — with your excellent educa- 
 tion ! But pardon me ; I have hinted my sur- 
 prise at your late vocation before, and it dis- 
 pleased you." 
 
 " Displeased me !" said Waife, with an abject, 
 depressed manner ; " I hope I said nothing that 
 would have misbecome a poor broken vagabond 
 like me. I am no jjrince in disguise — a good- 
 for-nothing varlet who should be too grateful to 
 have something to keep himself from a dung- 
 hill." 
 
 LioxEL. " Don't talk so. And but for your 
 accident you might now be the great attraction 
 on the metropolitan stage. Who does not re- 
 spect a really fine actor ?" 
 
 Waipe (gloomily). " The Metropolitan Stage ! 
 I was talked into it ; I am glad even of the ac- 
 cident that saved me — say no more of that, no 
 more of that. But I have spoiled your sitting : 
 Sophy, you see, has left her chair." 
 
 " I have done for to-day," said Vance; "to- 
 morrow, and my task is ended." 
 
 Lionel came up to Vance and whispered to 
 him ; the painter, after a pause, nodded silently, 
 and then said to Waife — 
 
 " We are going to enjoy the fine weather on 
 the Thames (after I have put away these things), 
 and shall return to our inn — not far hence — to 
 sup, at eight o'clock. Supper is our principal 
 meal — we rarely spoil our days by the ceremo- 
 nial of a formal dinner. Will you do us the fa- 
 vor to sup with us ? Our host has a wonderful 
 whisky, which, when raw, is Glenlivat, but, re- 
 fined into toddy, is nectar. Bring your pipe, 
 and let us hear John Kemble again." 
 
 Waife's face lighted up. " You are most 
 kind ; nothing I should like so much. But — " 
 and the light fled, the face darkened — " but no ; 
 I can not — you don't know — that is — I — I have 
 made a vow to myself to decline all such tempt- 
 ations. I humbly beg you'll excuse me." 
 
 Vance. "Temptations! of what kind — the 
 whisky-toddy ?" 
 
 Waife (puffing away a sigh). " Ah, yes ; 
 whisky-toddy if you please. Perhaps I once 
 loved a glass too well, and could not resist a 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 flass too much now ; and if I once broke the Cobbler, followed, too, by a thin, gaunt girl, 
 rule, and became a tipyjler, what would happen ! whom he pompously called his housekeeper, but 
 to Juliet Araminta ? For her sake, don't press ; who, in sober truth, was sei"vant-of-all-work. 
 me?" I Wife he had none — his horoscope, he said, 
 
 " Oh, do go, Grandy ; he never drinks — never ' having Saturn in square to the Seventh House, 
 anv thing stronger than tea, I assure you, Sir ; ' forbade him to venture upon matrimony. All 
 it can't be that." ! gathered round the picture ; all admired, and 
 
 " It is, silly child, and nothing else," said ^ with justice — it was a clief-dccuvre. Vance in 
 Waife positively — drawing himself up. " Ex- , his maturest day never painted more charming- 
 cuse me." " \ !}'• The three pounds proved to be the best out- 
 
 Lionel bef'an brushing his hat with his sleeve, 1 lay of capital he had ever made. Pleased with 
 
 and his face worked; at last he said, "Well, 
 Sir, then may I ask another favor? Mr. Vance 
 and I are going to-morrow, after the sitting, to 
 see nam])ton Court ; we have kept that excur- 
 sion to the last before leaving these parts. 
 Would you and little Sophy come with us in the 
 boat ? we will have no whisky-toddy, and we 
 will bring you both safe home." 
 
 Waife. " " What — I — what — 1 1 You are very 
 young, Sir — a gentleman born and bred, I'll 
 swear ; and you to be seen, perhaps by some of 
 your friends or family, with an old vagrant like 
 me, in the Queen's palace — the public gardens ! 
 I should be the vilest wretch if I took such ad- 
 vantage of your goodness. 'Pretty company,' 
 they would say, ' you have got into.' With me 
 — with me! Don't be alarmed, Sir. Vance — 
 not to be thought of." 
 
 The young men were deeply affected. 
 
 "I can't accept that reason," said Lionel, 
 tremulously. '"Though I must not presume to 
 derange your habits. But she may go with us, 
 mayn't she ? We'll take care of her, and she is 
 dressed so plainly and neatly, and looks such a 
 little lady" (turning to Vance). 
 
 " Yes.let her come with us," said the artist, 
 benevolently ; though he by no means shared in 
 Lionel's enthusiastic desire for her company. 
 He thought she would be greatly in their way. 
 
 " Heaven bless you both !" answered Waife ; 
 "and she wants a holiday; she shall have it." 
 
 " I'd rather stay with you, Grandy ; you'll be 
 so lone." 
 
 " No, I wish to be out all to-mon-ow— the in- CHAPTEK XLV. 
 
 vestment! I shall not be alone— making friends ^^^ Historian takes advantage of the Bummer hours 
 with our future companion, Sophy." vouchsafed to the present life of Mr. Waife's grand- 
 
 ' And can do without me alreadv ? — heigh- child, in order to throw a few gleams of light 01} her 
 1 y, ' past. He leads her into the Palace of our Kings, and 
 
 • r>, 1 , 1 1, X i> moralizes thereon ; and entering tlie Royal Gardens, 
 
 VA^•CE. " So that S settled ; gOOd-by to you. shows the uncertainty of Human Events, and the inse- 
 
 curity of British Laws, by the abrupt seizure and con- 
 straiiied deportation of an innocent and unforeboding 
 Englishman. 
 
 Such a glorious afternoon ! The capricious 
 
 English summer was so kind that day to the 
 
 , ., . . , jfl- ,f child and her new friends ! When Sophv's small 
 
 by their exhibition into generous impulses and nights I i i j i i ii 
 
 of fancy, checked by the ungracious severities of tlieir j foot once trod the sward, had she been really 
 
 superiors, as e.xempiitied in the instance of Cobbler | Queen of the Green People, sward and footstep 
 Merle and his Seivant-of- All-Work. ! ^.q^i j „q^ u^oj-g j„yously have met together. The 
 
 The next day, perhaps with the idea of re- I grasshopper bounded, in fearless trust, upon the 
 moving all scriiple from Sojihy's mind, Waife hem of her frock ; she threw herself down on 
 had alreadv gone after his investment when the the gras.«, and caught him, but, oh, so tender- 
 friends arrived. Sophy at first was dull and dis- ly ; and the gay insect, dear to poet and fairy, 
 pirited, but by degrees" she brightened up ; and seemed to look at her from that qiiaint, sharp 
 when, the sitting over and the picture done (save face of his with sagacious recognition, resting 
 such final touches as Vance reserved for solitarj- calmly on the palm of her jiretty hand ; then 
 studv), she was permitted to gaze at her own ' when he sprang off, little moth-like butterflies 
 effie'v, she burst into exclamations of frank de- ' peculiar to the margins of running waters, quiv- 
 light. "Am I like that! is it possible? Oh, ' ered up from the herbage, fluttering round her. 
 how beautiful ! Mr. Merle, Mr. Merle, Mr. | And there, in front, lay the Thames, glittering 
 Merle !" and running out of the room before : through the willows, Vance getting ready the 
 Vance could stop her, she returned with the i boat, Lionel seated by her side, a child like her- 
 
 his work, he was pleased even with that unso- 
 phisticated applause. 
 
 '•You must have Jlercuiy and Venus very 
 strongly aspectcd," quoth the Cobbler; "and 
 if you have the Dragon's Head in the Tenth 
 House, you may count on being much talked of 
 after you are dead." 
 
 "After I am dead! — sinister omen I" said 
 Vance, discomjiosed. "I have no faith in art- 
 ists who count on being talked of after they are 
 dead. Xever knew a dauber who did not ! But 
 stand back — time flies — tie up your hair — put 
 on your bonnet, Titania. You have a shawl? 
 — not tinsel, I hope ! — quieter the better. You 
 stay and see to her, Lionel." 
 
 Said the gaunt servant-of-all-work to ]Mr. 
 Merle — "I'd let the gentleman paint me, if he 
 likes it — shall I tell him, master?" 
 
 " Go back to the bacon, foolish woman. Why, 
 he gave £3 for her likeness, 'cause of her Ben- 
 efics ! But you'd have to give him three years' 
 wages afore he'd look you straight in the face, 
 'cause, you see, your Aspects are crooked. 
 And," added the Cobbler, philosophizing, 
 " when the Malefics are dead agin a girl's mug, 
 man is so constituted by natur tliat he can't take 
 to that mug unless it has a gold handle. Don't 
 fret, 'tis not your fault : born imder Scorpio — 
 coarse-limbed — dull complexion — Head of the 
 Dragon aspected of — In fortunes iu all four an- 
 gles!" 
 
 CHAPTEK XHI. 
 
 Inspiring effect of the Fine Arts : the Vulgar are moved 
 
26 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 self, his pride of incipient manhood all forgotten ; 
 happy in her glee — she loving him for the joy 
 she felt — and blending his image evermore in 
 her remembrance with her first summer holiday 
 — with sunny beams — glistening leaves — warb- 
 ling birds — fairy wings — sparkling waves. Oh 
 to live so in a child's heart — innocent, blessed, 
 angel-like — better, better than the troubled re- 
 flection upon woman's later thoughts ; better 
 than that mournful illusion, over which tears so 
 bitter are daily shed — better than First Love I 
 They entered the boat. Sophy had never, to 
 the best of her recollection, been in a boat be- 
 fore. All was new to her ; the life-like speed of 
 the little vessel — that world of cool, green weeds, 
 with the fish darting to and fro — the musical 
 chime of oars — those distant, stately swans. She 
 was silent now — her heart was very full. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, Sophy?" asked 
 Leonard, resting on the oar. 
 /'Thinking — I was not thinking." 
 
 "What then?" 
 
 "I don't know — feeling, I suppose." 
 
 "Feeling what?" 
 
 "As if between sleep and waking — as the 
 ■water perhaps feels, with the sunlight on it !" 
 
 " Poetical," said Vance, who, somewhat of a 
 poet himself, naturally sneered at poetical tend- 
 encies in others. "But not so bad in its way. 
 Ah, have I hurt your vanity ? there are tears in 
 your eyes." 
 
 "No, Sir," said Sophy, falteringly. "But I 
 was thinking then." 
 
 "Ah," said the artist, "that's the worst of 
 it ; after feehng ever comes thought — what was 
 yours?" 
 
 " I was sorry poor grandfather was not here, 
 that's all." 
 
 " It was not our fault ; we pressed him cor- 
 dially," said Lionel. 
 
 "You did, indeed, Sir — thank you! And I 
 don't know why he refused you." The young 
 men exchanged compassionate glances. 
 
 Lionel then sought to make her talk of her 
 past life — tell him more of Mrs. Crane. Who 
 and v.hat was she? 
 
 Sophy could not, or would not, tell. The re- 
 membrances were painful ; she had evidently 
 tried to forget them. And the people with 
 whom Waife had placed her, and who had been 
 kind? 
 
 The iliss Burtons — and they kept a day- 
 school, and taught Sophy to read, -vn-ite, and 
 cipher. They lived near London, in a lane 
 opening on a great common, with a green rail 
 before the house, and had a good many pupils, 
 and kept a tortoise-shell cat and a canary. Xot 
 much to enlighten her listener did Sophy impart 
 here. 
 
 And now they neared that stately palace, rich 
 in associations of storm and splendor. The 
 grand Cardinal — the iron-clad Protector ; Dutch 
 William of the immortal memory, whom we try 
 so hard to like, and, in spite of the great Whig 
 historian, that Titian of English prose, can only 
 frigidly respect. Hard task for us Britons to 
 like a Dutchman who dethrones his father-in- 
 law and drinks schnaps. Prejudice, certainly ; 
 but so it is. Harder still to like Dutch William's 
 unfilial Frau I Like Queen Mary ! I could as 
 soon like Queen Goneril ! Romance flies from 
 the prosperous, phlegmatic .-Eneas; flies from 
 
 his plump Lavinia, his "fidus Achates," Ben- 
 tinck, flies to follow the poor, deserted, fugitive 
 Stuart, with all his sins upon his head. Kings 
 have no rights divine, except when deposed and 
 fallen ; they are then invested with the awe that 
 belongs to each solemn image of mortal vicissi- 
 tude — Vicissitude that startles the Epicurean. 
 '■ '■ insanientis sapienticE consultns" and strikes from 
 his careless lyre the notes that attest a God I 
 Some proud shadow chases another from the 
 throne of Cyrus, and Horace hears in the thun- 
 der the rush of Diespiter, and identifies Provi- 
 dence with the Fortune that snatches off the 
 diadem in her whirring swoop.* But fronts 
 discrowned take a new majesty to generous na- 
 tures; — in all sleek prosperity there is some- 
 thing commonplace — in all grand adversity, 
 something royal. 
 
 The boat shot to the shore ; the young people 
 landed, and entered the arch of the desolate 
 palace. They gazed on the great hall and the 
 presence-chamber and the long suite of rooms, 
 with faded portraits — Vance as an artist, Lionel 
 as an enthusiastic, well-read boy, Sophy as a won- 
 dering, bewildered, ignorant child. And then 
 they emerged into the noble garden, with its re- 
 gal trees. Groups were there of well-dressed 
 persons. Vance heard himself called by name. 
 He had forgotten the London world — forgotten, 
 amidst his midsummer ramblings that the Lon- 
 don season was still ablaze — and there, strag- 
 glers from the great Focus, fine people, with 
 languid tones and artificial jaded smiles, caught 
 him in his wanderer's dress, and walking side 
 by side with the infant wonder of Mr. Rugge's 
 show, exquisitely neat indeed, but still in a col- 
 ored print, of a jiattern familiar to his observant 
 eye in the windows of many a shop lavish of 
 tickets, and inviting you to come in by the as- 
 surance that it is "selling oft'." The artist 
 stopped, colored, bowed, answered the listless 
 questions pitt to him with shy haste ; he then 
 attempted to escape — they would not let him. 
 
 " You must come back and dine with us at the 
 Star and Garter," said Lady Selina Vipont. "A 
 pleasant party — you know most of them — the 
 Dudley Slowes, dear old Lady Frost, those pret- 
 ty ladies Prymme, Janet and Wilhelmina." 
 
 "We can't let you oft'," said sleepily Mr. 
 Crampe, a fashionable wit, who rarely made 
 more than one bon-mot in the twenty-four hours, 
 and spent the rest of his time in a torpid state. 
 
 Vance. " Really you are too kind, but I am 
 not even dressed for — " 
 
 Lady Selixa. " So charmingly dressed — so 
 picturesque ! Besides, what matters ? Every 
 one knows who you are. Where on earth have 
 you been?" 
 
 Vaxce. " Rambling about, taking sketches."" 
 
 Lady Selixa (directing her eye-glass toward 
 Lionel and Sophy, who stood aloof). " But your 
 
 ■ Valet ima summis 
 
 Mutare, et insignia attenuat Deus, 
 Obscura proraens. Hinc apicem rapax 
 Fortuna cum stridore acuto 
 Sustulit, — hie posuisse gaudet." 
 
 — HoEAT. Carm., lib. i. ixsiv. 
 The concluding allusion is evidently to the Parthian 
 revolutions, and the changeful fate of Phraates IV. ; and 
 I do not feel sure that the preced^g lines upon the phe- 
 nomenon of the thunder in a serene sky have not a latent 
 and half-allegorical meaning, dimly applicable, through- 
 out, to the historical reference at the close. 
 
VniAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 companions, your brother ? — and that pretty lit- 
 tle girl — vour sister, I suppose ?'* 
 
 " His father was a captain, but I don't know 
 whether he was a Charlie." 
 Vance' (shuddering). •'No, not relations. I\ Mr. Crami-e; (the Wit). "Charlies are ex- 
 took charize of the boy — clever young fellow; | tinct ! I have the la.st in a fossil — box and alll" 
 
 and the little girl is — " 
 
 Lady ^elina. '* Yes. The little girl is — " 
 Vance. '• A little girl as you sec ; and very 
 
 pretty, as you say — subject for a picture." 
 Lady Selina (indifferently). " Oh, let the 
 
 children go and amuse themselves somewhere. 
 
 Xow we iiave found you — positively you arc our 
 
 prisoner." 
 
 General laugh. Wit shut uj) again. 
 
 Lady Selina. " He has a great look of Char- 
 lie Ilaughton. Do you know if he is connect- 
 ed with that extraordiuary man, Mr. DarrcU ?" 
 
 V^NXE. " Upon my word, I do not. What 
 Mr. Darrell do you mean ?" 
 
 Lady Selina, with one of those sublime looks 
 of celestial pity with which personages in the 
 
 Lady Selina Vipont was one of the queens of ! great world forgive ignorance of names and gen 
 London, she had with her that habit of com- j ealogies in those not born within its orbit, re- 
 mand natural to such royalties. Frank Vance i plied, " Oh, to be sure ; it is not exactly in the 
 
 was no tuft-hunter, but once under social influen- 
 ces, thcv had their effect ou him, as on most men 
 who are blessed with noses in the air. Those 
 great ladies, it is true, never bought his pictures, 
 but they gave him the position whicli induced 
 others to buy them. Vance loved his art; his 
 art needed its career. Its career was certainly 
 brightened and quickened by the help of rank 
 and fashion. 
 
 In short. Lady Selina triumphed, and the 
 painter stepped back to Lionel. '* I must go to 
 Kichmond with these people. I know you'll 
 excuse me. I shall be back to-night somehow. 
 By-the-by, you are going to the post-office here 
 for the letter you expect from your mother ; ask 
 for mine too. You will take care of little Sophy, 
 and (in a whisper) hurry her out of the garden, 
 or that Grand Mogul feminine. Lady Selina, 
 whose condescension would crush the Andes, 
 will be stopping her as my protegee, falling in 
 raptures with that horrid colored print, saying, 
 ' Dear what pretty sprigs I where can such things 
 be got ?' and learning, perhaps, bow Frank Vance 
 saved the Bandit's Child from the Remorseless 
 Baron. 'Tis your turn now. Save your friend. 
 The Baron was a lamb compared to a fine lady." 
 He pressed Lionel's unresponding hand, and 
 •was off to join the polite merrj'-making of the 
 Frosts, Slowes, and Brymmes. 
 
 Lionel's pride ran up to the fever heat of its 
 thermometer ; more roused, though, on behalf 
 of the unconscious Sophy than himself. 
 
 "Let us come into the town, lady-bird, and ; 
 
 way of your delightful art to know Mr. Darrell, 
 one of the fii-st men in Parliament, a connec- 
 tion of mine." 
 
 Lady Frost (nippingly). "You mean Guy 
 Darrell, the lawyer." 
 
 Lad\' Selina. "Lawyer — true, now I think 
 of it, he was a lawjer. But his chief fame was 
 in the House of Commons. All parties agreed 
 that he might have commanded any station; but 
 he was too rich, perhaps, to care sufficiently 
 about office. At all events. Parliament was dis- 
 solved when he was at the height of his reputa- 
 tion, and he refused to be re-elected." 
 
 One Sir Jasper STOLLHEAD(amemberof the 
 House of Commons, young, wealthy, a constant 
 attendant, of great promise, with speeches that 
 were filled with facts, and emptied the benches). 
 "I have heard of him. Before my time; law- 
 yers not much weight in the House now." 
 
 Lady Selina. "I am told that Mr. Darrell 
 did not speak like a lawyer. But his career is 
 over — lives in the country, and sees nobody — a 
 thousand pities — a connection of mine, too — 
 great loss to the country". Ask your young friend. 
 iMr. Vance, if Mr. Darrell is not his relation. I 
 hope so, for his sake. Now that our party is in 
 power, Mr. Darrell could command any thing 
 for othei-s, though he has ceased to act with us. 
 Our party is not forgetful of talents." 
 
 Lady Frost (with icy crispness). " I should 
 think not ; it has so little of that kind to remem- 
 ber." 
 
 Sir Jasper. "Talent is not wanted in the 
 
 choose a doll. You may have one now without i House of Commons now — don't go down, in fact, 
 fearof distracting you from — what I hate to Business assembly." 
 
 think you ever stooped to perform." j Lady Selina (suppressing a yawn). "Beau- 
 
 As Lionel, his crest erect, and nostril dilated, ' tiful day ! We had better think of going back 
 and holding Sophy firmly by the hand, took his to Richmond. 
 
 way out from the gardens, he was obliged to 
 pass the patrician party of whom Vance now 
 made one. 
 
 His countenance and air, as he swept by, struck 
 them all, especially Lady Selina. "Avery dis- 
 tinguished-looking boy," said she. " What a 
 fine face ! Who did you say he was, Mr. 
 Vance ?" 
 
 Vance. "His name is Ilaughton — Lionel 
 Haughton ?" 
 
 General assent, and slow retreat. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The Historian records the attachment to public business 
 which distinguislios the British Lefrislator.— Touching 
 instance of tlie regret which ever iu patriotic bosoms 
 attends the neglect of a public duty. 
 
 ^ From the dusty height of a rumble-tumble 
 
 L.toY Selina. '-Haughton! Haughton! Any affixed to Lady Selina Vipont's barouche, and 
 
 relation to poor, dear Captain Haughton— Char- by the animated side of Sir Jasper StoUhead, 
 
 lie Haughton, as he was generally called?" Vance caught sight of Lionel and Sophy at a 
 
 Vance, knowing little more of his young corner of the spaciotis green near the Palace, 
 
 friend's parentage than that his mother let lodg- He sighed, he envied them. He thought of the 
 
 ings, at which, once domiciliated himself, he had boat, the water, the honey-suckle arbor at the 
 
 made the boy's acquaintance, and that she en- little inn — pleasures he had denied himself— 
 
 joved the pension of a captain's widow, replied pleasures all in his own way. They seemed still 
 
 carelessly : more alluring by contrast with the prospect be- 
 
28 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 fore him ; formal dinner at the Star and Gar- 
 ter, with titled Prj'mmes, ISlov/es, and Frosts, a 
 couple of guineas a-head, including light wines, 
 which he did not drink, and the expense of a 
 chaise back by himself. But such are life and 
 its social duties — such, above all, ambition and 
 a career. Who, that would leave a name on his 
 tombstone, can say to his own heart, "Perish, 
 Stars and Garters ; my existence shall pass from 
 day to day in honey-suckle arbors?" 
 
 Sir Jasper Stollhead interrupted Vance's rev- 
 erie by an impassioned sneeze — " Dreadful smell 
 of hay !" said the legislator, with watery eyes. 
 "Are you subject to the hay fever ? I am ! A — 
 tisha — tisha — tisha (sneezing) — country fright- 
 fully unwholesome at this time of year. And to 
 think that I ought now to be in the House — in 
 my committee-room — no smell of hay there — 
 most important committee." 
 
 Va>-ce (rousing himself). " Ah ! — on what ?" 
 Sm Jasper (regretfully). " Sewers 1" 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 Signs of an impending revolution, which, like all revo- 
 lutions, seems to come of a sudden, though its causes 
 have long been at work; and to go off in a tantrum, 
 though its effects must run on to the end of a history. 
 
 LioxEL could not find in the toyshops of the 
 village a doll good enough to satisfy his liberal 
 inclinations, but he bought one which amply 
 contented the humbler aspirations of Sophy. He 
 then strolled to the post-office. There were sev- 
 eral letters for Vance — one for himself in his 
 mother's handwriting. He delayed opening it 
 for the moment. The day was far advanced — 
 Sophy must be hungry. In vain she declared 
 she was not. They passed by a fruiterer's stall. 
 The strawberries and cherries were tempting!)^ 
 fresh — the sun still very powerful. At the back 
 of the fruiterer's was a small garden, or rather 
 orchard, smiling cool through the open door — 
 little tables laid out there. The good woman 
 who kept the shop was accustomed to the wants 
 and tastes of humble metropolitan visitors. But 
 the garden was luckily now empty — it was be- 
 fore the usual hour for tea-parties ; so the young 
 folks had the pleasantest table under an apple- 
 tree, and the choice of the freshest fruit. Milk 
 and cakes were added to the fare. It was a 
 banquet, in Sophy's eyes, worthy that happy 
 day. And when Lionel had finished his share 
 of the feast, eating fast, as spirited impatient 
 boys, formed to push on in life and spoil their 
 digestion, are apt to do ; and while Sophy was 
 still lingering over the last of the strawberries, 
 he threw himself back on his chair, and drew 
 forth his letter. Lionel was extremely fond of 
 his mother, but her letters wei'e not often those 
 which a boy is over eager to read. It is not all 
 mothers who understand what boys are — their 
 quick susceptibilities, their precocious manli- 
 ness, all their mystical ways and oddities. A 
 letter from Mrs. Haughton generally somewhat 
 fretted and irritated Lionel's high-strung nerves, 
 and he had instinctively put oft' the task of read- 
 ing the one he held, till satisfied hunger and 
 cool-breathing shadows, and rest from the dusty 
 road, had lent their soothing aid to his undevel- 
 oped philosophy. 
 
 He broke the seal slowly ; another letter was 
 
 inclosed within. At the first few words his coun- 
 tenance changed ; he uttered a slight exclama- 
 tion, 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 — clan- 
 destinely ! — you, who I thought had such an open 
 character, and who ought to ajipreciate 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 ! As a wife and mother, I ma)' 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! 'tis that which stabs me. Mrs. In- 
 man 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, ' 'Tis 
 the serpent's tooth, Mrs. I.' What you wrote to 
 your benefactor (and I had hoped patron) I don't 
 care to guess; something very rude and impru- 
 dent it must be, judging by the few lines he ad- 
 dressed to me. I don't mind copying them for 
 you to read. All my acts are above board — as 
 often and often Captain H. used to say, ' Your 
 heart is in a glass-case, Jessica ;' and so it is ' 
 but my xon tcrjis 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 
 inclose 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 com- 
 municate to a boy of his years letters written 
 solely to yourself, you can not 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 
 vcrj' obedient servant.' And that's all, to me. 
 I send his letter to you — seal unbroken. I con- 
 clude he has done with you forever, and your 
 CAREER is lost ! But if it bo so, oh, my poor, 
 poor child ! at that thought I have not the heart 
 to scold you farther. 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! yon 
 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 Jlr. Vance treats you with proper respect. 
 I think him rather too pushing and familiar, 
 though a pleasant young man on the whole. 
 
WHAT -WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 29 
 
 But, after all, he is only a painter. Bless you, 
 niv child, and don't have secrets a^jain from 
 vour poor mother, Jessica Haugutos." 
 
 The inclosed letter was as follows : 
 "Lionel Haughton, — Some men might be 
 displeased at receiWnp such a letter as you have 
 addressed to me; I am not. At your years, 
 and under the same circumstances, I mij;ht 
 have written a letter much in the same spirit. 
 Relieve your mind — as yet you owe me no obli- 
 jrations ; vou have only received back a debt due 
 
 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 Sophy, 
 passionately. 
 
 " Well, then, vou 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 !" 
 
 I The boat now ran into the shelving creek, 
 and bv the honev-suckle arbor stood Gentleman 
 
 to you. My father was poor ; your grandfather, -^'aife. leaning on his stick 
 
 Robert Haughton, assisted him in the cost of my 
 education. 1 have assisted your father's son ; 
 we are quits. Before, however, we decide on 
 having done with each other for the future. I 
 suf f'cst to vou 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 
 ccarselv. If you decide on coming, come at 
 once, or possibly you may not find me here. If 
 ~ shall have a poor opinion of your 
 
 '■You are late," said the actor, as they land- 
 ed, and Sopky sprang into his arms. " I began 
 to be imeasy, 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." 
 
 Walfe. " I thank you — no, Sir ; I wish to get 
 I walk slowly ; it will be dark 
 
 you refuse, I snaii nave a poor opmiou oi ^ our , jjQjjjg ^t once, 
 sense and temper, and in a week I shall have goon." 
 forgotten your existence. I ought to add that | Lionel tried in vain to detain him. There 
 your father and I were once wai-m friends, and ; ^^^^^ ^ certain change in Mr. Waiie"s manner to 
 that by descent I am the head not only ot my : j^;^ . jj ^^.^ jj^^^}^ ^^^.^ distant— it was even 
 own race, which ends with me, but of the Haugh- j pe^ijii^ jf n^t surlv. Lionel could not account 
 ton family, of which, though your line assumed j f^j. jt_thought it mere whim at first, but 'as he 
 the name, it was but a vounser branch. Now- 
 
 walked part of the way back with them toward 
 the village, this asperity continued, nay, in- 
 creased. Lionel was hurt ; he arrested his 
 steps. 
 
 "I see you wish to have your grandchild to 
 yourself liow. May I call early to-morrow? 
 Sophy will tell you that I hope we may not al- 
 together lose sight of each other. I will give 
 
 adays young men are probably not brought up 
 to care for these things — I was. Yours, 
 
 " Gtrr Hacgutox Daeeell. 
 *' Manor House, Fawley." 
 
 Sophy picked up the fallen letters, placed 
 them on Lionel's lap, and looked into his face 
 wistfuUv. He smiled, resumed his mother's _ 
 
 epistle, 'and read the concludintj passages which ; you my address when I call." 
 he had before omitted. Their sudden turn from j " What time to-morrow. Sir ?" 
 reproof to tenderness melted him. He bcjan "About nine." , ,, , . 
 
 to feel that his mother had a right to blame I Waife bowed his head and walked on, but 
 him for an act of concealment. Still she never , Sophy looked back toward her boy fnend, sor- 
 wonli have consented to his writing such a let- \ rowfully, gratefully— milight in the skies that 
 ter • and had that letter been attended with so , had been so sunny— twilight in her face that 
 ill a result ? Aaain he read Mr. Darrell's blunt had betiQ so glad '. She looked once, twice, 
 bat not offensive lines. His pride was soothed thrice, as Lionel halted on the road and kissed 
 — whv should he not now love his father's his hand. The third time "S\ aife said, with un- 
 friend ? He rose brisklv, paid for the fruit, and wonted crossness- 
 went his wav back to the boat with Sophy. As | " Enough of that, Sophy ; looking after young 
 his oars cut" the wave he talked gayly, but he I men is not proper 
 ceased to interrogate Sophy on her past. Ener 
 
 petic, sanguine, ambitious, his o\\"n future en- 
 tered now into his thoughts. Still, when the 
 sun sunk 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 
 
 What does he mean about 
 •seeing each other, and giving me his ad- 
 dress ?' " 
 
 '• 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 sup- 
 
 quiet little eirl, who had not ventured to ask posed that the bright-hearted boy of seventeen 
 him one question in return for all he had put meditated ulterior ill to that fairj- child m such 
 BO unceremoniously to her. Indeed, she was si- a scheme for correspondence, he must have been 
 lently musing over words he had inconsiderately \ in his dotage, and he had not hitherto evinced 
 let fall — •• What I hate to think vou had ever any signs of that. 
 
 stooped to perform." Little could Lionel guess | Farewell, pretty Sophy! the evening star 
 the unquiet thoughts which those words might , shines upon yon elm-tree that hides thee from 
 hereafter call forth from the brooding, deepen- ' '-"- ^'"''="^ — f^-iir,^ nr,v^^-« th^ si.mmer land- 
 
 ing meditations of lonely childhood I At length, i 
 said the boy, abruptly, as he had said once be- j 
 fore— ' i 
 
 '• I wish, Sophy, you were my sister." He 
 aided, in a saddened tone, '• I never had a sister 
 — I have so longed for one ! However, surely 
 we shall meet ag^^. You go to-morrow — so 
 must I." 
 
 riew. Fading — fading prows the summer land- 
 scape; faded already from the landscape thy 
 gentle image ! So ends a holiday in life. Hal- 
 low it, Sophy ; hallow it, Lionel. Life's holi- 
 days arc not too manv ! 
 
 g^- 
 
30 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 By this chapter it appeareth that he who sets out on a ca- 
 reer can scarcely expect to walk in perfect comfort, if 
 he exchange liis own thiclc-soled shoes for dress-boots 
 ■which M-ere made for another man's measure, and that 
 the said hootj may not the less pinch for being brilliant- 
 ly varnished. — It also showeth for the instruction of Men 
 and States, tlie connection between democratic opinion 
 and wounded self-love ; so that, if some Liberal states- 
 man 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 liis 
 friend still up in the little parlor, the windows 
 open, pacing the floor with restless strides, stop- 
 ping now and then to look at the moon upon the 
 river. 
 
 " Such a day as I have had ! and twelve shil- 
 lings for the fly, 'pikes not included," said Vance, 
 much out of humor. 
 
 " ' 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 mo- 
 ment — but that's long since over !" 
 
 " Still you seem to have something on your 
 mind," said Vance, who had now finished read- 
 ing his letters, lighted his cigar, and was lean- 
 ing 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 ? — 
 wotild it look mercenary — grasping ? You know 
 what I mean." 
 
 Vance approached the candles, and took the 
 letter. He glanced first at the signature. "Dar- 
 rell !" he exclaimed. " Oh, it is so, then !" He 
 read with great attention, put down the letter, 
 and shook Lionel by the hand. " I congratu- 
 late 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 postmark 
 of the letter. I shall make for that, if you ad- 
 vise it." 
 
 " You knew I should advise it, or you would 
 not have made those researches into Brad- 
 shaw." 
 
 " Shrewdly said," answered Lionel, laugh- 
 ing ; " but I wished for your sanction of my 
 crude impressions." 
 
 "You never told me yotir cousin's name was 
 Dan-ell — 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 I" 
 
 Vance. "But he was in Parliament." 
 
 Lionel. "Was he? I did not know." 
 
 Vance. "And this is senatorial fame! You 
 never heard your school-fellows talk of Mr. Dar- 
 rell? — they would not have known his name if 
 yoti had boasted of it!" 
 
 Lionel. " Certainly not." 
 
 Vance. " Would your school-fellows have 
 known the names of Wilkie. of Landseer, of 
 Turner, Maclise — I speak of Painters!" 
 
 Lionel. " I should think so, indeed." 
 
 Vance (soliloquizing). " And yet Her Serene 
 Sublimityship, Lady Selina Vipont, says to me 
 with divine compassion, ' Not in the way of your 
 delightful art to know such men as Sir. Dar- 
 rell !' Oh, as if I did not see through it — oh, 
 as if I did not see through it too when she said, 
 apropos of my jean cap and velveteen jacket, 
 ' What matters liow you dress ? Every one knows 
 who you are !' Would she have said that to the 
 Earl of Dunder, or even to Sir Jasper Stoll- 
 head ? No. I am the painter Frank Vance — 
 nothing more nor less ; and if I stood on my 
 head in a check shirt and a sky-colored apron, 
 Lady Selina Vipont would kindly murmur, 
 ' Only Frank Vance the painter — what does it 
 signify ?' Aha ! — and they think to put me to 
 use ! — puppets and lay figures ! — it is I who put 
 them to use! Harkye, Lionel, you are nearer 
 akin to these fine folks than I knew of. Promise 
 me one thing : you may become of their set, by 
 right of your famous Mr. Darrell ; if ever you 
 hear an artist, musician, scribbler, no matter 
 what, ridiculed as a tuft-hunter — seeking the 
 great — and so forth — before you join in the 
 laugh, ask some great man's son, with a pedi- 
 gree that dates from the Ark, ' Are you not a 
 toad-eater too? Do you want political influ- 
 ence? — do you stand contested elections? — do 
 you curry and fawn upon greasy Sam the butch- 
 er, and grimy Tom the blacksmith for a vote ? 
 Why ? useful to your career — necessary to your 
 ambition !' Aha ! is it meaner to curry and 
 fawn upon whitehanded women and elegant 
 coxcombs? Tut, tut! useful to a career — nec- 
 essary to ambition?" Vance paused, out of 
 breath. The spoiled darling of the circles — he 
 — to talk such radical rubbish ! Certainly he 
 must have taken his two guineas' worth out of 
 those light wines. Nothing so treacherous ! 
 they inflame the brain like tire, while melting 
 on the palate like ice. All inhabitants of light- 
 wine countries are quarrelsome and democratic. 
 
 Lionel (astounded). " No one, I am sure, 
 could have meant to call you a tuft-hunter — 
 of course, every one knows that a great paint- 
 er — " 
 
 Vance. " Dates from Michael Angelo, if not 
 from Zeuxis! Common individuals trace their 
 pedigree from their own fathers ! — the children 
 of Art from Art's founders !" 
 
 Oh Vance, Vance, you are certainly drunk ! 
 If that comes from dining with fine people at 
 the Star and Garter, you would be a happier 
 man and as good a painter if you sipped your 
 toddy in honey-suckle arbors. 
 
 "But," said Lionel, bewildered, and striving 
 to turn his friend's thoughts, " what has all this 
 to do with Mr. Darrell?" 
 
 Vance. "i\Ir. Darrell might have been one 
 of the first men in the kingdom. Lady Selina 
 Vipont says so, and she is related, I believe, to 
 every member in the Cabinet. Mr. Darrell can 
 push you in life, and make your fortune, with- 
 out any great trouble on your own part. Bless 
 your stars, and rejoice that you are not a paint- 
 er!" 
 
 Lionel flung his arm round the artist's broad 
 breast. " Vance, you are ^ael !" It was his 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 31 
 
 turn to console the painter, as the painter had 
 three nights before (apropos of the same Mr. 
 Darrell) consoled him. Vance gradually so- 
 bered down, and the young men walked forth 
 in the moonlight. And the eternal stars had 
 the same kind looks for Vance as they had 
 vouchsafed to Lionel. 
 
 " When do you start?" asked the painter, as 
 they mounted the stairs to bed. 
 
 " To-morrow evening. I miss the early train, 
 for I must call first and take leave of Sophy. I 
 hope I may see her again in after-life." 
 
 '• And i hope, for your sake, that if so, she 
 may not be in the same colored print with Lady 
 Selina Vipont's eyeglass upon herl" 
 
 "Whatl" said Lionel, laughing; "is Lady 
 Selina Vipont so formidably rude ?" 
 
 •• Kude I nobody is rude in that delightful set. 
 Lady Selina Vipont is excruciatingly — civil." 
 
 due vibration by free air in warm daylight, or 
 sink it down to the heart of the ocean, where 
 the air, all compressed, fills the vessel around 
 it,* and the chime, heard afar, starts thy soul, 
 checks thy footstep — unto deep calls the deeiJ — 
 a voice from the ocean is borne to thy soul. 
 
 Where, then, the change, when thou sayest, 
 " Lo, the same metal — why so faint-heard the 
 ringing?" Ask the air that thou seest not, or 
 above thee in the sky, or below thee in ocean. 
 Art thou sure that the bell, so faint-heard, is 
 not struck underneath an exhausted receiver ? 
 
 CHAPTER XVHL 
 
 Being devoted exclusively to a reflection, not inapposite 
 to the events in this history, nor to those in any other 
 which chronicles the life of man. 
 
 Theke is one warning lesson in life which 
 few of us have not received, and no book that I 
 can call to memory has noted down with an ade- 
 quate emphasis. It is this, '"Beware of part- 
 ing!"' The true sadness is not in the pain of 
 the parting, it is in the When and the How 
 you are to meet again with the face about to 
 vanish from your view ! From the passionate 
 farewell to the woman who has your heart in 
 her keeping, to the cordial good-by exchanged 
 with pleasant companions at a watering-place, 
 a countiy-house, or the close of a festive day's 
 blithe and careless excursion — a cord, stronger 
 or weaker, is snapped asunder in every parting, 
 and Time's busy fingers are not practiced in re- 
 splicing broken ties. Meet again you may : 
 will it be in the same way? — with the same 
 sympathies? — with the same sentiments? Will 
 the souls, burning on in diverse paths, unite 
 once more, as if the intenal had been a dreara? 
 Rarely, rarely I Have you not, after even a 
 year, even a month's absence, returned to the 
 same place, found the same groups reassem- 
 bled, and yet sighed to yourself, '• But where 
 is the charm that once breathed from the spot, 
 and once smiled from the faces ? A poet has 
 said — " Eternity itself can not restore the loss 
 struck from the minute." Are you happy in 
 the spot on which you tany with the persons 
 whose voices are now melodious to your ear ? — 
 beware of parting ; or, if part you must, say not 
 in insolent defiance to Time and Destiny — 
 " What matters? — we shall soon meet again." 
 
 Alas, and alas I when we think of the lips 
 which murmured, " Soon meet again," and re- 
 member how, in heart, soul, and thoi^ht, we 
 stood forever divided the one from the other, 
 when, once more face to face, we each inly ex- 
 claimed — "Met again!" 
 
 The air that we breathe makes the medium 
 through which sound is conveyed ; be the in- 
 Btniment unchanged, be the force which is ap- 
 plied to it the same, still, the air that thou seest 
 not, the air to thy car gives the music. 
 
 King a bell und^peath an exhausted receiver, 
 thou wilt scarcdl^ar the sound; give a bell 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The irandering inclinations of Xomad Tribes not to b« 
 accounted for on the principles of action peculiar to 
 civ.lized men, who are accustomed to live in good 
 houses and able to pay the income-tax. — When the 
 money that once belonged to a man civilized vanibbes 
 into the pockets of a nomad, neither lawful art nor oc- 
 cult ccience can, with certainty, discover what he will 
 do with it. — Mr. Vance narrowly escapes well-merited 
 punishment from the nails of the British Fair. — Lionel 
 Haughton, in the temerity of youth, braves the dangers 
 I of a British railway. 
 
 I The morning was dull and overcast, rain 
 gathering in the air, when Vance and Lionel 
 walked to Waife's lodging. As Lionel placed 
 his hand on the knocker of the private door, 
 
 : the Cobbler, at his place by the window in the 
 stall beside, glanced toward him, and shook his 
 
 ; head. 
 
 i '' No use knocking, gentlemen. Will you 
 kindly step in? — this way." 
 
 I "Do you mean that your lodgers are out?" 
 
 I asked Vance. 
 
 I "Gone!" said the Cobbler, thrusting his awl 
 with great vehemence through the leather des- 
 tined to the repair of a plowman's boot. 
 
 "Gone — for good!" cried Lionel; "you can 
 not mean it. I call by appointment." 
 
 " Som', Sir, for your trouble. Stop- a bit ; I 
 have a letter here for you." The Cobbler dived 
 into a drawer, and, from a medley of nails and 
 thongs, drew forth a letter addressed to L. 
 Haughton, Esq. 
 
 " Is this from Waife ? How on earth did he 
 know my surname? you never mentioned it, 
 Vance?" 
 
 ' "Not that I remember. But you said you 
 found him at the inn, and they knew it there. 
 
 : It is on the brass plate of your knapsack. No 
 
 . matter — what does he say ?" and Vance looked 
 
 ! over his friend's shoulder and read : 
 
 I " Sir, — I most respectfully thank you for your 
 ' condescending kindness to me and my grand- 
 child ; and your friend, for his timely and gen- 
 ' erous aid. You will pardon me, that the neces- 
 sity which knows no law obliges me to leave this 
 ' place some hours before the time of your pro- 
 posed visit. My giandchild says you intended 
 I to ask her sometimes to write to you. Excuse 
 • me. Sir: on reflection, you will perceive how 
 I diftcrent your ways of life are from those which 
 ' she must'tread with me. You see before you a 
 I man w ho — but I forget — you see him no more, 
 j and probably never will. Your most humble and 
 : most obliged obedient sonant, W. W." 
 
 • The bell in a sunk diving-bell, where the air is com- 
 pressed, sounds with increa.'ed power. Sound travels 
 1 four times quicker in water than iu the upper air. 
 
32 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 Vance. "Who never more may trouble you, 
 trouble you ! Where have they gone ?" 
 
 Cobbler. " Don't know ; would you like to 
 take a peep in the crystal ? perhaps you've the 
 gift, unbeknown." 
 
 Vanck. "Not I — Bah! Come awaj', Lionel." 
 
 "Did not Sophy even leave any message for 
 me?" asked the boy, sorrowfully. 
 
 " To be sure she did ; I forgot — no, not ex- 
 actly a message, but this — I was to be sure to 
 give it to you." And, out of his miscellaneous 
 receptacle the Cobbler extracted a little book. 
 Vance looked and laughed — " The ButterjUes' 
 Bull and the Grasshoppers' FeastJ" 
 
 Lionel did not share the laugh. He plucked 
 the book to himself, and read on the fly-leaf, in 
 a child's irregular scrawl, blistered too with the 
 unmistakable trace of fallen tears, these words : 
 
 " Do not Scorn it. I have nothing else I can 
 think of which is All Mine. Miss Jane Burton 
 gave it me for being Goode. Grandfather says 
 you are too high for us, and that I shall not see 
 you More ; but I shall never forget how kind you 
 were — never — never. — Sophy." 
 
 Said the Cobbler, his awl upright in the hand 
 which rested on his knee, " What a plague did 
 the 'Stronomers discover Herschell for? You 
 Bee, Sir," addressing Vance, " thiitgs odd and 
 strange all come along o' Herschell." 
 
 " What !— Sir John ?" 
 
 "No, the star he poked out. He's a awful 
 Star for females ! — hates 'em like poison ! I sus- 
 pect he's been worriting hisself into her nativi- 
 ty, for I got out from her the year, month, and 
 day she was born — hour unbeknown — but, cal- 
 kelating by noon, Herschell was dead agin her 
 in the Third and Ninth House — voyages, travels, 
 letters, news, church matters, and sichlike. But 
 it will all come right after he's transited. Her 
 Jupiter must be good. But I only hope," added 
 the Cobbler, solemnly, " that they won't go a 
 discovering any more stars. The world did a 
 deal better without the new one, and they do 
 talk of a Neptune — as bad as Saturn !" 
 
 "And this is the last of her!" said Lionel, 
 sadly putting the book into his breast-pocket. 
 "Heaven shield her wherever she goes !" 
 
 Vance. " Don't you think Waife and the 
 poor little girl will come back again ?" 
 
 Cobbler. " P'raps ; I know he was looking 
 hard into the county map at the stationer's over 
 the way; that seems as if he did not mean to 
 go very far. P'raps he may come back." 
 
 Vance. "Did he take all his goods with 
 him?" 
 
 Cobbler. "Barrin' an old box — nothing in 
 it, I expect, but theatre rubbish — play-books, 
 paints, an old wig, and sichlike. He has good 
 clothes — always had; and so has .she, but they 
 don't make more than a bundle." 
 
 Vance. "But surely you must know what the 
 old fellow's project is. He has got from me a 
 great sum — what will he do with it ?" 
 
 Cobbler. "Just what bas been a bothering 
 me. What will he do with it? I cast a figure 
 to know — could not make it out. Strange signs 
 in Twelfth House. Enemies and big animals. 
 Well, well, he's a marbellous man, and if he 
 warn't a misbeliever in the crystal, I should say 
 he was under Herschell ; for you see. Sir" (lay- 
 ing hold of Vance's button, as he saw that gen- 
 tleman turning to escape) — "you seo Herschell, 
 
 though he be a sinister chap eno', specially in 
 aflf'airs connected with 'tother sex, disposes the 
 native to dive into the mysteries of natur. I'm 
 a Herschell man, out and outer! Born in March, 
 and — " 
 
 "As mad as its hares," muttered Vance, 
 wrenching his button from the Cobbler's gi'asp, 
 and impatiently striding off. But he did not ef- 
 fect his escape so easily, for, close at hand, just 
 at the corner of the lane, a female group, head- 
 ed by Merle's gaunt housekeeper, had been si- 
 lently collecting from the moment the two 
 friends had paused at the Cobbler's door. And 
 this petticoated divan suddenly closing round 
 the painter, one pulled him by the sleeve, anoth- 
 er by the jacket, and a third, with a nose upon 
 which somebody had sat in early infancy, whis- 
 pered, " Please, Sir, take my picter fust." 
 
 Vance stared aghast — "Your picture, you 
 drab !" Here another model of rustic charms, 
 who might have furnished an ideal for the fat 
 scullion in Tristram Shandy, bobbing a courtesy, 
 put in her rival claim. 
 
 " Sir, if you don't objex to coming in to the 
 hitching, after the family has gone to bed, I 
 don't care if I lets you make a minnytur of me 
 for two pounds." 
 
 " Miniature of you, porpoise !" 
 
 " Polly, Sir, not Porpus — ax pardon. I shall 
 clean myself, and I have a butyful new cap — 
 Honej'tun, and — " 
 
 "Let the gentleman go, will you?" said a 
 third; "I am supprised at ye, Polly. The 
 hitching unbeknown ! Sir, I'm in the nussary 
 — yes. Sir — and missus says yon may take me 
 any time, purvided you'll take the babby, iu the 
 back parlor — yes, Sii'. No. 5 in the High Street. 
 Mrs. Spratt — yes, Sir. Babby has had the small- 
 pox — in case you're a married gentleman with 
 a family — quite safe there — yes. Sir." 
 
 Vance could endure no more, and, forgetful 
 of that gallantry which should never desert the 
 male sex, burst tlirough the phalanx with an 
 anathema, blackening alike the beauty and the 
 virtue of tlaose on whom it fell — that would have 
 justified a cry of shame from every manly bo- 
 som, and at once changed into shrill wrath the 
 sujjplicatory tones with which he had been hith- 
 erto addressed. Down the street he hurried, 
 and down the street followed the insulted fair. 
 "Hiss — hiss — no gentleman, no gentleman! 
 Aha — skulk oft' — do — low blaggurd !" shrieked 
 Polly. From tlieir counters shop-folks rushed 
 to their doors. Stray dogs, excited by the clam- 
 or, i-an wildly after the fugitive man, yelping 
 "in madding bray!" Vance, fearing to be 
 clawed by the females if he merely walked, sure 
 to be bitten by the dogs if he ran, ambled on, 
 strove to look composed, and carry his nose high 
 in its native air, till, clearing the street, lie saw 
 a hedgerow to the riglit — leaped it with an agil- 
 ity wliich no stimuhis less preternatural than 
 that of self-preservation could have given to his 
 limbs, and then shot oft' like an arrow, and did 
 not stop till, out ot breath, he dropped upon the 
 bench in the sheltering honey-suckle arbor. Here 
 he was still fanning himself with his cap, and 
 muttering unmentionable expletives, when he 
 was joined by Lionel, who had tarried behind 
 to talk more about Sophy to the Cobbler, and 
 who, unconscious that the din which smote his 
 ear was caused by his ill-starred friend, had 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 33 
 
 been enticed to go up stairs and look after 
 8ophy in the crystal — vainly. When Vance had ' 
 recited his misadventures, and Lionel had surti- | 
 ciently condoled with him, it became time for 
 the latter to pay his share of the bill, pack up 
 his knapsack, and start for the train. Isow the 
 station could only be reached by penetrating the 
 heart of the village, and Vance swore that he 
 had had enough of that. ''Pester said he; 
 "I should pass right before No. 5 in the High 
 Street, and the nuss and the babby will be there 
 on the threshold, like Virgil's picture of the in- 
 fernal regions — 
 
 •Iiifaiitumque animaj flente-s in limine prime' 
 We will take leave of each other here. I shall 
 go by the boat to Chertsey whenever I shall have 
 sutHciently recovered my shaken nerves. There 
 are one or two picturesque spots to be seen in 
 that neigliborhood. In a few days I shall be in 
 town ; write to me there, and tell me how you 
 get on. 8hake hands, and Heaven speed you. 
 But, ah, now you have paid your moiety of the 
 bill, have you enough left for the train?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, the fare is but a few shillings ; but, 
 to be sure, a fly to Fawley ? I ought not to go 
 on foot" (proudly) ; " and, too, supposing he af- 
 fronts me, and I have to leave iiis house sudden- 
 ly? May I borrow a sovereign? my mother 
 will call and repay it." 
 
 Vaxck (magnificently). " There it is, and not 
 much more left in my pui-se — that cursed Star 
 and Garter! and those three pounds I" 
 
 Lionel (sighing). " Which were so well spent! 
 Before you sell that picture, do let me make a 
 copy." 
 
 Vance. "Better take a model of your own. 
 Village full of them ; you could bargain with a 
 porpoise for half the money which I was duped 
 into squandering away on a chit ! But don't 
 look so gi'ave ; you may copy me if j'ou can I" 
 
 "Time to- start, and must walk brisk, Sir," 
 said the jolly landlord, looking in. 
 
 " Good- by, good-by." 
 
 And so departed Lionel Haughton upon an 
 emprise as momentous to that youth-errant as 
 C 
 
 I'erilous Bridge or Dragon's Cave could have 
 been to knight-errant of old. 
 
 " Before we decide on having done with each 
 other, a short visit" — so ran the challenge from 
 him who had every thing to give unto him who 
 had every thing to gain. And how did Lionel 
 Haughton, the ambitious and aspiring, contem- 
 plate the venture in which success would admit 
 him within the gates of the golden Carduel an' 
 equal in the lists with the sons of paladins, or 
 throw him back to the anns of the widow who 
 let a first floor in the back streets of Timlico? 
 Truth to say, as he strode musingly toward the 
 station for starting, where the smoke-cloud now 
 curled from the wheel-track of iron — truth to 
 say, the anxious doubt which disturbed him was 
 not that which his friends might have felt on 
 his behalf. In words, it would have shaped it- 
 self thus, " Where is that poor little Sophy ! and 
 what will become of her — what?" But, when, 
 launched on the journey, hurried on to its goal, 
 the thought of the ordeal before him forced it- 
 self on his mind he muttered inly to himself, 
 '•Done with each other; let it be as he pleases, 
 so that I do not fawn on his pleasure. Better a 
 million times enter life as a penniless gentle- 
 man, who must work his way up like a man, 
 than as one who creeps on his knees into for- 
 tune, shaming birthright of gentleman, or soil- 
 ing honor of man." Therefore taking into ac-\ 
 count the poor cousin's vigilant pride on the qui 
 vive for oflense, and the rich cousin's temper (as 
 judged by his letters) rude enough to present it, 
 we must own that if Lionel Haughton has at this 
 moment what is commonly called " a chance," 
 the question as yet is not, what is that chance, 
 but u-hat u-ill lie do with it f And as the reader 
 advances in this history, he will acknowledge 
 that there are few questions in this world so fre- 
 quently agitated, to which the solution is more 
 important to each puzzled mortal, than that upon 
 which starts every sage's discovery, ever}- novel- 
 ist's plot — that which applies to man's life, 
 from its first sleep in the cradle, " What will 
 
 HE DO WITH IT ?"' 
 
34 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 BOOK II, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Primitive character of the country in certain districts of 
 Great Britain. — Connection bttween the features of 
 surrounding scenery and the mental and moral in- 
 clinations of man, after the fashion of all sound Eth- 
 nological Historians. — A charioteer, to whom an expe- 
 rience of Briti.sh Laws suggests an ingenious mode of 
 arresting the progress of Roman Papacy, carries Lionel 
 Haughton and his fortunes to a place which allows of 
 description and invites repose. 
 
 Is safety, but with naught else rare enough, 
 in a railway train, to deserve commemoration, 
 Lionel reached the station to which he was 
 bound. He there inquired the distance to Faw- 
 ley Manor House ; it was five miles. He order- 
 ed a fly, and was soon wheeled briskly along a 
 rough "parish-road, through a country strongly 
 contrasting the gay Kiver Scenery he had so 
 lately quitted. Quite as English, but rather the 
 England of a former race than that which spreads 
 round our own generation like one vast suburb 
 of garden-ground and villas — Here, nor village, 
 nor spire, nor porter's lodge came in sight. Rare 
 even were the corn-fields — wide spaces of unin- 
 closed common opened, solitary and primitive, 
 on the road, bordered by large woods, chiefly of 
 beech, closing the horizon with ridges of undu- 
 lating green. In such an England, Ivnights- 
 Templars might have wended their way to scat- 
 tered monasteries, or fugitive partisans in the 
 bloody Wars of the Roses have found shelter 
 under leafy coverts. 
 
 The scene had its romance, its beauty — half- 
 savage, half-gentle — leading perforce the mind 
 of any cultivated and imaginative gazer far back 
 from the present day — waking up long-forgotten 
 passages from old poets. The stillness of such 
 wastes of sward — such deeps of woodland — in- 
 duced the nurture of reverie, gravely soft and 
 lulling. There, Ambition might give rest to the 
 wheel of Ixion, Avarice to the sieve of the Dana- 
 ids; there, disappointed Love might muse on 
 the brevity of all human passions, and count 
 over the tortured hearts that have found peace 
 in holy meditation, or are now stilled under 
 grassy knolls. See where, at the crossing of 
 three" roads upon the waste, the landscape sud- 
 denly unfolds — an upland in the distance, and 
 on the upland a building, the first sign of social 
 man. What is the building? only a silenced 
 wind-mill — the sails dark and sharp against the 
 dull, leaden sky. 
 
 Lionel touched the driver — "Are we yet on 
 Mr. Darrell's property?" Of the extent of that 
 property he had involuntarily conceived a vast 
 idea. 
 
 "Lord, Sir, no ; we be two miles from Squire 
 Darrell's. He han't much property to speak of 
 hereabouts. But he bought a good bit o' land, 
 too, some years ago, ten or twelve mile t'other 
 side o' the county. First time you are going to 
 IFawlev, Sir ?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ah ! I don't mind seeing you afore — and I 
 should have known you if I had, for it is seldom 
 
 indeed I have a fare toFawley old Manor House. 
 It must be, I take it, four or five year ago sin" I 
 wor there with a gent, and he went away while 
 I wor feeding the horse — did me out o' my back 
 fare. What bisness had he to walk when he 
 came in my fly? — Shabby." 
 
 "Mr. Darrell lives very retired, then — sees 
 few persons ?" 
 
 " 'Spose so. I never see'd him, as I knows 
 on ; see'd two o' his bosses though — rare good 
 uns;" and the driver whipped on his own 
 horse, took to whistling, and Lionel asked no 
 more. 
 
 At length the chaise stopped at a carriage- 
 cate, receding from the road, and deeply shad- 
 owed by venerable trees — no lodge. The driv- 
 er, dismounting, opened the gate. 
 
 "Is this the place?" 
 
 The driver nodded assent, remounted, and 
 drove on rapidly through what might, by court- 
 esy, be called a park. The inclosure was indeed 
 little beyond that of a good-sized paddock — its 
 boundaries were visible on every side- — but swell- 
 ing uplands, covered with massy foliage, sloped 
 down to its wild, irregular turf soil — soil poor 
 for pasturage, but pleasant to the eye ; with dell 
 and dingle, bosks of fantastic pollards — dotted 
 oaks of vast growth — here and there a weird 
 hollow thorn-tree — patches of fern and gorse. 
 Hoarse and loud cawed the rooks — and deep, 
 deep as from the innermost core of the lovely 
 woodlands, came the mellow notes of the cuckoo. 
 A few moments more a wind of the road brought 
 the house in sight. At its rear lay a piece of 
 water, scarcely large enough to be styled a lake : 
 — too winding in its shagg}- banks — its ends too 
 concealed by tree and islet to be called by the 
 dull name of pond. Such as it was, it arrested 
 the eve before the gaze turned toward the house 
 — it had an air of tranquillity so sequestered, so 
 solemn. A lively man of the world would have 
 been seized with spleen at the first glimpse of 
 it. But he who had known some great grief — 
 some anxious care — would have drunk the calm 
 into his weary soul like an anodyne. The house 
 — small, low," ancient, about the date of Edward 
 VI., before the statelier architecture of Ehza- 
 beth. Few houses in England so old, indeed, 
 as Fawley Manor House. A vast weight of roof, 
 with high gables — windows on the upper stoiy 
 projecting far over the lower part — a covered 
 porch with a coat of half-obliterated arms deep 
 panneled over the oak door. Nothing grand, 
 yet all how venerable! But what is this? Close 
 beside the old, quiet, unassuming Manor House, 
 rises the skeleton of a superb and costly pile-^ 
 a palace uncompleted, and the work evidently 
 suspended — perhaps long since, perhaps now 
 forever. No busy workmen nor animated scaf- 
 folding. The perforated battlements roofed 
 over with visible haste — here with slate, there 
 with tile ; the Elizabethan mullion casements 
 unglazed ; some roughly boarded across — some 
 with staring, forlorn apertures, that showed 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 35 
 
 floorless chambers — for winds to whistle through 
 :ind rats to tenant. Weeds and long grass were 
 .TOwing over blocks of stone that lay at hand. 
 A wallHower had forced itself into root on the 
 sill of a giant oriel. The eftect was startling. 
 A fabric which he who conceived it must have 
 founded for posterity — so solid its masonry, so 
 thick its walls — and thus abruptly left to mould- 
 er — a palace constructed for the reception of 
 crowding guests — the jjomp of stately revels — 
 abandoned to owl and bat. And the homely 
 old house beside it, which that lordly hall was 
 doubtless designed to replace, looking so safe 
 and tranquil at the batfled presumption of its 
 spectral neighbor. 
 
 The driver had rung the bell, and now, turn- 
 ing back to the chaise, met Lionel's inquiring 
 eye, and said — " Yes ; Squire Darrell began to 
 build that — many years ago — when I was a boy. 
 I heerd say it was to be the show-house of the 
 whole county. Been stojiped these ten or a 
 dozen years." 
 
 •' Why ? — do you know ?" 
 
 " No one knows. Squire was a laryer, I b'leve 
 — perhaps he put it into Chancery. My wife's 
 grandfather was put into Chancery jist as he 
 was growing up, and never grew afterward — 
 never got out o' it — nout ever does. There's our 
 churchwarden comes to me with a petition to 
 sign agin the Pope. Says I, ' Tliat old Pojje is 
 always in trouble — what's he bin doiu' now?' 
 Sayshc, ' Spreading ! He's got into Parlyment, 
 and he's now got a colledge, and we pays for it. 
 I doesn't know how to stop him.' Saysl. ' Put 
 the Pope into Chancery along with wife's grand- 
 father, and he'll never hold up his head agin.' " 
 
 The driver had thus just disposed of the Pa- 
 pacy wiien an elderly servant, out of livery, 
 opened the door. Lionel sprung from the 
 chaise, and paused in some confusion — for then, 
 for the first time, there darted across him the 
 idea that he had never written to announce his 
 acceptance of Mr. Darrell's invitation — that he 
 ought to have done so — that he might not be ex- 
 pected. Meanwhile the senant surveyed him 
 with some surprise. " Mr. Darrell?" hesitated 
 Lionel, inquiringly. 
 
 " Not at home, Sir," replied the man, as if 
 Lionel's business was over, and he had only to 
 re-enter his chaise. The boy was naturally 
 rather bold than shy, and he said, with a certain 
 assured air, '"My name is Haughton. I come 
 here on Mr. Darrell's invitation." 
 
 The ser\'aut's face changed in a moment — he 
 bowed respectfully. " I beg pardon. Sir. I will 
 look for my master — he is somewhere on the 
 grounds." The servant then approached the 
 fly, took out the knapsack, and observing Lionel 
 had his purse in his hand, said — "Allow me to 
 save you that trouble. Sir. Driver, round to 
 the stable-yard." Stepping back into the house, 
 the servant threw open a door to the left, on 
 entrance, and ailvanced a chair — "If you will 
 wait here a moment, Sir, I will see for my 
 master." 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 Guy Darrell— and Still'd Life. 
 The room in which Lionel now found him- 
 self was singularly quaint. An antiquarian or 
 
 architect would have discovered at a glance 
 that, at some period, it had formed part of the 
 entrance-hall ; and when, in Elizabeth's or 
 James the First's day, the refinement in man- 
 ners began to penetrate from baronial mansions 
 to the homes of the gentry-, and the entrance- 
 hall ceased to be the common refectory of the 
 owner and his dependents, this apartment had 
 been screened off by ])crforated panels, which, 
 for the sake of warmth and comfort, had been 
 filled up into solid wainscot by a succeeding 
 generation. Thus one side of the room was 
 richly carved with geometrical designs and ara- 
 besque pilasters, while the other three sides 
 were in small simple panels, with a dcej) fan- 
 tastic frieze in plaster, depicting a deer-chase 
 in relief, and running between woodwork and 
 ceiling. The ceiling itself was relieved by long 
 pendants without any apparent meaning, and 
 iiy the crest of the ])arrels, a heron, wreathed 
 round with the family motto, " Anlua jutlt Ar- 
 dca/' It was a dining-room, as was shown by 
 the character of the furniture. But there was 
 no attempt on the part of the present owner, 
 and had clearly been none on the part of his 
 predecessor, to suit the furniture to the room. 
 This last was of the heavy graceless taste of 
 George the First — cumbrous chairs in walnut- 
 tree — with a worm-eaten mosaic of the heron 
 on their homely backs, and a faded blue worsted 
 on their seats — a marvelous ugly sideboard to 
 match, and on it a couple of black shagreen 
 cases, the lids of which were flung open, and 
 discovered the pistol-shaped handles of silver 
 knives. The mantle-piece reached to the ceil- 
 ing, in paneled compartments, with heraldic 
 shields, and supported by rude stone Caryatides. 
 On the walls were several pictures — family por- 
 traits, for the names were inscribed on the 
 frames. They varied in date from the reign of 
 Elizabeth to that of George I. A strong family 
 likeness pervaded them all — high features, dark 
 hair, grave aspects — save indeed one, a Sir 
 Kal])h Haughton Darrell, in a dress that spoke 
 him of the hoHday date of Charles II. — all 
 knots, lace, and ribbons ; evidently the beau of 
 the race ; and he had bine eyes, a blondo per- 
 uke, a careless profligate smile, and looked al- 
 together as devil-me-care, rakehelly, handsome, 
 good-for-naught, as ever swore at a drawer, 
 beat a watchman, charmed a lady, terrified a 
 husband, and hummed a song as lie pinked his 
 man. 
 
 Lionel was still gazing upon the effigies of 
 this airy cavalier, when the door behind him 
 opened very noiselessly, and a man of imposing 
 presence stood on the threshold — stood so still, 
 and the carved mouldings of the door-way so 
 shadowed, and, as it were, cased round his fig- 
 ure, that Lionel, on turning quickly, might have 
 mistaken him for a portrait brought into bold 
 relief, from its frame, by a sudden fall of light. 
 We hear it, indeed, familiarly said that such a 
 one is like an old picture. Never could it be 
 more appositely said than of the face on which 
 tlie young visitor gazed, much startled and some- 
 what awed. Not such as inferior limners had 
 painted in the portraits there, though it had 
 something in common with those family linea- 
 ments, but such as might have looked tranquil 
 power out of the canvas of Titian. 
 
 The man stepped forward, and the illusion 
 
3G 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 passed. "I thank you," he said, holding out: "Vance — who is Vance?" 
 his hand "for taking me at my word, and an- i "The artist — a gi-eat friend of mine. Sure- 
 swerino- me thus in person." He paused a mo- ly, Sir, you have heard of him, or seen his pic- 
 ment, Purveying Lionel's countenance with a tures?" 
 
 keen but not vmkindly eye, and added softly, 
 "Very like your father." 
 
 At "these words Lionel involuntarily pressed 
 the hand which he had taken. That hand did 
 not return the pressure. It lay an instant in 
 Lionel's warm clasj^ — not repelling, jiot respond- 
 ing — and was then very gently withdrawn. 
 
 "Did you come from London?" 
 
 " Himself and his pictures arc since my time. 
 Days tread down days for the Recluse, and he 
 forgets that celebrities rise with their suns, to 
 wane with their moons — 
 
 ' Triiditur dies die, 
 Xovicque pergunt interire lun.'e.'" 
 
 "All suns do not set — all moons do uotwanel" 
 cried Lionel, with blunt enthusiasm. " When 
 
 "No Sir, I found your letter yesterday at Horace speaks elsewhere of the Julian star, he 
 
 Hampton Court. I had been staying some days 
 in that neighborhood. I came on this morn- 
 ing — I was afraid, too unceremoniously; your 
 kind welcome reassiires me then." 
 
 The words were well chosen, and frankly said. 
 Probably they pleased the host, for the expres- 
 sion of his countenance was, on the whole, pro- 
 pitious ; but he merely inclined his head with a 
 kind of lofty indifference, then, glancing at his 
 watch, he rang the bell. The servant entered 
 promptly. "Let dinner be served within an 
 hour." 
 
 "Fray, Sir," said Lionel, "do not change 
 your hours on my account. " 
 
 Mr. Darrell's brow slightly contracted. Lio- 
 nel's tact was in fault there ; but the great man 
 answered quietly, "All hours are the same to 
 me ; and it were strange if a host could be de- 
 ranged by consideration to his guest — on the 
 first day too. Are you tired ? Would you like 
 to go to your room, or look out for half an hour ? 
 The sky is clearing." 
 
 " I should so like to look out. Sir." 
 "This way, then." 
 
 Mr. Darrell, crossing the hall, threw open a 
 door opposite to that by which Lionel entered, 
 and the lake (we will so call it) lay before them. 
 Separated from the house only by a shelving, 
 gradual declivity, on which were a few beds of 
 flowers — not the most in vogue nowadays — and 
 disposed in rambling, old-fashioned parterres. 
 At one angle a quaint and dilapidated sun-dial ; 
 at the other a long bowling-alley, terminated by 
 one of those summer-houses which the Dutch 
 taste, following the Revolution of 1G88, brought 
 into fashion. Mr. Darrell passed down this alley 
 (no bowls there now), and, observing that Lionel 
 looked curiously toward the summer-house, of 
 ^vhich the doors stood open, entered it. A lofty 
 room, with coved ceiling, painted with Roman 
 trophies of helms and fasces, alternated with 
 crossed fifes and fiddles, painted also. 
 
 "Amsterdam manners," said Mr. Darrell, 
 slightly shi-ugging his shoulders. " Here a for- 
 mer race heard music, sung glees, and smoked 
 from clay pipes. That age soon passed, unsuit- 
 ed to English energies, which are not to be united 
 with Holland phlegm ! But the view from the 
 window — look out there. I Monder whether men 
 in wigs and women in hoops enjoyed that. It 
 is a mercy they did not clip those banks into a 
 straight canal!" 
 
 The view was indeed lovely ; the water look- 
 ed so blue, and so large, and so limpid, woods 
 and curving banks reflected deep on its peace- 
 ful bosom. 
 
 " How Vance would enjoy this !" cried Lio- 
 nel. "It would come icto a picture even better 
 than the Thames." 
 
 compares it to a moon — ' xnterignes 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 recol- 
 lection of Horace," said Mr. Darrell, frigidly, 
 and without continuing the allusion to celebri- 
 ties, " 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 descend- 
 ed 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 fra- 
 grance. There, resting his face on his hand, 
 Darrell gazed along the water in abstracted si- 
 lence. Lionel felt that he was forgotten ; but 
 he was not hurt. By this time a strong and 
 admiring interest for his cousin had sprung u]i 
 within his breast — he would have found it difli- 
 cult to explain why. But whosoever at that mo- 
 ment could have seen Guy Darrell's musing 
 countenance, or whosoever, a few minutes be- 
 fore, could have heard the very sound of his 
 voice — sweetly, clearly full — each slow enunci- 
 ation unaftectedly, mellowly distinct — making 
 musical the homeliest, roughest word, would 
 have understood and shared the interest which 
 Lionel could not explain. There are living hu- 
 man faces which, independently of mere phys- 
 ical 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 won- 
 ders 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 toward the 
 bank on which Dafrell reclined. He had evi- 
 dently 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 change for some- 
 thing less sibilant in that famous song with 
 which they depart this life. 
 
 Darrelllooked up. "They come to be fed," 
 said he, "smooth emblems of the great social 
 union. Affection is the oftspring of utility. 1 
 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." 
 
 Mk. Dakkell. " Rival ! useful to my swans ?" 
 Lionel (tenderly). " Or to you, Sir." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 37 
 
 He felt as if lie had said too inucli, and with- 
 out waitinj; for permission, ran in-doors to find 
 some one wlicmi he could ask for the bread. 
 
 "Sonless, childless, hopeless, objectless!" 
 said Darrell, luurnuiringly, to himself, and sunk 
 again into reverie. 
 
 °Bv the time Lionel returned with the bread, ' 
 another petted friend had joined the master. A 
 tame doe had caught sight of him from her cov- 
 ert 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 hur- 
 ried step she took Hight, trotted oft" a few paces, 
 then turned, looking wistfully. 
 
 " 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 re- 
 sumed his careless, unmeditative manner, "you 
 were not aware that I have a brother hermit — 
 a companion besides the swans and the doe. 
 Dick Fail-thorn is a year or two younger than 
 myself, the son of my father's bailiff. He was 
 the cleverest boy at his grammar-school. Un- 
 luckily he took to the flute, and unfitted himself 
 for the present century. He condescends, how- 
 ever, to act as my secretary — a fair classical 
 scholar — plays chess — is useful to me — I am 
 useful to him. We have an aft'ection 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-serv- 
 ant 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 stair-case 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 uj) three-fourths of the sjjuce, and 
 was crested with dingy plumes, that gave it the 
 cheerful look of a hearse ; and there the attend- 
 ant 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 remem- 
 bered that he had brought with him no evening- 
 dress — nay, evening-dress, properly so called, he 
 ))0ssessed not at all in any corner of the world. 
 It had never yet entered into his modes of ex- 
 istence. 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, pit- 
 cously; "only a change of linen, and this," 
 glancing at the summer jacket. The servant 
 was evidently a most gentlemanlike man — his 
 native sphere that of groom of the chambers. 
 •'I will mention it to Mr. Darrell; and if you 
 will favor 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 ^Ir. Dar- 
 rel myself." 
 
 "There is the hot water. Sir ; that is the bell. 
 I have the honor to be placed at your com- 
 
 mands." The door closed, and Lionel unlocked 
 his knapsack — other trowsers, other waistcoat, 
 had he — those worn at the fair, and once white. 
 Alas I 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 ap- 
 pear at dinner attired as he had been before, in 
 his light iiedcstrian jacket, morning waistcoat 
 flowered with sprigs, and a fawn-colored 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. 
 
 Dnnim ! si'd fit levins Paticntia 
 Quicquiil coi'rigere est nel'as. 
 
 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 flrst 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 itiner- 
 ant 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." 
 
 "Your mother might have thought for you." 
 
 "I did not stay to consult her, indeed, Sir; I 
 hope you are not offended." 
 
 " No, but let me not oft'end you if I take ad- 
 vantage of my years and our rclationshi]) to re- 
 mark that a young man should be carefid not to 
 let himself down below the measure of his own 
 rank. If a king could bear to hear that he was 
 only a ceremonial, a private gentleman may re- 
 member that there is but a ceremonial between 
 himself and — his hatter !" 
 
 Lionel felt the color mount his brow; but 
 Dan-ell, pressing the distasteful theme no far- 
 ther, and seemingly forgetting its purport, turned 
 his remarks carelessly toward the weather. "It 
 will be fair to-morrow ; there is no mist on the 
 hill yonder. Since you have a painter for a 
 friend, perhaps you yourself are a draughtsman. 
 There are some landscape-effects here which 
 Fairthorn shall point out to you." 
 
 "I fear, I\Ir. Darrell," said Lionel, looking 
 down, " that to-morrow I must leave you." 
 
 ' ' So soon ? Well, I suppose the place must 
 be very dull." 
 
 "Not that — not that; but I have offended 
 you, and I would not repeat the offense. I have 
 not the ' ceremonial' necessary to mark me as a 
 gentleman, either here or at home." 
 
 "So! Bold frankness and ready wit com- 
 mand ceremonials," returned Darrell, and for 
 the first time his lip wore a smile. " Let riic 
 jiresent to you Mr. Fairthorn," as the door open- 
 ing showed a shambling, awkward figure, with 
 loose black knee-breeches and buckled shoes. 
 The figure made a strange sidelong bow, and 
 hurrying in a lateral course, like a crab sudden- 
 ly alarmed, toward a dim recess ])rotccted by a 
 long table, sunk behind a curtain-fold, and seem- 
 ed to vanish as a crab docs amidst the shingles. 
 
 " Three minutes yet to dinner, and two before 
 the letter-carrier goes," said the host, glancing 
 at his watch. " Mr. Fairthorn, will you write a 
 note for me ?" There was a mutter from behind 
 the curtain. Dan-ell walked to the place, and 
 
 ? 
 
38 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 whispered a few words, returned to the hearth, 
 rang the bell. "Another letter for the post, 
 Mills : Mr. Fairthorn is sealing it. You are 
 looking at my book-shelves, Lionel. As I un- 
 derstand that j-our master spoke highly of you, 
 I presume that you are fond of reading." 
 
 "I think so, but I am not sure," answered 
 Lionel, whom his cousin's conciliatory words 
 had restored to ease and good-humor. 
 
 "You mean, perhaps, that you like reading, 
 if you may choose your own books." 
 
 '" Or rather if I may choose my own time to 
 read them, and that would not be on bright 
 summer days." 
 
 "Without sacrificing bright summer days, one 
 finds one has made little progi-ess when the long 
 winter nights come." 
 
 " Yes, Sir. But must the sacrifice be paid in 
 books ? I fancy I learned as much in the play- 
 ground as I did in the school-room, and for the 
 last few months, in much my own master, read- 
 ing hard, in the forenoon, it is true, for many 
 hours at a stretch, and yet again for a few hours 
 at evening, but rambling alsothrough the streets, 
 or listening to a few friends whom I have con- 
 trived to make — I think, if I can boast of any 
 progress at all, the books have the smaller share 
 in it." 
 
 "You would, then, prefer an active life to a 
 studious one ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes — yes." 
 
 "Dinner is served," said the decorous Mr. 
 Mills, throwing open the door. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 In our happy countrj- every man's house is his castle. 
 But'however stoutly he fortify it, Care enters, as sure- 
 ly as she did, in Horace's time, through the porticoes 
 of a Roman'd villa. Nor, whether ceilings be fretted 
 with gold and ivory, or whether only colored with 
 ■whitewash, does it matter to Care any more than it 
 does to a house-fly. But every tree, be it cedar or 
 blackthorn, can harbor its singing-bird ; and fev>- are 
 the homes in which, from nooks least suspected, there 
 Btarts not a music. Is it quite true that " non avium 
 cithara?que cantus somnura reducent?" AVould not 
 even Damocles himself have forgotten the sword, if the 
 lute-player had chanced upon the notes that lull? 
 
 The dinner was simple enough, but well- 
 dressed and wcU-sei-ved. One footman, in plain 
 livery, assisted Mr. Mills. Darrell ate sparing- 
 ly, and drank only water, which was placed by 
 his side, iced, with a single glass of wine at the 
 close of the repast, which he drank on bending 
 his head to Lionel with a certain knightly grace, 
 and the j)refatory words of "Welcome here to 
 a Haughton." Mr. Fairthorn was less abstemi- 
 ous — tasted of every dish, after examining it 
 long through a ])air of tortoise-shell spectacles, 
 and drank leisurely through a bottle of port, 
 holding up every glass to the light. Dai-rell 
 talked with his usual cold but not uncourteous 
 indifference. A remark of Lionel's on the por- 
 traits in the room turned the conversation 
 chiefly upon pictures, and the host showed him- 
 self thoroughly accomplished in the attributes 
 of the various schools and masters. Lionel, 
 who was very fond of the art, and, indeed, 
 painted well for a youthful amateur, listened 
 with great delight. 
 
 "Surely, Sir," said he, struck much with a 
 verj' subtle observation upon the causes why 
 
 the Italian masters admit of copyists with great- 
 er facilitj' than the Flemish — ''surely. Sir, you 
 must yourself have practiced the art of paint- 
 ing ?" 
 
 "Not I; but I instructed myself as a judge 
 of pictures, because at one time I was a collect- 
 or." 
 
 Fairthorn, speaking for the first time : " The 
 rarest collection — such Albert Durers! such 
 Holbeins ! and that head by Leonardo da Vin- 
 ci !" He stopped — looked extremely frightened 
 — helped himself to the port — turning his back 
 upon his host, to hold, as usual, the glass to the 
 light. 
 
 "Are they here, Sir?" asked Lionel. 
 
 Darrell's face darkened, and he made no an- 
 swer; but his head sank on his breast, and he 
 seemed suddenly absorbed in gloomy thought. 
 Lionel felt that he had touched a wrong chord, 
 and glanced timidly toward Fairthorn, but that 
 gentleman cautiously held up his finger, and 
 then rapidly put it to his lip, and as rapidly 
 drew it away. After that signal the boy did not 
 dare to break the silence, which now lasted un- 
 interruptedly till Darrell rose, and with the form- 
 al and superfluous question, "Any more wine?" 
 led the May back to the librarj'. There he en- 
 sconced himself in an easy chair, and saying, 
 "Will you find a book for yourself, Lionel?" 
 took a volume at random from the nearest shelf, 
 and soon seemed absorbed in its contents. The 
 room, made irregular by bay-windows, and 
 shelves that projected as in public libraries, 
 abounded with nook and recess. To one of 
 tiiese Fairthorn sidled himself, and became in- 
 visible. Lionel looked round the shelves. No 
 be//es kttres of our immediate generation were 
 found there — none of those authors most in re- 
 quest at circulating libraries and literary insti- 
 tutes. The shelves could discover none more 
 recent than the Johnsonian age. Neither in 
 the lawyer's library were to be found any law- 
 books — no, nor the pamphlets and parliament- 
 ary volumes that should have spoken of the once 
 eager politician. But there were superb copies 
 of the ancient classics. French and Italian au- 
 thors were not wanting, nor such of the English 
 as have withstood the test of time. The larger 
 portion of the shelves seemed, however, devoted 
 to philosophical works. Here alone was novel- 
 ty admitted— the newest essays on science, or 
 the best editions of old works thereon. Lionel 
 at length made his choice — a volume of the 
 "Faerie Queen." Coft'ee was served ; at a later 
 hour, tea. The clock struck ten. Darrell laid 
 down his book. 
 
 "Mr. Fairthorn — the Flute!" 
 
 From the recess a mutter, and presently — the 
 musician remaining still hidden — there came 
 forth the sweetest note — so dulcet, so plaintive ! 
 Lionel's ear was ravished. The music suited 
 well with the enchanted page through which his 
 fancy had been wandering dream-like — the flute 
 with' the "Faerie Queen." As the air flowed 
 liquid on Lionel's eyes filled with tears. He did 
 not observe that Darrell was intently watching 
 him. When the music stopped he turned aside 
 to wipe the tears from his eyes. Somehow or 
 other, what with the poem, what with the flute, 
 his thoughts had wandered far, far hence to the 
 green banks and blue waves of the Thames — to 
 Sophy's charming face, to her parting childish 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 89 
 
 "ift ! And where was she now? Whither pass- in his own words," said Darrell, with a coldness 
 fno- away, after so brief a holiday, into the shad- almost icy. He then seated himself at the 
 
 ows of forlorn life ? 
 
 Darrell's bell-like voice smote his ear. 
 
 "Spenser! You love him! Do you write 
 poetry?" 
 
 "No, Sir, I only feel it!" 
 
 " Do neither !" said the host, abruptly, llien 
 turning away, he lighted his candle, nuirmurcd 
 a 
 
 breakfast-table ; Lionel followed his example, 
 and Mr. Fuirthovn, courageously emerging, also 
 took a chair and a roll. "You were a true di- 
 viner, Mr. Darrell," said Lionel; "it is a glori- 
 ous day." 
 
 " But there will be showers later. The fish 
 are at play on the surface of the lake," Darrell 
 
 a quick good-night, and disajipcared through a added, with a softened glance toward Fairthorn, 
 side-door wliiclAcd to his own rooms. who was looking the picture of misery. "After 
 
 Lionel looked round for Fairtliorn, who now 
 
 emerged nl> aixju/o — from his nook. 
 
 "Oh, I\Ir. Fairthorn, how you have enchant- 
 ed me ! I never believed the flute could have 
 been capable of such effects !" 
 
 Mr. Fairthorn's grotesque face lighted up. 
 lie took oft' his spectacles, as if the better to 
 contemplate the face of his eulogist. " So you 
 were pleased! really?" he said, chuckling a 
 s<;range, grim chuckle, deep in his inmost self. 
 
 " Pleased ! it is a cold word ! Who would not 
 be more than pleased?" 
 
 "You should hear me in the open air." 
 
 "Let me do so — to-morrow." 
 
 " My dear young Sir, with all my heart. 
 Hist!" gazing round as if haunted — "1 like you. 
 I wish /liiii to like you. Answer all his tpies- 
 tions as if you did not care how he turned you 
 inside out. Never ask him a question, as if you 
 sought to know what he did not himself confide. 
 So there is something, you think, in a flute, after 
 all? There are people who prefer the fiddle." 
 
 "Then they never heard your flute, Mr. Fair- 
 thorn." The musician again emitted his dis- 
 cordant chuckle, and, nodding his head ner- 
 vously anil cordially, shambled away without 
 lighting a candle, and was ingulfed in the shad- 
 ows of some mysterious corner. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Old World, and the New. 
 
 It was long before Lionel could sleep. What 
 with the strange hoiu^c, and the strange master 
 — what with the magic flute, and the musician's 
 admonitory caution — wluit with tender and re- 
 gretful reminiscences of Sojihy, his brain had 
 enough to work on. When he slept at last, his 
 slumber was deep and heavy, and he did not 
 wake till gently shaken by the well-bred arm of 
 Mr. Mills. " I humbly beg pardon — nine o'clock. 
 Sir, and the breakfast-bell going to ring." Li- 
 onel's toilet was soon hurried over; Mr. Darrell 
 and Fairthorn were talking together as he en- 
 tered the breakfast-room — the same room as that 
 in whicli they had dined. 
 
 " Good-morning, Lionel, "said the host. "No 
 leave-taking to-day, as you threatened. I find 
 you have made an ajjpointment with Mr. Fair- 
 thorn, and I shall place you under his care. You 
 may like to look over the old house, and make 
 yourself" — Darrell paused — "At home," jerked 
 "out Mr. Fairthorn, filling up the hiatus. Dar- 
 rell turned his eye toward tlie speaker, who evi- 
 dently became nmch frightened, and, after look- 
 ing in vain for a corner, sidled away to the win- 
 dow, and poked himself behind the curtain. 
 "Mr. Fairthorn, in the capacity of my secretary, 
 has learned to lind me thoughts, and put them 
 
 twelve, it will be just tlic weather for trout to 
 rise ; and if you fish, Mr. Fairthorn will lend 
 you a rod. He is a worthy successor of Izaak 
 Walton, and loves a comjianion as Izaak did, but 
 more rarely gets one." 
 
 "Are there trout in your lake. Sir?" 
 " The lake ! You must not dream of invading 
 that sacred water. The inhabitants of rivulets 
 and brooks not within my boundary are beyond 
 the pale of Fawley civilization, to be snared and 
 slaughtered like Caftres, red men, or any other 
 savages, for whom we bait witii a missionary, 
 and whom we impale on a bayonet. But I re- 
 gard my lake as a political community, under 
 the protection of the law, and leave its denizens 
 to devour each other, as Eurojieans, fishes and 
 other cold-blooded creatures wisely do, in order 
 to check the overgrowth of population. To fat- 
 ten one pike it takes a great many minnows. 
 Naturally I sui)port the vested rights of pike. I 
 have been a lawyer." 
 
 It would be in vain to describe the manner in 
 which Mr. Darrell vented this or similar re- 
 marks of mocking irony, or sarcastic spleen. 
 It was not bitter nor sneering, but in his usual 
 mellifluous level tone and passionless tranquil- 
 lity. 
 
 The breakfast was just over as a groom passed 
 in front of the windows with a led horse. " I 
 am going to leave you, Lionel," said the host, 
 "to make — friends with Mr. Fairthorn, and I 
 thus complete tlie sentence which he diverted 
 astray, according to my own original intention." 
 He passed across the hall to the open house- 
 door, and stood by the horse stroking its neck 
 and giving some directions to the groom. Lio- 
 nel and Fairthorn followed to the threshold, 
 and the beauty of the horse provoked the boy's 
 admiration : it was a dark muzzled brown, of 
 that fine old-fashioned breed of English roadster 
 whicli is now so seldom seen ; showy, bow- 
 necked, long-tailed, stumbling reedy hybrids, 
 born of bad barbs, ill-mated, having mainly sup- 
 plied their place. This was, indeed, a horse of 
 great ])Ower, immense girth of loin, high shoul- 
 der, broad hoof; and such a head! the ear, the 
 frontal, the nostril ! you seldmn see a human 
 physiognomy half so intelligent, half so express- 
 ive of that high spirit and sweet generous tem- 
 ])er, which, when united, constitute the ideal 
 of thorough-breeding, whether in horse or man. 
 The English rider was in harmony with the 
 English steed. Darrell at this moment was 
 resting his arm lightly on the animal's shoulder, 
 and his head still uncovered. It has been said 
 before that he was of ini])osing presence; the 
 striking attribute of his person, indeed, was 
 that of unconscious grandeur ; yet, though above 
 the ordinary height, he was not very tall — fivo 
 feet eleven at the utmost — and far from being 
 very erect. On the contrary, there was that 
 
40 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 habitual bend in his proud neck which men who 
 meditate much and live alone almost invariably 
 contract. But there was, to use an expression 
 common with our older writers, that " great 
 air" about him which filled the eye. and gave 
 him the dignity of elevated stature, the com- 
 manding aspect that accompanies the upright 
 carriage. His figure was inclined to be slender ; 
 though broad of shoulder and deep of chest ; it 
 was the figure of a young man, and probably 
 little changed from what it might have been at 
 five-and-twenty. A certain youthfulness still 
 lingered even on the countenance — strange, for 
 sorrow is supposed to expedite the work of age ; 
 and Darrell had known sorrow of a kind most 
 adapted to harrow his peculiar nature, as great 
 in its degree as ever left man's heart in ruins. 
 Xo gray was visible in the dark brown hair, that, 
 worn short behind, still retained in front the 
 large Jovelike curl. Xo wrinkle, save at the 
 corner of the eyes, marred the pale bronze of 
 the firm cheek ; the forehead was smooth as 
 marble, and as massive. It was. that forehead 
 which chiefly contributed to the superb expres- 
 sion of his whole aspect. It was high to a fault ; 
 the perceptive organs, over a dark, strongly- 
 marked, arched eyebrow, powerfully developed, 
 as they are with most eminent lawyers : it did 
 not want for breadth at the temples; yet on the 
 whole, it bespoke more of intellectual vigor and 
 dauntless will than of serene philosophy or all- 
 embracing benevolence. It was the forehead 
 of a man formed to command and awe the pas- 
 sions and intellect of others by the strength of 
 passions in himself, rather concentred than 
 chastised, and an intellect forceful from the 
 weight of its mass rather than the niceness of 
 its balance. The other features harmonized 
 with that brow ; they were of the noblest order 
 of aquiline, at once high and delicate. The lip 
 had a rare combination of exquisite refinement 
 and inflexible resolve. The eye, in repose, was 
 cold, bright, unrevealing, with a certain absent, 
 musing, self-absorbed expression, that often 
 made the man's words appear as if spoken me- 
 chanically, and assisted toward that seeming of 
 listless indiflerence to those whom he addressed, 
 by which he wounded vanity, without, perhaps, 
 any malice prepense. But it was an eye in 
 which the pupil could suddenly expand, the hue 
 change from gray to dark, and the cold still 
 brightness flash into vivid fire. It could not 
 have occurred to any one, even to the most 
 commonplace woman, to have described Dar- 
 rell's as a handsome face ; the expression would 
 have seemed trivial and derogatory ; the words 
 that would have occurred to all, would have 
 been somewhat to this effect — '"What a mag- 
 nificent countenance ! What a noble head !" 
 Yet an experienced physiognomist might have 
 noted that the same lineaments which bespoke 
 a virtue bespoke also its neighboring vice ; 
 that with so much will there went stubborn ob- 
 stinacy ; that with that power of grasp there 
 would be the tenacity in adherence which nar- 
 rows in astringing the intellect ; that a preju- 
 dice once conceived, a passion once cherished, 
 would resist all rational argument for relin- 
 quishment. When men of this mould do re- 
 linquish prejudice or passion, it is by their own 
 impulse, their own sure conviction that what 
 they hold is worthless : then they do not yield 
 
 it graciously; they fling it from them in scorn, 
 but not a scorn that consoles. That which they 
 thus ^vrench away had grown a living part of 
 themselves ; their own flesh bleeds — the wound 
 seldom or never heals. Such men rarely fail in 
 the achievement of what they covet, if the gods 
 are neutral ; but adamant against the world, they 
 are vulnerable through their affections. Their 
 love is intense, but undemonstrative ; their ha- 
 tred implacable, but unrevengeful. Too proud 
 to revenge, too galled to pardon. 
 
 There stood Guy Darrell, to whom the bar had 
 destined its highest honors, to whom the Senate 
 had accorded its most rapturous cheers ; and the 
 more you gazed on him as he there stood, the 
 more perplexed became the enigma, how with a 
 career sought with such energy, advanced with 
 such success, the man had abruptly subsided into 
 a listless recluse, and the career had been vol- 
 untarily resigned for a home without neighbors, 
 a hearth without children. 
 
 " I had no idea," said Lionel, as Darrell rode 
 slowly awaj', soon lost from sight amidst the 
 thick foliage of summer trees — '"I had no idea 
 that my cousin was so young 1" 
 
 " Oh, yes I" said Mr. Fairthorn ; '"he is only 
 a year older than I am I" 
 
 " Older than you !" exclaimed Lionel, staring 
 in blunt amaze at the elderly-looking pereonage 
 beside him ; " yet true — he "told me so himself." 
 "And I am fifty-one last birthday." 
 " ^Ir. DaiTcll fifty-two ! Incredible !" 
 " I don't know why we should ever grow old, 
 the life we lead,'' observed Mr. Fairthorn, re- 
 adjusting his spectacles. '• Time stands so still ! 
 Fishing, too, is very conducive to longevity. If 
 you will follow me we will get the rods ; and 
 the flute — you are quite sure you would like the 
 flute ? Yes I thank you, my dear young Sir. 
 And yet there are folks who prefer the fiddle I" 
 "Is not the sun a little too bright for the fly 
 at present ? and will you not, in the mean while, 
 show me over the house?" 
 
 "Very well; not that this house has much 
 worth seeing. The other, indeed, would have 
 had a music-room I But, after all, nothing like 
 the open air for the flute. This way." 
 
 I spare thee, gentle reader, the minute inven- 
 tory of Fawley Manor House. It had nothing 
 but its antiquity to recommend it. It had a great 
 many rooms, all, except those used as the din- 
 ing-room and library, very small and very low — 
 innumerable closets, nooks — unexpected cavi- 
 ties, as if made on purpose for the venerable 
 game of hide-and-seek. Save a stately old 
 kitchen, the offices were sadly defective, even 
 for Mr. Dan-ell's domestic establishment, which 
 consisted but of two men and four maids (the 
 stablemen not lodging in the house). Draw- 
 ing-room, properly speaking, it had none. At 
 some remote period a sort of gallery under the 
 gable roofs (above the first floor), stretching 
 from end to end of the house, might have served 
 for the reception of guests on grand occasions. 
 For fragments of mouldering tapestry still, here 
 and there, clung to the walls ; and a high chim- 
 ney-piece, whereon, in plaster relief, was com- 
 memorated the memorable fishing-party of An- 
 tony and Cleopatra, retained patches of color 
 and gilding, which must, when fresh, have made 
 the Egv'ptian queen still more appallingly hide- 
 ous, and the fish at the end of Antony's hook 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 41 
 
 still less resembling any creature known to ich- 
 thyologists. 
 
 The" library had been arranged into shelves 
 from floor to roof by Mr. Darrell's father, and 
 subsequently, for the mere purpose of holding 
 as many volumes as possible, brought out into 
 projecting wings (college-like) by DaiTell him- 
 self, without any pretension to mediaeval char- 
 acter. With this room communicated a small 
 reading-closet, which the host resened to him- 
 self ; and this, by a circular stair cut into the 
 massive wall, ascended first into Mr. Darrell's 
 sleeping-chamber, and thence into a gable re- 
 cess that adjoined the gallery, and which the 
 host had fitted up for the purpose of scientific 
 experiments in chemistry, or other branches of 
 practical philosophy. These more private rooms 
 Lionel was not permitted to enter. 
 
 Altogether the house was one of those cruel 
 tenements which it would be a sin to pull down 
 or even materially to alter, but which it would 
 be an hourly inconvenience for a modern fam- 
 ily to inhabit. It was out of all character with 
 Mr. DaiTcU's former position in life, or with the 
 fortune which Lionel vaguely sup])Osed him to 
 possess, and considerably underrated. Like Sir 
 Nicholas Bacon, the man had grown too large 
 for his habitation. 
 
 '' I don't wonder," said Lionel, as, their wan- 
 derings over, he and Fairthorn found themselves 
 in the library, '• that INIr. Darrell began to build 
 a new house. But it would have been a great 
 piry to pull down this for it." 
 
 " Pull down this ! Don't hint at such an idea 
 to Mr. Darrell. He would as soon have pulled 
 down the British monarchy! Kay, I suspect, 
 sooner." 
 
 " But the new building must surely have swal- 
 lowed up the old one." 
 
 " Oh, no ; Mr. Darrell had a ]>]an by which he 
 would have inclosed this separately in a kind of 
 court with an open screen work or cloister ; and 
 it was his intention to appropriate it entirely to 
 mediasval antiquities, of which he had a wonder- 
 ful collection. He had a notion of illustrating 
 every earlier reign In which his ancestors flour- 
 ished — difterent apartments in correspondence 
 with different dates. It would have been a chron- 
 icle of national manners." 
 
 " But, if it be not an impertinent question, 
 v.'here is this collection ? In London ?" 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! I will give you a peep of some 
 of the treasures, only don't betray me." 
 
 Fairthorn here, with singular rapidity, consid- 
 ering that he never moved in a straightforward 
 direction, undulated into the open air in front 
 of the house, described a rhomboid toward a 
 side-buttress in the new building, near to which 
 was a postern door ; unlocked that door from a 
 key in his pocket, and, motioning Lionel to fol- 
 low him, entered within the ribs of the stony 
 skeleton. Lionel followed in a sort of super- 
 natural awe, and beheld, Avith more substantial 
 alarm, Mr. Fairthorn winding up an inclined 
 plank which he embraced with both arms, and 
 by M-hich he ultimately ascended to a timber 
 joist in what should have been an upper floor, 
 only flooring there was none. Perched there, 
 Fairthorn glared down on Lionel through his 
 spectacles. "Dangerous," he said, whispering- 
 ly; " but one gets used to every thing ! If you 
 feel afraid, don't venture !" 
 
 Lionel, animated by that doubt of his cour- 
 age, sprang up the plank, balancing himself, 
 school-boy fashion, with outstretched ai-ms, and 
 gained the side of his guide. 
 
 " Don't touch me," exclaimed Mr. Fairthorn, 
 shrinking, " or we shall both be over. Now ob- 
 serve and imitate." Dropping himself then care- 
 fully and gradually, till he dropped on the tim- 
 ber joist as if it were a velocipede, his long legs 
 dangling down, he with thigh and hand impelled 
 himself onward till he gained the ridge of a wall, 
 on which he delivered his person, and wijjed his 
 spectacles. 
 
 Lionel was not long before he stood in the 
 same place. "Here we are 1' said Fairthorn. 
 
 " I don't see the collection," answered Lionel, 
 first peering down athwart the joists upon the 
 rugged ground overspread with stones and rub- 
 bish, then glancing up, thi-ough similar intei-- 
 stices above, to the gaunt rafters. 
 
 " Here are some — most precious," answered 
 Fairthorn, tapping behind him. "Walled up, 
 except where these boards, cased in iron, are 
 nailed across, with a little door just big enough 
 to creep through ; but that is locked — Chubb's 
 lock, and I\Ir. Darrell keeps the key I — treasures 
 for a palace ! No, you can't peep through here 
 — not a chink ; but come on a little further, — 
 mind your footing." 
 
 Skirting the wall, and still on the perilous 
 ridge, Fairthorn crept on, formed an angle, and, 
 stopping short, claj)ped his eye to the crevice of 
 some planks nailed rudely across a yav.ning ap- 
 erture. Lionel found another crevice for him- 
 self, and saw, piled up in adniired disorder, pic- 
 tures, with their backs turned to a desolate wall, 
 rare cabinets, and articles of curious furniture, 
 chests, boxes, crates — heaped pell-mell. This 
 receptacle had been roughly floored in deal, in 
 order to support its miscellaneous contents, and 
 was lighted from a large window (not visible in 
 front of the l^ousc), glazed in dull rough glass, 
 with ventilators. 
 
 "These are the hea^y things, and least cost- 
 ly things, that no one could well rob. Tiie pic- 
 tures here are merely curious as early speci- 
 mens, intended for the old house, all spoiling 
 and rotting ; Jlr. DaiTell wishes them to do so, 
 I believe! What he wishes must be done! my 
 dear young Sir — a prodigious mind^ — it is of 
 gi'anite." 
 
 "I can not understand it," said Lionel, aghast. 
 " The last man I should have thought capricious- 
 ly whimsical." 
 
 " Whimsical ! Bless my soul ! don't say such 
 a word — don't, pray, or the roof will fall dovra 
 u])On us ! Come away. You have seen all you 
 can see. You must go first now — mind that 
 loose stone thei'e !" 
 
 Nothing further was said till they were out of 
 the building; and Lionel felt like a knight of 
 old who had been led into sepulchral halls by a 
 wizard. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The annals of empire are briefly chronicled iu family 
 records brought down to the present day, showing that 
 the race of men is indeed "like leaves on trees, now 
 green in youth, now withering on the ground." Yet 
 to the branch the most b.<ire will green leaves return, 
 60 long as the sap can remount to the branch from the 
 root ; but t!ie branch whicli l-.as ceased to take life from 
 
42 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 the root— bang it liigh, hang it low — is a prey to the 
 wind and the woodnuin. 
 
 It was mid-day. The boy and his new friend 
 were standing apart, as becomes silent anglers, 
 on the banks of a narrow brawling rivulet, run- 
 ning tlnough green pastures, half a mile from 
 the house. The sky was overcast, as Darrell had 
 predicted, but the rain did not yet fall. The 
 two anglers were not long before they had filled 
 a basket with small trout. 
 
 Then Lionel, who was by no means fond of 
 fishing, laid his rod on the bank, and strolled 
 across the long grass to his companion. 
 
 "It will rain soon," said he. "Let me take 
 advantage of the present time, and hear the flute, 
 while we can yet enjoy the open air. No, not 
 by the margin, or you will be always looking 
 after the trout. On the rising-ground, see that 
 old thorn-tree — let us go and sit under it. The 
 new building looks well from it. What a pile it 
 would have been ! I may not ask you, I sup- 
 j)0se, why it is left incompleted. Perhaps it 
 would have cost too much, or would have been 
 disproportionate to the estate." 
 
 "To the present estate it would have been 
 disproportioned, but not to the estate Mr. Dar- 
 rell intended to add to it. As to cost, you don't 
 know him. He would never have undertaken 
 what he could not afi:brd to complete ; and what 
 he once undertook, no thoughts of the cost 
 would have scared him from finishing. Prodig- 
 ious mind — granite ! And so rich !" added Fair- 
 thorn, with an air of great pride.- "I ought to 
 know ; I write all his letters on money matters. 
 How much do you think he has, without count- 
 ing land ?" 
 
 " I can not guess." 
 
 "Nearly half a million — in two years it will 
 be more than half a million. And he had not 
 three hundred a year when he began life; for 
 Fawley was sadly mortgaged." 
 
 " Is it possible ! Could any la\\<yer make half 
 a million at the bar ?" 
 
 " If any man could, he would, if he set his 
 mind on it. But it was not all made at the bar, 
 though a great part Qf it was. An East Indian 
 old bachelor of the same name, but who had 
 never been heard of hereabouts till he wrote 
 from Calcutta to Mr. Darrell (inquiring if they 
 were any relations — and Mr. Darrell referred 
 him to the College-at-Arms, which proved that 
 they came from the same stock ages ago) — left 
 him all his money. Mr. Dairell was not de- 
 pendent on his profession when he stood up in 
 Parliament. And since we have been here, such 
 savings! Not that Mr. Darrell is avaricious, 
 but how can he spend money in this place ? 
 You should have seen the servants we kept in 
 Carlton Gardens. Such a cook too — a French 
 gentleman — looked like a marquis. Those were 
 happy days, and proud ones ! It is true that I 
 order the dinner here, but it can't be the same 
 thing. Do you like fillet of veal ? we have one 
 to-day." 
 
 " We used to have a fillet of veal at school on 
 Sundays. I thought it good then." 
 
 "It makes a nice mince," said Mr. Fairthorn, 
 v.ith a sensual movement of his lips. "One 
 must think of dinner when one lives in the coun- 
 tiy — so little else to think of! Not that Mr. 
 Darrell does, but then lie is — granite !" 
 
 "Still," said Lionel, smiling, "I do not get 
 
 my answer. Why was the house uncomi)leted ? 
 and why did Mr. Darrell retire from public 
 life?" 
 
 "He took both into his head; and when a 
 thing once gets there, it is no use asking why. 
 But," added Fairthorn, and his innocent ugly 
 face changed into an expression of earnest sad- 
 ness — "but no doubt he had his reasons. He 
 has reasons for all he does, only they lie far far 
 away from what appears on the surface — far as 
 that rivulet lies from its source ! My dear young 
 Sir, Mr. Darrell has known griefs "on which it 
 does not become you and me to talk. He never 
 talks of them. The least I can do for my bene- 
 factor is not to pry into his secrets, nor babble 
 them out. And he is so kind — so good — never 
 gets into a passion ; but it is so awful to wound 
 him — it gives him such pain ; that's why he 
 frightens me — frightens me horribly ; and so he 
 will you M'hen you come to know him. Prodig- 
 ious mind ! — granite — overgrown with sensitive 
 ])lants. Yes, a little music will do us both 
 good." 
 
 Mx. Fairthorn screwed his flute — an exceed- 
 ingly handsome one. He pointed out its beau- 
 ties to Lionel — a present from Mr. Darrell last 
 Christmas — and then he began. Strange thing, 
 Art! especially music. Out of an art a man 
 may be so trivial you would mistake him for an 
 imbecile — at best, a grown infant. Put him into 
 his art, and how high he soars above you ! How 
 quietly he enters into a heaven of wliich he has 
 become a denizen, and, unlocking the gates with 
 his golden key, admits you to follow, an humble, 
 reverent visitor. 
 
 In his art Fairthorn was certainly a master, 
 and the air he now played was exquisitely soft 
 and plaintive ; it accorded with the clouded yet 
 quiet sky, with the lone but summer landscape, 
 with Lionel's melancholic but not afflicted train 
 of thought. The boy could only murmur, "Beau- 
 tiful !" when the musician ceased. 
 
 "It is an old air," said Fairthorn ; "I don't 
 think it is known. I found its scale scrawled 
 down in a copy of the Eikon Basilike, with the 
 name oi Joannes Dan-ell, Kq. Aurat, written un- 
 der it. That, by the date, was Sir John Dar- 
 rell, the cavalier who fought for Charles I., fa- 
 ther of the graceless Sir llalph, who flourished 
 under Charles II. Both their portraits are in 
 the dining-room. 
 
 "Tell me something of the family; I know 
 so little about it — not even how the Haughtons 
 and Darrells seem to have been so long con- 
 nected. I see by the portraits that the Ilaugh- 
 ton name was borne by former Darrells, then 
 apparently dropped, now it is borne again by 
 my cousin." 
 
 " He beai-s it only as a Cliristian name. Your 
 grandfather was his sponsor. But he is, never- 
 theless, the head of your family." 
 "So he says. How ?" 
 
 Fairthorn gathered himself up, his knees to 
 his chin, and began in the tone of a guide who 
 has got his lesson by heart, though it was not 
 long before he warmed into his subject. 
 
 " The Darrells are supposed to Jiave got their 
 name from a knight in the reign of Edward III., 
 who held the lists in a joust victoriously against 
 all comers, and was called, or called himself, 
 John the Dare-all ; or, in old spelling, the Dei'- 
 all ! They were among the most powerful £am- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 43 
 
 ilies in the country ; their alliances were with 
 the highest houses — Montfichets, Nevilles, Mow- 
 brays ; they descend through such marriages 
 from the blood of Plantagenct kings. You'll 
 find their names in Chronicles in the early 
 French wai-s. Unluckily, they attached them- 
 selves to the fortunes of Earl Warwick, the 
 King-maker, to whose blood they were allied; 
 their representative was killed in the fatal field 
 of Barnet ; their estates were, of course, confis- 
 cated; the sole son and heir of that ill-fated 
 politician passed into the Low Countries, where 
 he served as a soldier. His son and grandson 
 followed the same calling under foreign banners. 
 But they must have kept up the love of the old 
 land ; for, in the latter part of the reign of Hen- 
 ry VIII., the last male Darrell returned to En- 
 gland with some broad gold pieces, saved by 
 himself or his exiled fathers, bought some land 
 in this county, in which the ancestral possessions 
 had once been large, and built the present house, 
 of a size suited to the altered fortunes of a race 
 that had, in a former age, manned castles with 
 retainers. The baptismal name of the soldier 
 who thus partially refounded the old line in En- 
 gland was that now borne by your cousin Guy 
 — a name always favored by Fortune in the 
 family annals ; for, in Elizabeth's time, from 
 the rank of small gentry, to which their fortune 
 alone lifted them since their return to their na- 
 tive land, the Darrells rose once more into wealth 
 and eminence under a handsome young Sir Guy 
 — we have his picture in black Howered velvet — 
 who married the heiress of the Haughtons, a 
 family that had grown rich under the Tudors, 
 and in high favor with the ]Maiden-Queen. This 
 Sir Guy was befriended by Essex, and knighted 
 by Elizabeth herself. Their old house was then 
 abandoned for the larger mansion of the Haugh- 
 tons, which had also the advantage of being 
 nearer to the Court. The renewed prosperity 
 of the Darrells was of short duration. The 
 Civil Wars came on, and Sir John Darrell took 
 the losing side. He escaped to France with his 
 only son. He is said to have been an accom- 
 plished, melancholy man ; and my belief is, that 
 he composed that air which you justly admire 
 for its mournful sweetness. He turned Komau 
 Catholic, and died in a convent. But the son, 
 Ralph, was brought up in France with Charles 
 II. and other gay roisterers. On the return of 
 the Stuart, Ralph ran oft" with the daughter of 
 the Roundhead to whom his estates had been 
 given, and, after getting them back, left his 
 wife in the country, and made love to other 
 men's wives in town. Shocking profligate ! no 
 fruit could thrive upon such a branch. He 
 squandered all he could squander, and would 
 have left his children beggars, but that he was 
 providentially slain in a tavern brawl for boast- 
 ing of a lady's favors to her husband's face. The 
 husband suddenly stabbed him — no fair duello, 
 for Sir Raljjh was invincible with the small 
 sword. Still the family fortune was much di- 
 lapidated, yet still the Darrells lived in the fine 
 house of the Haughtons, and left Fawley to the 
 owls. But Sir Ralph's son, in his old age, mar- 
 ried a second time, a young lady of high rank, 
 an earl's daughter. He must have been very 
 much in love with her, despite his age ; for, to 
 win her consent or her father's, he agreed to 
 settle all the Ilaughton estates on her and the 
 
 children she might bear to him. The smaller 
 Darrell property had already been entailed on 
 his son by his first mamage. This is how the 
 family came to split. Old Darrell had children 
 by his second wife ; the eldest of those children 
 took the Ilaughton name, and inherited the 
 Ilaughton property. The son by the first mar- 
 riage had nothing but Fawley, and the scanty 
 domain round it. You descend from the second 
 marriage, Mr. Darrell from the first. You un- 
 derstand now, my dear young Sir?" 
 
 " Yes, a little ; but I should like very much to 
 know where those fine Ilaughton estates are 
 now ?" 
 
 " W^here they are now ? I can't say. They 
 were once in Middlesex. Probably much of the 
 land, as it was sold piecemeal, fell into small al- 
 lotments, constantly changing hands. But the 
 last relics of the property were, I know, bought 
 on speculation by Cox the distiller ; for, when 
 we were in London, by Mr. Darrell's desire I 
 went to look after them, and inquire if tliey 
 could be repurchased. And I found that so 
 rapid in a few years has been the prosperity of 
 this great commercial country, that if one did 
 buy them back, one would buy twelve villas, 
 several streets, two squares, and a paragon! 
 But as that symptom of national advancement, 
 though a proud thought in itself, may not have 
 any pleasing interest for you, I return to the 
 Darrells. From the time in which the Ilaughton 
 estate had parted from them, they settled back > 
 in their old house of Fawley. But tb.ey could 
 never again hold up their heads with the noble- 
 men and great squires in the county. As much 
 as they could do to live at all upon the little 
 patrimony ; still the reminiscence of what they 
 had been made them maintain it jealously, and 
 entail it rigidly. The eldest son would never 
 have thought of any profession or business ; the 
 younger sons generall}'- became soldiers, and 
 "being always a venturesome race, and having 
 nothing particular to make them value their ex- 
 istence, were no less generally killed oft' betimes. 
 Tiie family became thoroughly obscure, slipped 
 out of place in the county, seldom rose to be 
 even justices of the peace, never contrived to 
 marry heiresses again, but only the daughters 
 of some neighboring parson or squire as poor 
 as themselves, but always of gentle blood. Oh, 
 they were as proud as Spaniards in that respect. 
 So from father to son, each generation grew 
 obscurer and poorer ; for, entail the estate as 
 they might, still some settlements on it were 
 necessary, and no settlements were ever brought 
 into it; and thus entails were cut oft' to admit 
 some new mortgage, till the rent-roll was some- 
 what less than £300 a year when Mr. Darrell's 
 father came into possession. Yet somehow or 
 other he got to college, where no Darrell had 
 been since the time of the Glorious Revolution, 
 and was a learned man and an antiquary — a 
 GREAT antiquary! You may have read his 
 works. I know there is one copy of them in 
 the British Museum, and there is anotlier here, 
 but that copy Mr. Darrell keeps under lock and 
 kev." 
 
 '" I am ashamed to say I don't even know the 
 titles of those works." 
 
 "There were 'Popular Ballads on the Wars 
 of the Roses ;' ' Darrelliana,' consisting of tra- 
 ditional and other memorials of the Darrell 
 
44 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 family ; ' Inquiiy into the Origin of Legends 
 connected with Dragons ;' ' Hours among Mon- 
 umental Brasses,' and other ingenious lucubra- 
 tions above tiie taste of the vulgar ; some of 
 them -were even read at the Royal Society of 
 Antiquaries. They cost much to print and pub- 
 lish. But I have heard my father, who was his 
 bailiff, say that he was a pleasant man, and was 
 fond of reciting old scraps of poetry, which he 
 did with great energy ; indeed, Mr. Darrell de- 
 clares that it was the noticing, in his father's 
 animated and felicitous elocution, the effects 
 that voice, look, and deliverj' can give to words, 
 which made Mr. Darrell himself the fine speak- 
 er that he is. But I can only recollect the An- 
 tiquary as a very majestic gentleman, with a 
 long pigtail — awful, rather, not so much so as 
 his son, but still awful — and so sad-looking ; 
 you would not have recovered your spirits for a 
 week if you had seen him, especially when the 
 old house wanted repairs, and he was thinking 
 how he could pay for them !" 
 
 " Was ilr. Darrell, the present one, an onlv 
 child ?" 
 
 "Yes, and much with his father, whom he 
 loved most dearly, and to this day he sighs if he 
 has to mention his father's name ! He has old 
 Mr. DarreU's portrait over the chimney-piece 
 in his own reading-room ; and he had it in his 
 own library in Carlton Gardens. Our Mr. Dar- 
 reU's mother was veiy pretty, even as I remember 
 her ; she died when he was about ten years old. 
 And she too was a relation of yours — a Haugh- 
 ton by blood ; but perhaps you will be ashamed 
 of her, "when I say she was a governess in a rich 
 mercantile family. She had been left an or- 
 phan. I believe old Mr. Dan-ell (not that he 
 was old then) married her because the Haugh- 
 tons could or would do nothing for her, and be- 
 cause she was much snubbed and put upon, as 
 I am told governesses usually are — married her 
 because, poor as he was, he was still the head 
 of both families, and bound to do what he could 
 for decayed scions ! The first governess a Dar- 
 rell ever married, but no true Darrell would 
 have called that a mesalliance, since she was still 
 a Haughton, and 'Fors non mutat genus,' 
 Chance does not change race." 
 
 " But how comes it that the Ilaughtons — my 
 grandfather Haughton, I suppose, would do no- 
 thing for his own kinswoman?" 
 
 "It was not your grandfather, Robert Haugh- 
 ton, who was a generous man — he was then a 
 mere youngster, hiding himself for debt — but 
 your great-grandfather, who was a hard man, 
 and on the turf. He never had money to give 
 — only money for betting. He left the Haugh- 
 ton estates sadly dipped. But when Robert suc- 
 ceeded, he came forward, was godfather to our 
 Mr. Darrell, insisted on sharing the expense of 
 sending him to Eton, where he became greatly 
 distinguished; thence to Oxford, where he in- 
 creased his reputation ; and would probably 
 have done more for him, only Mr. Darrell, once 
 his foot on the ladder, wanted no help to climb 
 to the top." 
 
 "Then my grandfather, Robert, still had the 
 Haughton estates? Their last relics had not 
 been yet transmuted by Mr. Cox into squares 
 and a paragon ?" 
 
 " No ; the grand old mansion, though much 
 dilapidated, with its park, though stripped of 
 
 salable timber, was still left, with a rental from 
 farms that still appertained to the residence, 
 which would have sufficed a prudent man for the 
 luxuries of life, and allowed a reserve fund to 
 clear off the mortgages gradually. Abstinence 
 and self-denial for one or two generations would 
 have made a property, daily rising in value as 
 the metropolis advanced to its outskirts, a prince- 
 ly estate for a third. But Robert Haughton, 
 though not on the turf, had a grand way of liv- 
 ing ; and while Guy Darrell went into the law 
 to make a small patrimony a large fortune, your 
 father, my dear young Sir, was put into the 
 Guards to reduce a large patrimony — into Mr. 
 Cox's distillery." 
 
 Lionel colored, but remained silent. 
 Fairthorn, who was as unconscioiis, in his zest 
 of narrator, that he was giving pain as an ento- 
 mologist, in his zest for collecting, when he pins 
 a live moth into his cabinet, resumed: ''Your 
 father and Guy Darrell were warm friends as 
 boys and youths. Guy was the elder of the two, 
 and Charlie Haughton (I beg your pardon, hc 
 was always called Charlie) looked up to him as 
 to an elder brother. ]\Iany's the scrape Guy got 
 him out of; and many a pound, I believe, when 
 Guy had some funds of his own, did Guy lend 
 to Charlie." 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear that," said Lionel, 
 sharply. 
 
 Fairthorn looked frightened. "I'm afraid I 
 
 have made a blunder. Don't tell Mr. Dan-ell." 
 
 " Certainly not ; I promise. But how came 
 
 my father to need this aid, and how came they 
 
 at last to quarrel?" 
 
 " Your father, Charlie, became a gay young 
 man about town, and very much the fashion. He 
 was like you in person, only his forehead was 
 lower and his eye not so steady. Mr. Danell 
 studied the law in Chambers. When Robert 
 Haughton died, what with his debts, what with 
 his father's, and what with Charlie's post-obits 
 and I O U's, there seemed small chance indeed 
 of saving the estate to the Haughtons. But 
 then Mr. Darrell looked close into matters, and 
 with such skill did he settle them that he re- 
 moved the fear of foreclosure ; and what with 
 increasing the rental here and there, and re- 
 placing old mortgages by new at less interest, 
 he contrived to extract from the property an in- 
 come of nine hundred pounds a year to Charlie 
 (three times the income Darrell had inherited 
 himself), where before it had seemed that the 
 debts were more than the assets. Foreseeing 
 how much the land would rise in value, he then 
 earnestly imjjlored Charlie (who unluckily had 
 the estate in fee-simple, as Mr. Darrell has this, 
 to sell if he pleased), to live on his income, and 
 in a few years a part of the property might be 
 sold for building purposes, on terms that would 
 save all the rest, with the old house in which 
 Darrells and Haughtons lioth had once reared 
 generations. Charlie promised, I know, and 
 I've no doubt, my dear young Sir, quite sincere- 
 ly — but all men are not granite ! He took t(5 
 gambling, incurred debts of honor, sold the farms 
 one by one, resorted to usurers, and one night, 
 after playing six hours at picquet, nothing was 
 left for him but to sell all that remained to Mr. 
 Cox the distiller, unknown to Mr. Darrell, who 
 was then married himself, working hard, and 
 living quite out of the news of the fashionable 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 45 
 
 world. Then Charlie Ilaughton sold out of the 
 Guards, spent whiit he got for his commission, 
 went into the line ; and finally, in a country 
 town, in which I don't think he was quartered, 
 hut having gone there on some sporting sjjecu- 
 lation, was unwillingly detained — married — " 
 
 "My mother I" said Lionel, haughtily ; ''and 
 the best of women she is. What then ?" 
 
 ♦' Nothing, my dear young Sir — nothing, ex- 
 cept that ^Ir. Darrell never forgave it. lie has 
 his prejudices ; this marriage shocked one of 
 them." 
 
 '•Prejudice against my poor mother! I al- 
 ways supjjoscd sol I wonder why ? The most 
 simple-hearted, inotfeusive, aftectionate wo- 
 man." 
 
 " I have not a doubt of it ; but it is beginning 
 to rain. Let us go home. I should like some 
 luncheon ; it breaks the day." 
 
 " Tell me first why Mr. Darrell has a preju- 
 dice against my mother. I don't think that he 
 has even seen her. Unaccountable caprice ! 
 Shocked him, too — what a word I Tell me — I 
 beg — I insist." 
 
 "But you know," said Fairthorn, half pite- 
 ously. half snappishly, " that ]Mrs. Ilaughton 
 was the daughter of a linen-draper, and her fa- 
 ther's money got Charlie out of the county jail ; 
 and Mr. Darrell said, ' Sold even your name I' 
 My father heard him say it in the hall at Faw- 
 ley. ^Ir. Darrell was there during a long vaca- 
 tion, and your father came to see him. Your 
 father fired up. and they never saw each other, 
 I believe, again." 
 
 Lionel remained still as if thunder-stricken. 
 Something in his mother's language and man- 
 ner had at times made him suspect that she was 
 not so well born as his father. But it was not 
 the discovery that she was a tradesman's daugh- 
 ter that galled him ; it was the thought that his 
 father was bought for the altar out of the county 
 jail I It was those cutting words, " Sold even 
 your name!" His face, before very crimson, 
 became livid; his head sunk on his breast. lie 
 walked toward the old gloomy house by Fair- 
 thorn's side, as one who, for the first time in life, 
 feels on his heart the leaden weight of an here- 
 ditary shame. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Showing how sinful it is in a man who does not care for 
 his honor to beget children. 
 
 When Lionel saw Mr. Fairthorn devoting 
 his intellectual being to the contents of a cold 
 chicken-pie, he silently stepped out of the room, 
 and slunk away into a thick copse at the far- 
 thest end of the paddock. He longed to be 
 alone. The rain descended, not heavily, but in 
 I)enetrating drizzle : he did not feel it, or rath- 
 er, he felt glad that there was no gaudy, mock- 
 ing sunlight. He sate down forlorn in" the hol- 
 lows of a glen which the copse covered, and 
 buried his face in his clasped hands. 
 
 Lionel Haughton, as the reader may have 
 noticed, was no i)remature man — a manly bov, 
 but still a habitant of the twilight, dreamy shad- 
 ow-land of boyhood. Noble elements were stir- 
 ring fitfully within him, but their agencies were 
 crude and undeveloped. .Sometimes, through 
 
 the native acuteness of his intellect, he appre- 
 hended truths quickly and truly as a man ; then, 
 again, through the warm haze of undisciplined 
 tenderness, or the raw mists of that sensitive 
 pride in which object.';, small in tliemselves, 
 loom large witli undetected outlines, he fell 
 back into the passionate dimness of a child's 
 reasoning. He was intensely ambitious ; Quix- 
 otic in the point of honor; dauntless in peril; 
 but morbidly trembling at the very shadow of 
 disgrace, as a foal, destined to be the war-horse 
 and trample down leveled steel, starts in its 
 tranquil pastures at the rustling of a leaf. Glow- 
 ingly romantic, but not inclined to vent romance 
 in literary creations, his feelings were the more 
 high-wrought and enthusiastic because they had 
 no outlet in jioetic cliannels. Most boys of great 
 ability and strong passion write ver=es — it is na- 
 ture's relief to brain and heart at the critical 
 turning-age. Most boys thus gifted do so ; a 
 few do not, and out of tliose few Fate selects 
 the great men of action — those large, luminous 
 characters that stamp poetry on the world's pro- 
 saic surface. Lionel had in him the pith and 
 substance of Fortune's grand %iobodies, who 
 become Fame's abrupt somebodies when the 
 chances of life throw suddenly in their way a 
 noble something, to be ardently coveted and 
 boldly won. But, I repeat, as yet he was a boy 
 — so he sate there, his hands before his face, an 
 unreasoning self-torturer. He knew now why 
 this haughty Darrell had WTitteu with so little 
 tenderness and respect to his beloved mother. 
 Darrell looked on her as the cause of his igno- 
 ble kinsman's "sale of name ;" nay, most ])rob- 
 ably ascribed to her, not the fond, girii<li love 
 which levels all disjjarities of rank, but the vul- 
 gar, cold-blooded design to exchange her fa- 
 ther's bank-notes for a marriage beyond her 
 station. And he was the debtor to this super- 
 cilious creditor, as his father had been before 
 him ! His father ! — till then he had been so 
 proud of that relationship. ]Mrs. Ilaughton had 
 not been happy with her captain ; his confirmed 
 habits of wild dissipation had embittered her 
 union, and at last worn away her wifely afl:ec- 
 'tions. But she hatl tended and nursed him, in 
 his last illness, as the lover of her youth ; and 
 though occasionally she hinted at his faults, she 
 ever spoke of him as the ornament of all socie- 
 ty ; poor, it is true, harassed by unfeeling cred- 
 itors, but the finest of fine gentlemen. Lionel 
 had never heard from her of the ancestral es- 
 tates sold for a gambling debt ; never from her 
 of the county jail nor the mercenary mesalliance. 
 In boyhood, before we have any cause to be 
 proud of ourselves, we arc so proud of our fa- 
 thers, if we have a decent excuse for it. Of his 
 father could Lionel Ilaughton be proud now ? 
 And Darrell was cognizant of his paternal dis- 
 grace, had taunted his father in yonder old hall 
 — for what? — tlie marriage from which Lionel 
 sprung? The hands grew tighter and tighter 
 before that burning face. He did not weep, as 
 he had done in Vance's presence at a tliought 
 much less galling. Not that tears would have 
 misbecome him. Shallow judges of human na- 
 ture are they who think that tears in themselves 
 ever misbecome boy or even man. Well did 
 the sternest of Roman writers place the arch 
 distinction of humanity, aloft from all meaner 
 of heaven's creatures, in the prerogative of tears 1 
 
46 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Sooner mayest thou trust thy purse to a profes- 
 sional pickpocket than give loyal friendship to 
 the man who boasts of eyes to which the heart 
 never mounts in dew ! Only, when man weeps 
 he should be alone — not because tears are weak, 
 but because they should be sacred. Tears are 
 akin to prayers. Pharisees parade prayer : im- 
 postors parade tears. O Pegasus, Pegasus — 
 softly, softly! — thou hast hurried me off amidst 
 the clouds: drop me gently down — there, by the 
 side of the motionless boy in the shadowy glen. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 Lionel Haiighton, having hitherto much improved his 
 oliance of fortune, decides the question, "What -Hill 
 he do witla it?" 
 
 " I HAVE been seeking you every where," said 
 a well-known voice ; and a hand rested lightly 
 on Lionel's shoulder. The boy looked up, start- 
 led, but yet heavily, and saw Guy Darrell, the 
 last man on earth he could have desired to see. 
 "Will you come in for a few minutes? you are 
 wanted." 
 
 " What for ? I would rather stay here. Who 
 can want me ?" 
 
 Darrell, struck by the words, and the sullen 
 tone in which they were uttered, surveyed Lio- 
 nel's face for an instant, and replied in a voice 
 involuntarily more kind than usual — 
 
 " Some one very commonplace, but, since the 
 Picts went out of fashion, very necessary to mor- 
 tals the most sublime. I ought to apologize for 
 his coming. You threatened to leave me yes- 
 terday because of a defect in your wardrobe. 
 Mr. Fairthorn wrote to my tailor to hasten hith- 
 er and repair it. He is here. I commend him 
 to your custom ! Don't despise him because he 
 makes for a man of my remote generation. 
 Tailors are keen observers, and do not grow out 
 of date so quickly as politicians." 
 
 The words were said with a playful good- 
 humor very uncommon to Mr. Darrell. The 
 intention was obviously kind and kinsmanlike. 
 Lionel sprang to his feet ; his lip curled, his eye 
 flashed, and his crest rose. 
 
 "No, Sir; I will not stoop to this! I will 
 not be clothed by j-our cliarity — yours ! I will 
 not submit to an imjilied taunt upon my poor 
 mother's ignorance of the manners of a rank to 
 which she was not born ! You said we might 
 not like each other, and if so, we should part 
 forever. I do not like you, and I will go !" 
 He turned abruptly, and walked to the house — 
 magnanimous. If Mr. Darrell had not been the 
 most singular of men he might well have been 
 offended. vVs it was, though none less accessi- 
 ble to surprise, he was surprised. But offended ? 
 Judge for yourself. " I declare," muttered Guy 
 Darrell, gazing on the boy's receding figure-^ 
 "I declare that I almost feel as if I could once 
 again be capable of an emotion ! I hope I am 
 not going to like that boy! The old Darrell 
 blood in his veins, surely. 'l might have spoken 
 as he did at his age, but I must have had some 
 better reason for it. What did I say to justify 
 such an explosion ! Qiiid fecA f — ubi lapsus ? 
 Gone, no doubt, to pack up his knapsack, and 
 take the Road to Ruin! Shall I let him go? 
 Better for me, if I am really in danger of liking 
 him; and so be at his mercy to sting — what? 
 
 my heart ? I defy him ; it is dead. No ; he 
 shall not go thus. I am the head of our joint 
 houses. Houses! I wish he Aarf a house, poor 
 boy! And his grandfather loved me. Let him 
 go ! I will beg his pardon first ; and he may 
 dine in his drawers if that will settle the mat- 
 ter!" 
 
 Thus, no less magnanimous than Lionel, did 
 this misanthropical man follow his ungracious 
 cousin. " Ha !" cried Darrell, suddenly, as, ap- 
 pi'oaching the threshold, he saw Mr. Fairthorn 
 at the dining-room window occupied in nibbing 
 a pen upon an ivory thumb-stall — " I have hit 
 it ! That abominable Fairthorn has been shed- 
 ding its prickles ! How could I trust flesh and 
 blood to such a bramble? I'll know what it 
 was, this instant !" Vain Menace ! No sooner 
 did Mr. Fairthorn catch glimpse of Dan-ell's 
 countenance within ten yards of the porch than, 
 his conscience taking alarm, he rushed inconti- 
 nent from the window — the apartment — and 
 ere Darrell could fling open the door, was lost 
 in some lair — " nullis penetrabilis astris" — in 
 that sponge-like and cavernous abode, where- 
 with benignant Providence had suited the local- 
 ity to the creature. 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 New imbroglio in that ever-recurring, never-to-be-settled 
 question, "What will he do with it?" 
 
 With a disappointed glare, and a baffled 
 shrug of the shoulder, Mr. Darrell turned from 
 the dining-room, and passed up the stairs to 
 Lionel's chamber, opened the door quickly, and 
 extending his hand, said, in that tone which 
 had disarmed the wrath of ambitious factions, 
 and even (if fame lie not) once seduced from 
 the hostile Treasury-bench a placeman's vote, 
 " I must have hurt your feelings, and I come to 
 beg your pardon !" 
 
 But before this time Lionel's proud heart, in 
 which ungrateful anger could not long find room, 
 had smitten him for so ill a return to well-meant 
 and not indelicate kindness. And, his wounded 
 egotism appeased by its very outburst, he had 
 called to mind Fairthoi'n's allusions to Darrell's 
 secret griefs — griefs that must have been indeed 
 stormy so to have revulsed the currents of a life. 
 And, despite those griefs, the great man had 
 spoken playfully to him— playfully in order to 
 make light of obligations. So when Guy Dar- 
 rell now extended that hand, and stooped to that 
 apology, Lionel was fairly overcome. Tears, 
 before refused, now found irresistible way. The 
 hand he could not take, but, yielding to his 
 yearning impulse, he threw his arms fairly round 
 his host's neck, leaned his young check upon 
 that granite breast, and sobbed out incoherent 
 words of passionate repentance — honest, vener- 
 ating affection. Dai-rell's face changed, looking 
 for a moment wondrous soft — and then, as by 
 an effort of supreme self-control, it became se- 
 verely placid. He did not return that embrace, 
 but certainly he in no way repelled it ; nor did 
 he trust himself to speak till the boy liad ex- 
 hausted the force of his first feelings, and had 
 turned to dry his tears. 
 
 Then he said, with a soothing sweetness : 
 " Lionel Haughton, you have the heart of a gen- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 47 
 
 tleman that can never listen to a frank apolopy 
 for unintentional wrong, but what it sprin_c;s | 
 forth to take the blame to itself, and return apol- 
 ogv ten-fold. Enough I A mistake, no doubt, ! 
 on" both sides. More time must elapse before ' 
 either can truly say that he does not like the 
 other. Meanwhile," added Darrell, with almost 
 a laugh — and that concluding query showed that 
 even on trifles the man was bent upon either 
 forcing or stealing his own will upon others — 
 '•meanwhile, must I send away the tailor?" 
 I need not repeat Lionel's answer. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Darrell: mystery in hU past life. What has he done 
 with it? 
 
 Some days passed — each day varying little 
 from the other. It was the habit of Darrell, if 
 he went late to rest, to rise early. He never 
 allowed himself more than five hours' sleep. A 
 man greater than Guy Darrell — Sir Walter 
 Raleigh — carved from the solid day no larger a 
 slice for Morpheus. And it was this habit, per- 
 haps, yet more than temperance in diet, which 
 preserved to Darrell his remarkable youthful- 
 ness of aspect and frame, so that at fifty-two he 
 looked, and really was, younger than many a 
 strong man of thirty- five. For, certain it is, 
 that on entering middle life, he who would keep 
 his brain clear, his step elastic, his muscles from 
 fleshiness, his nerves from tremor — in a word, 
 retain his youth in spite of the register — should 
 beware of long slumbers. Nothing ages like 
 laziness. The hours before breakfast Darrell 
 devoted first to exercise, whatever the weather 
 — next to his calm scientific pursuits. At ten 
 o'clock punctually he rode out alone, and seldom 
 returned till late in the afternoon. Then he 
 would stroll forth with Lionel into devious 
 woodlands, or lounge with him along the margin 
 of the lake, or lie down on the tedded grass, 
 call the boy's attention to the insect populace 
 which sports out its happy life in the summer 
 months, and treat of the ways and habits of each 
 varying species, with a quaint learning, half 
 humorous, half grave. He was a minute ob- 
 server and an accomplished naturalist. His 
 range of knowledge was, indeed, amazingly 
 large for a man who has had to pass his best 
 years in a dry and absorbing study : necessarily 
 not so profound in each section as that of a 
 special professor, but if the science was often 
 on the surface, the thoughts he deduced from 
 what he knew were as often original and deep. 
 A maxim of his, which he dropped out one day 
 to Lionel in his careless manner, but pointed 
 diction, may perhaps illustrate his own practice 
 and its results: "Never think it enough to 
 have solved the problem started by another 
 mind, till you have deduced from it a corollary 
 of your own." 
 
 After dinner, which was not over till past 
 eight o'clock, they always adjourned to the li- 
 brary, Fairthom vanishing into a recess, Darrell 
 and Lionel each with his several book, then an 
 air on the flute, and each to his own room be- 
 fore eleven. No life could be more methodical ; 
 yet to Lionel it had an animating charm, for 
 his interest in his host daily increased, and 
 
 varied his thoughts with perpetual occupation. 
 Darrell, on the contrary, while more kind and 
 cordial, more cautiously on his guard not to 
 wound his young guest's susceptibilities than he 
 had been before the quarrel and its reconcilia- 
 tion, did not seem to feel for Lionel the active 
 interest which Lionel felt for him. He did not, 
 as most clever men are apt to do in their inter- 
 course with youth, attempt to draw him out, 
 plomb his intellect, or guide his tastes. If he 
 was at times instructive, it was because talk fell 
 on subjects on which it pleased himself to touch, 
 and in which he could not speak without invol- 
 untarily instructing. Nor did he ever allure the 
 boy to talk of his school-days, of his friends, of 
 his predilections, his hopes, his future. In 
 short, had you observed them together, you 
 would have never sujjposed they were connec- 
 tions — that one could and ought to influence 
 and direct the career of the other. You would 
 have said the host certainly liked the guest, as 
 any man would like a promising, warm-hearted, 
 high-spirited, graceful boy, under his own roof 
 for a short time, but who felt that that boy was 
 nothing to him — would soon pass from his eye 
 — form friends, pursuits, aims — with which he 
 could be in no way commingled, for which he 
 should be wholly irresponsible. There was also 
 this peculiarity in DaiTell's conversation : if he 
 never spoke of his guest's past and future, 
 neither did he ever do more than advert in the 
 most general terms to his own. Of that grand 
 stage, on which he had been so brilliant an 
 actor, he imparted no reminiscences ; of those 
 great men, the leaders of his age, with whom 
 he had mingled familiarly, he told no anecdotes. 
 Equally silent was he as to the earlier steps in 
 his career, the modes by which he had studied, 
 the accidents of which he had seized advantage 
 — silent there as upon the causes he had gained, 
 or the debates he had adorned. Never could 
 you have supposed that this man, still in the 
 prime of public life, had been the theme of 
 journals, and the boast of party. Neither did 
 he ever, as men who talk easily at their o\vn 
 hearths are prone to do, speak of projects in the 
 future, even though the projects be no vaster 
 than the planting of a tree or the alteration of a 
 parterre — projects with which rural life so copi- 
 ously and so innocently teems. The past seemed 
 as if it had left to him no memory, the future 
 as if it stored for him no desire. But did the 
 past leave no memory ? Why then at intervals 
 would the book slide from his eye, the head 
 sink upon the breast, and a shade of unuttera- 
 ble dejection darken over the grand beauty of 
 that strong stern countenance? Still that de- 
 jection was not morbidly fed and encouraged, 
 for he would fling it from him with a quick im- 
 patient gesture of the head, resume the book res- 
 olutely, or change it for another which induced 
 fresh trains of thought, or look over Lionel's 
 shoulder, and make some subtle comment on 
 his choice, or call on Fairthom for the flute; 
 and in a few minutes the face was severely 
 serene again. And be it here said, that it is 
 only in the poetry of young gentlemen, or the 
 prose of lady novelists, that a man in good 
 health, and of sound intellect, wears the livery 
 of unvarj-ing gloom. However great his causes 
 of sorrow, he does not forever parade its osten- 
 tatious mourning, nor follow the hearse of hLs 
 
48 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 hopes with the long face of an undertaker. He 
 will still have his gleams of cheerfulness — his 
 moments of good-humor. The old smile will 
 sometimes light the eye, and awake the old 
 playfulness of the lip. But what a great and 
 critical sorrow does leave behind is often far 
 worse than the sorrow itself has been. It is a 
 chance in the inner man, which strands him, as 
 Guv Darrell seemed stranded, upon the shoal 
 of the Present ; which, the more he strive man- 
 fully to bear his burden, warns him the more 
 from dwelling on the Past ; and the more im- 
 pressively it enforce the lesson of the vanity of 
 htmian wishes, strikes the more from his reck- 
 oning illusive hopes in the Future. Thus out 
 of our threefold existence two parts are annihi- 
 lated — the what has been — the what shall be. 
 We fold our arms, stand upon the petty and 
 steep cragstone, which alone looms out of the 
 Measureless Sea, and say to ourselves, looking 
 neither backward nor beyond, "Let us bear 
 what is ;" and so for the moment the eye can 
 lighten and the lip can smile. 
 
 Lionel could no longer glean from ]Mr. Fair- 
 thorn any stray hints upon the family records. 
 That gentleman had endently been reprimanded 
 for indiscretion, or warned against its repetition, 
 and he became reser\-ed and mum as if he had 
 just emerged from the cave of Trophonius. In- 
 deed he shunned trusting himself again alone to 
 Lionel, and, aftecting a long arrear of corre- 
 spondence on behalf of his employer, left the lad 
 during the forenoons to solitary angling, or social 
 intercourse with the swans and the tame doe. 
 But from some mystic concealment within doors 
 would often float far into the open air the melo- 
 dies of that magic flute ; and the boy would glide 
 back, along the dark-red mournful walls of the 
 old house.or the futile pomp of pilastered ar- 
 cades in the uncompleted new one, to listen to 
 the sound : listening, he, blissful boy, forgot the 
 present ; he seized the unchallenged royalty of 
 his yeai-s. For him no rebels in the past con- 
 spired with poison to the wine-cup, murder to 
 the sleep. No deserts in the future, arresting 
 the march of ambition, said, " Here are sands 
 for a pilgrim, not fields for a conqueror." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 In which chapter the History quietly moves on to the 
 next 
 
 Thus nearly a week had gone, and Lionel be- 
 gan to feel perplexed as to the duration of his 
 visit. Should he be the first to suggest depart- 
 ure? !Mr. Darrell rescued him from that em- 
 barrassment. On the seventh day, Lionel met 
 him in a lane near the house, returning from his 
 habitual ride. The boy walked home by the 
 side of the horseman, patting the steed, admir- 
 ing its shape, and praising the beauty of another 
 saddle-horse, smaller and slighter, which he had 
 seen in the paddock exercised by a groom. 
 "Do you ever ride that chestnut? I think it 
 even handsomer than this." 
 
 '•Half our preferences are due to the vanity 
 they flatter. Few can ride this horse — any one, 
 perhaps, that." 
 
 "There speaks the Dare-all 1" said Lionel, 
 laughing. 
 
 The host did not look displeased. 
 
 '• Where no difficulty, there no pleasure," said 
 he, in his curt laconic diction. " I was in Spain 
 two years ago. I had not an English horse there, 
 so I bought that Audalusian jennet. What has 
 served him at need, no preux chevalier would 
 leave to the chance of ill-usage. So the jennet 
 came with me to England. You have not been 
 much accustomed to ride, I suppose ?" 
 
 "Not much; but my dear mother thought I 
 ought to learn. She pinched for a whole year 
 to have me taught at a riding-school during one 
 school vacation." 
 
 "Your mother's relations are, I believe, well 
 off". Do they suffer her to pinch ?" 
 
 "I do not know that she has relations living ; 
 she never speaks of them." 
 
 "Indeed I" This was the first question on 
 home matters that Darrell had ever directly ad- 
 dressed to Lionel. He there dropped the sub- 
 ject, and said, after a short pause, "I was not 
 aware that you are a horseman, or I -nould have 
 asked you to accompany me ; v>-ill you do so to- 
 morrow, and mount the jennet?" 
 
 "Oh, thank you; I should like it so much." 
 
 Darrell turned abruptly away from the bright 
 grateful eyes. "I am only sorry," he added, 
 looking aside, " that our excui-sions can be but 
 few. On Friday next I shall submit to you a 
 proposition ; if you accept it, we shall part on 
 Saturday — hking each other, I hope ; speaking 
 for myself, the experiment has not failed ; and 
 on yours?" 
 
 "On mine I oh, Mr. Darrell, if I dared but 
 tell you what recollections of yourself the ex- 
 periment will bequeath to me 1" 
 
 " Do not tell me, if they imply a compliment," 
 answered Darrell, with the Ioav silvery laugh 
 which so melodiously expressed indifference, 
 and repelled affection. He entered the stable- 
 yard, dismounted ; and on returning to Lionel, 
 the sound of the flute stole forth, as if from the 
 eaves of the gabled roof. " Could the pipe of 
 Horace's Fauuus be sweeter than that flute ?" 
 said Darrell, 
 
 "' Utcxinqiin dulci, Tyndare, fistula, 
 ValUs,' etc. 
 
 ■Wliat a lovely ode that is ! What knowledge of 
 town life ! what susceptibility to the rural ! Of 
 all the Latins, Horace is the only one with whom 
 I could \vish to have spent a week. But no ! I 
 could not have discussed the brief span of hu- 
 man life with locks steeped in ^lalobathran balm, 
 i and wreathed with that silly myrtle. Horace 
 ' and I would have quarreled over the first heady 
 bowl of Massic. We never can quarrel now I 
 Blessed subject and poet-laureate of Queen Pro- 
 serpine, and, I dare swear, the most gentleman- 
 like poet she ever received at court, henceforth 
 his task is to uncoil the asps from the brows of 
 Alecto, and arrest the ambitious Orion from the 
 chase after visionary lions." 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Showing that if a good face is a letter of recommenda- 
 tioR, a good heart is a letter of credit. 
 
 The next day they rode forth, host and guest, 
 
 and that ride proved an eventful crisis in the 
 
 I fortune of Lionel Haughton. Hitherto I have 
 
"WHAT WILL UE DO WITH IT? 
 
 49 
 
 elaborately dwelt on the fact that, whatever the 
 regard Danell mifilit feel for him, it was a re- 
 gard apart from that interest which accepts a 
 responsibility, and links to itself a fate. And 
 even if, at moments, the powerful and wealthy 
 man had felt that interest, he had thrust it from 
 him. That he meant to be generous was indeed 
 certain, and this he had typically shown in a 
 very trite matter-of-fact way. The tailor, whose 
 visit had led to such perturbation, had received 
 instructions beyond the mere su])ply of the rai- 
 ment for which he had been summoned; and a 
 large patent portmanteau, containing all that 
 might constitute the liberal outfit of a young 
 man iu the rank of a gentleman, had arrived at 
 Fawley, and amazed and moved Lionel, whom 
 Dan-eil had by this time thoroughly reconciled 
 to the acceptance of benefits. The gift denoted 
 this, '■ In recognizing you as kinsman, I shall 
 henceforth provide for yon as gentleman." Dar- 
 rell indeed meditated applying for an appoint- 
 ment in one of the pubhc othces, the settlement 
 of a liberal allowance, and a parting shake of 
 the hand, which should imply, " I have now be- 
 haved as becomes me ; the rest belongs to you. 
 We may never meet again. There is no reason 
 why this good-by may not be forever." 
 
 But in the course of that ride Darrell's inten- 
 tions changed. Wherefore? You will never 
 guess ! Nothing so remote as the distance be- 
 tween cause and effect, and the cause for the 
 effect here was — poor little Sophy. 
 
 The day was fresh, with a lovely breeze, as 
 the two riders rode briskly over the turf of roll- 
 ing common-lands, with the feathen,- boughs of 
 neighboring woodlands tossed joyoitsly to and 
 fro by the sportive summer wind. The exhila- 
 rating exercise and air raised Lionel's spirits, 
 and released his tongue from all trammels ; and 
 when a boy is in high spirits, ten to one but he 
 grows a frank egotist, feels the teeming life of his 
 individuality, and talks about himself. Quite 
 unconsciously Lionel rattled out gay anecdotes 
 of his school-days ; his quarrel with r. demoni- 
 acal usher ; how he ran away ; what befell him ; 
 how the doctor went after, and brought him 
 back; how splendidly the doctor behaved — nei- 
 ther flogged nor expelled him, but after patient 
 listening, while he rebuked the pupil dismissed 
 the usher, to the joy of the whole academy ; how 
 he fought the head bo}' in the school for calling 
 the doctor a sneak ; how, licked twice, he yet 
 fought that head boy a third time, and licked 
 him ; how, when head boy himself, he had roused 
 the whole school into a civil war, dividing the 
 boys into Cavaliers and Koundheads ; how clay- 
 was rolled out into cannon-balls and pistol-shot, 
 sticks shaped into swords ; the play-ground dis- 
 turfed to construct fortifications ; how a sloven- 
 ly stout boy enacted Cromwell ; how he himself 
 was elevated into Prince Rupert ; and how, re- 
 versing ail history, and infamously degi'ading 
 Cromwell, Rupert would not consent to be beat- 
 en ; and Cromwell at the last, disabled by an 
 untoward blow across the knuckles, ignomini- 
 ously yielded himself prisoner, was tried by a 
 court-martial, and sentenced to be shot ! To all 
 this rubbish did Darrell incline his patient ear 
 — not encouraging, not interrupting, but some- 
 times stifling a sigh at the sound of Lionel's 
 merry laugh, or the sight of his fair face, with 
 heightened glow on its cheeks, and his long 
 D 
 
 silky hair, worthy the name of love-locks, blown 
 by the wind from the open loyal features, which 
 might well have graced the portrait of some 
 youthful Cavalier. On bounded the Spanish 
 jennet, on rattled the boy rider. He had left 
 school now, in his headlong talk ; he was de- 
 scribing his first friendship with Frank Vance, 
 as a lodger at his mother's ; how example fired 
 him, and he took to sketch-work and painting ; 
 how kindly Vance gave him lessons ; how at 
 one time he wished to be a painter; how much 
 the mere idea of such a thing vexed liis mother, 
 and how little she was moved when lie told her 
 that Titian was of a very ancient family, and 
 that Francis I., archetype of gentlemen. Visited 
 Leonardo da Vinci's sick-bed ; and that Henry 
 VIII. had said to a pert lord who had snubbed 
 Holbein, " I can make a lord any day, but I can 
 not make a Holbein ;" how Mrs. Haughton still 
 confounded all painters in the general image of 
 the painter and plumber who had cheated lier 
 so shamefully in the renewed window-sashes and 
 redecorated walls, which Time and the four chil- 
 dren of an Irish family had made necessarj' to the 
 letting of the first floor. And these playful allu- 
 sions to the maternal ideas were still not irrever- 
 ent, but contrived so as rather to prepossess Dar- 
 rell in Mrs. Haughton's favor, by bringing out 
 traits of a simple natural mother, too proud, per- 
 haps, of her only son, not caring what she did, 
 how she worked, so that he might not lose caste 
 as a born Haughton. Darrell undei-stood, and 
 nodded his head approvingly. "Certainly," he 
 said, speaking almost for the first time, ''fame 
 confers a rank above that of gentlemen and of 
 kings ; and as soon as she issues her patent of 
 nobility, it matters not a straw whether the re- 
 cipient be the son of a Bourbon or of a tallow- 
 chandler. But if Fame withhold her patent — 
 if a well-born man paint aldermen, and be not 
 famous (and I dare say you would have been 
 neither a Titian nor a Holbein), why, he might 
 as well be a painter and plumber, and has a 
 better chance, even of bread and cheese, by 
 standing to his post as gentleman. ]Mrs. Haugh- 
 ton was right, and I respect her." 
 
 " Quite right. If I lived to the age of Me- 
 thuselah, I could not paint a head like Frank 
 Vance." 
 
 '• And even he is not famous yet. Never heard 
 of him." 
 
 "He will be famous — I am sure of it; and 
 if you lived in London, you would hear of him 
 even now. Oh, Sir! such a portrait as he paint- 
 ed the other day ! But I must tell you all about 
 it." And therewith Lionel plunged at once, 
 medias res, into the brief broken epic of little 
 Sophy, and the eccentric infirm Belisarius for 
 ! whose sake she first toiled and then begged ; 
 ' with what artless eloquence he brought out the 
 colors of the whole story — now its humor, now 
 its pathos ; with what beautifying sympathy he 
 adorned the image of the little vagrant girl, with 
 ■ her mien of gentlewoman and her simplicity of 
 I child ; the river-e.xcursion to Hampton Court ; 
 I her still delight ; how annoyed he felt when 
 I Vance seemed ashamed of her before those fine 
 I people ; the orchard scene in which he had read 
 : Darrell's letter, that, for the time, drove her 
 from the foremost place in his thoughts ; the 
 return home, the parting, her wistful look back, 
 [ the visit to the Cobbler's next day — even her 
 
60 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 farewell gift, the nursery poem, with the lines 
 written on the fly-leaf, he had them by heart! 
 Darrell, the grand advocate, felt he could not 
 have produced on a jury, with those elements, 
 the effect which that boy-narrator produced on 
 his granite self. 
 
 "And, oh, Sir!" cried Lionel, checking his 
 horse, and even arresting Darrell's with bold 
 right hand, "oh!" said he, as he brought liis 
 moist and pleading eyes in full battery upon tlie 
 shaken fort to which he had mined his way — 
 "oh. Sir! you are so wise, and rich, and kind, 
 do rescue that poor child from the penury and 
 liardships of such a life ! If you could but have 
 seen and heard her! She could never have 
 been born to it ! You look away — I offend you. 
 I have no right to tax your benevolence for oth- 
 ers ; but, instead of showering favors upon me, 
 so little would suffice for her, if she were but 
 above positive want, with that old man (she 
 would not be happy without him), safe in such 
 a cottage as you give to your own peasants ! I 
 am a man, or shall be one soon ; I can wrestle 
 with the world, and force my way somehow ; 
 but that delicate child, a village show, or a beg- 
 gar on the high-i-oad ! no mother, no brother, no 
 one but that broken-down crii)ple, leaning upon 
 her arm as his crutch. I can not bear to think 
 of it. I am sure I shall meet her again some- 
 where ; and when I do, may I not write to you, 
 and will you not come to her hfelp ? Do sjieak 
 — do say ' Yes,' Mr. Darrell." 
 
 The rich man's breast heaved slightly; he 
 closed his eyes, but for a moment. There was 
 a short and sharp struggle with his better self, 
 and the better self conquered. 
 
 " Let go my reins — see, my horse puts down 
 his ears — he may do you a mischief. Now can- 
 ter on — j'ou shall be satisfied. Give me a mo- 
 ment to — to unbutton my coat — it is too tight 
 for me." 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 Guy Barrel gives way to an impulse, and quickly decides 
 what he will do with it. 
 
 "Lionel Haug-hton," said Guy Darrell, re- 
 gaining his young cousin's side, and speaking in 
 a firm and measured voice, " I have to thank 
 you for one very happy minute ; the sight of a 
 heart so fresh in the limpid purity of goodness 
 is a luxuiy you can not comprehend till you 
 have come to my age ; journeyed, like me, from 
 Dan to Beersheba, and found all barren. Ilecd 
 me ; if you had been half a dozen years older, 
 and this child for whom you plead had been a 
 fair young woman, perhaps just as innocent, just 
 as charming — more in peril — my benevolence 
 would have lain as dormant as a stone. A young 
 man's foolish sentiment for a pretty girl. As 
 your true friend, I should have shrugged my 
 shoulders, and said, 'Beware!' Had I been 
 your father, I should have taken alarm, and 
 frowned. I should have seen the sickly ro- 
 mance, which ends in dupes or deceivers. But 
 at your age, you hearty, genial, and open-heart- 
 ed boy — you caught but by the chivalrous com- 
 passion for helpless female childhood — oh, that 
 you were my son — oh, that my dear father's 
 blood were in those knightly veins ! I had a 
 son once! God took him;" the strong man's 
 
 lips quivered — he humed on. " I felt there was 
 manhood in you when you wrote to fling my 
 churlish favors in my teeth — when you would 
 have left my roof-tree in a burst of passion 
 which might be foolish, but was nobler than the 
 wisdom of calculating submission — manhood, 
 but only perhaps man's pride as man — man's 
 heart not less cold than winter. To-day you 
 have shown me something far better than pride ; 
 that nature which constitutes the heroic tem- 
 perament is completed by two attributes — un- 
 flinching purpose, disinterested humanity. I 
 know not yet if you have the first ; you reveal 
 to me the second. Yes ! I accept the duties you 
 propose to me ; I will do more than leave to you 
 the chance of discovering this poor child. I will 
 direct my solicitor to take the right steps to do 
 so. I will see that she is safe from the ills you 
 fear for her. Lionel ; more still, I am impa- 
 tient till I write to Mrs. Haughton. I did her 
 wrong. Remember, I have never seen her. I 
 resented in her the cause of my quarrel with 
 your father, who was once dear to me. Enough 
 of that. I disliked the tone of her letters to 
 me. I disliked it in the mother of a boy who 
 had Darrell blood ; other reasons too — let them 
 pass. But in providing for your education, I 
 certainly thought her relations provided for her 
 support. She never asked me for help there ; 
 and, judging of her hastily, I thought she would 
 not have scru])led to do so it my help there had 
 not been forestalled. You have made me un- 
 derstand her better; and at all events, three- 
 fourths of what we are in boyhood most of us 
 owe to our mothers! You are frank, fearless, 
 affectionate — a gentleman. I respect the moth- 
 er who has such a son." 
 
 Certainly praise was rare upon Darrell's lips, 
 but, when he did praise, he knew how to do it ! 
 And no man will ever command others who has 
 not by nature that gift. It can not be learned. 
 Art and experience can only refine its expres- 
 sion. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 He who sec3 his heir in his own child, cames his eye 
 over hopes and possessions lying far beyond his grave- 
 stone ; viewing his life, even here, as a period but 
 closed with a comma. He wlio sees his heir in anoth- 
 er man's child, sees the full stop at the end of the sen- 
 tence. 
 
 Lionel's departure was indefinitely post- 
 poned; nothing more was said of it. Mean- 
 while Darrell's manner toward him underwent 
 a marked change. The previous indifference 
 the rich kinsman had hitherto shown as to the 
 boy's past life, and the peculiarities of his intel^ 
 lect and character, \vholly vanished. He sought 
 now, on the contrary, to plumb thoroughly the 
 more hidden depths which lurk in the nature of 
 every human being, and which, in Lionel, were 
 the more difficult to discern from the vivacity 
 and candor which covered with so smooth and 
 charming a surface a pride tremulously sensi- 
 tive, and an ambition that startled himself in 
 the hours when solitude and reverie reflect upon 
 the visions of Youth the giant outline of its own 
 hopes. 
 
 Darrell was not dissatisfied with the results 
 of this survey ; yet often, when perhaps most 
 pleased, a shade would pass over his counte- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 51 
 
 nance • and, had a woman who loved him been 
 bv to listen, she would have heard the short, 
 slight sigh which came and went too quickly for 
 the duller sense of man's friendship to recog- 
 nize it as the sound of sorrow. 
 
 In Darrell himself, thus insensibly altered, 
 Lionel daily discovered more to charm his in- 
 terest and deci)en his affection. In this man's 
 nature there were, indeed, such wondrous un- 
 der-currents of sweetness, so suddenly gushing 
 forth, so suddenly vanishing again ! And ex- 
 quisite in him were the traits of that sympathet- 
 ic tact which the world calls fine breeding, but 
 which comes only from a heart at once chival- 
 rous and tender, the more bewitching in Darrell 
 from their contrast with a manner usually cold, 
 and a bearing so stamped with masculine, self- 
 willed, haughty power. Thus days went on as 
 if Lionel had become a verj- child of the house. 
 But his sojourn was in truth drawing near to a 
 close not less abrupt and unex]iected than the 
 turn in his host's humors to which he owed the 
 delay of his departure. 
 
 Oiie bright afternoon, as Darrell was standing 
 at the window of his private study, Fairthorn, 
 who had crept in on some matter of business, 
 looked at his countenance long and wistfully, 
 and then, shambling up to his side, put one hand 
 on his shoulder with a light, timid touch, and, 
 pointing with the other to Lionel, who was ly- 
 ing on the grass in front of the casement, read- 
 ing the Faerie Queen, said, "Why do you take 
 him to your heart if he does not comfort it ?" 
 
 Darrell winced, and answered gently, " I did 
 not know you were in the room. Poor Fair- 
 thorn ! thank you !" 
 
 " Thank me ! — what for?" 
 " For a kind thought. So then you like the 
 boy ?" 
 
 '"Mayn't I like him?" asked Fairthorn, look- 
 ing rather frightened ; '-■ surely you do !" 
 
 " Yes, I like him much ; I am trying my best 
 to love him. But, but — " Darrell turned quick- 
 ly, and the portrait of his father over the man- 
 tle-piece came full upon his sight — an impress- 
 ive, a haunting face — sweet and gentle, yet with 
 the high, narrow brow and arched nostril of 
 pride, with i-estless, melancholy eyes, and an ex- 
 pression that revealed the delicacy of intellect, 
 but not its power. There was something forlorn, 
 yet imposing, in the whole ethgy. As you con- 
 tinued to look at the countenance the mournful 
 attraction grew upon you. Truly a touching and 
 a most lovable aspect. Darrell's eyes moistened. 
 "Yes, my father, it is so!" he said, softly. 
 " All my sacrifices were in vain. The race is 
 not to be rebuilt ! No grandchild of yours will 
 succeed me — me, the last of the old line ! Fair- 
 thorn, how can I love that boy ? He may be my 
 heir, and in his veins not a drop of my father's 
 blood !" 
 
 " But he has the blood of your father's ances- 
 tors ; and why must you think of him as your 
 heir? — you, who, if you would but go again into 
 the world, might yet find a fair wi — " 
 
 With such a stamp came Darrell's foot upon 
 the floor that the holy and conjugal monosylla- 
 ble dropping from Fairthorn's lips was as much 
 cut in two as if a shark had snapped it. Un- 
 speakably frightened, the poor man sidled away, 
 thrust himself behind a tall reading-desk, and, 
 peering aslant from that covert, whimpered out, 
 
 "Don't, don't now — don't be so awful; I did 
 not mean to offend, but I'm always saying some- 
 thing I did not mean ; and really you look so 
 young still (coaxingly), and, and — " 
 
 Darrell, the burst of rage over, had sunk upon 
 a chair, his face bowed over his hands, and his 
 breast heaving as if with suppressed sobs. 
 
 The musician forgot his fear ; he sjn-ang for- 
 ward, almost upsetting the tall desk; he flung 
 himself on his knees at Darrell's feet, and ex- 
 claimed, in broken words, " Master, master, for- 
 give me! Beast that I was! Do look up — do 
 smile, or else beat me — kick me." 
 
 Darrell's right hand slid gently from his face, 
 and fell into Fairthorn's clasp. 
 
 " Ilush, hush," muttered the man of granite ; 
 "one moment, and it will be over." 
 
 One moment? That might be but a figure of 
 speech ; yet before Lionel had finished half the 
 canto that was jtlunging him into fairy-land, 
 Darrell was standing by him witli his ordinary, 
 tranquil mien : and Fairthorn's Hute from be- 
 hind tlie boughs of a neighboring lime-tree was 
 breathing out an air as dulcet as if careless 
 Fauns still pijjcd in Arcady, and Grief were a 
 far dweller on the other side of the mountains, 
 of whom shejiherds, reclirting under summer 
 leaves, speak as we speak of hydras and uni- 
 corns, and things in fal)le. 
 
 On, on swelled the mellow, mellow, witching 
 music ; and now the worn man with his secret 
 sorrow, and the boy with his frank, glad laugh, 
 are passing away, side by side, over the turf, 
 with its starry and golden wikl-flowers, under 
 the boughs in yon Druid copse, from which they 
 start the ringdove — farther and farther, still side 
 by side, now out of sight, as if the dense gi'een 
 of the summer had closed around them like 
 waves. But still the flute sounds on, and still 
 they hear it, softer and softer, as they go. Hark ! 
 do you not hear it — you ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Tlicre are certain events which to each man's life arc 
 as comets to the earth, seemingly strange and erratic 
 poiteuts; distinct from the ordinarj' lights which guide 
 our course and mark our seasons, yet true to their own 
 laws, potent in their own influences. I'hilosopliy spec- 
 ulates on their effects, and di?putes upon their uses; 
 men who do not philosophize regard them as special 
 messengers and bodes of evil. 
 
 TiiEY came out of the little park into a by- 
 lane ; a vast tract of common land, yellow with 
 furze, and undulated with swell and hollow 
 spreading in front ; to their right the dark beech- 
 woods, still beneath the weight of the July noon. 
 Lionel had been talking about the Faerie Queen, 
 knight-errantry, the sweet, impossible dream- 
 life that, safe from Time, glides by bower and 
 hall, through magic forests and by witching 
 caves, in the world of poet-books. And Diu-rcU 
 listened, and the flute-notes mingled with the 
 atmosphere faint and far off, like voices from 
 that world itself. 
 
 Out then they came, this broad waste land 
 before them ; and Lionel said, merrily: 
 
 " But this is the very scene ! Here the young 
 knight, leaving his father's hall, would have 
 checked his destrier, glancing wistfully now over 
 that gieen wild which seems so boundless, now 
 
52 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 to the ' umbrageous horror' of those breathless ! 
 woodlands, and questioned himself •which way I 
 to take for adventure." l 
 
 "Yes," said Darrell, coming out from his' 
 long reserve on all that concerned his past life | 
 
 " Yes, and the gold of the gorse-blossoms 
 
 tempted me ; and I took the waste land." He ! 
 paused a moment, and renewed : " And then, j 
 when I had known cities and men, and snatched , 
 romance from dull matter-of-fact, then I would 
 have done as civilization does with romance it- ; 
 self — I would have inclosed the waste land for 
 mv own aggrandizement. Look," he continued, 
 with a sweep of the hand round the width of 
 prospect, "all that you see to the verge of the 
 horizon, some fourteen years ago, was to have | 
 been thrown into the petty paddock we have just j 
 quitted, and serve as park round the house I was 
 then building. Vanity of human wishes I Wliat I 
 but the several proportions of their common fol- : 
 ly distinguishes the baffled squire from the ar- 
 rested conqueror ? Man's characteristic cere- 
 bral organ must certainly be acquisitiveness." 
 
 "Was it his organ of acquisitiveness that! 
 moved Themistocles to boast that ' he could 
 make a small state great ?' " I 
 
 '•Well remembered — ingeniously quoted,"! 
 returned Darrell, with the polite bend of his , 
 statelv head. " Yes, I suspect that the coveting | 
 organ had much to do with the boast. To build j 
 a name was the earliest dream of Themistocles, ' 
 if we are to accept the anecdote that makes him j 
 say, ' The trophies of jNIiltiades would not suf- 
 fer him to sleep.' To build a name, or to cre- 
 ate a fortune, are but varying applications of 
 one human passion. The desire of something 
 v,-e have not is the first of our childish remem- 
 brances ; it matters not what form it takes, what 
 object it longs for ; still it is to acquire ; it nev- 
 er deserts us while we live." 
 
 *'And yet, if I might, I should like to ask, 
 what vou now desire that you do not possess I" 
 '■ I-^nothing ; but I spoke of the living '. I am 
 dead. Only," added Darrell, with his silvery 
 laugh, '-I say, as poor Chesterfield said before 
 me, 'it is a secret — keep it.' " 
 
 Lionel made no reply ; the melancholy of the 
 words saddened him ; but Darrell's manner re- 
 pelled the expression of sympathy or of inter- 
 est ; and the boy fell into conjecture — what had 
 killed to the world this man's intellectual life ? 
 And thus silently they continued to wander 
 on till the sound of the flute had long been lost 
 to their ears. Was the musician playing still ? 
 At length they came round to the other end 
 of Fawley village, and Darrell again became 
 animated. 
 
 "Perhaps," said he, returning to the subject 
 of talk that had been abruptly suspended — 
 "perhaps the love of power is at the origin of 
 each restless courtship of Fortune ; yet, after all, 
 who has power with less alloy than the village 
 thane? With so little effort,' so little thought, 
 the man in the manor-house can make men in 
 the cottage happier here below, and more fit for 
 a hereafter yonder. In leaving the world I come 
 from contest and pilgrimage, like our sires the 
 Crusaders, to reign at home." 
 
 As he spoke he entered one of the cottages. 
 An old paralytic man was seated by the tire, 
 hot though the July sun was out of doors; and 
 his wife,"of the same age, and almost as help- 
 
 less, was reading to him a chapter in the Old 
 Testament — the fifth chapter in Genesis, con- 
 taining the genealogy, age, and death of the 
 patriarchs before the Flood. How the faces of 
 the couple brightened when Darrell entered. 
 "Master Guyl" said the old man, tremulously 
 rising. The world-weary orator and lawyer 
 was still Master Guy to him. 
 
 "Sit down Mathew, and let me read you a 
 chapter." Darrell took the Holy Book, and read 
 the Sermon on the ilount. Never had Lionel 
 heard any thing like that reading ; the feeling 
 which brought out the depth of the sense, the 
 tones, sweeter than the flute, which clothed the 
 divine words in music. As Darrell ceased, some 
 beauty seemed gone from the day. He lingered 
 a few minutes, talking kindly and familiarly, 
 and then turned into another cottage, where lay 
 a sick woman. He listened to her ailments, 
 promised to send her something to do her good 
 from his own stores, cheered up her spirits, and, 
 leaving her happy, turned to Lionel with a glo- 
 rious smile, that seemed to ask, "And is there 
 not power in this ?" 
 
 But it was the sad peculiarity of this remark- 
 able man, that all his moods were subject to 
 rapid and seemingly unaccountable variations. 
 It was as if some great blow had fallen on the 
 mainspring of his organization, and left its orig- 
 inal harmony broken up into fragments, each 
 impressive in itself, but running one into the 
 other with an abrupt discord, as a harp played 
 upon by the winds. For, after this evident ef- 
 fort at self-consolation or self-support in sooth- 
 ing or strengthening others, suddenly Darrell's 
 head fell again upon his breast, and he walked 
 on, up the village lane, heeding no longer either 
 the open doors of expectant cottagers, or the sal- 
 utation of humble passers-by. "And I could 
 have been so happy herel" he said suddenly. 
 " Can I not be so yet ? Ay, perhaps, when I 
 am thoroughly old — tied to the world but by 
 the thread of an hour. Old men do seem hap- 
 py ; behind them all memories faint, save those 
 of childhood and sprightly youth ; before them, 
 the narrow ford, and the sun dawning up the 
 clouds on the other shore. 'Tis the critical de- 
 scent into age in which man is surely most troub- 
 led ; griefs gone, still rankling ; nor, strength yet 
 in his limbs, passion yet in his heart, recon- 
 1 ciled to what loom nearest in the prospect — the 
 j arm-chair and the palsied head. Well ! life is 
 ' a quaint puzzle. Bits the most incongruous 
 ! join into each other, and the scheme thus grad- 
 ; ually becomes symmetrical and clear; when, lo! 
 ! as the infant claps his hands, and cries, ' See, 
 see I the puzzle is made out I' all the pieces are 
 swept back into the box — black box with the 
 gilded nails. Ho I Lionel, look up ; there is our 
 village Church, and here, close at my right, the 
 Church-yard !" 
 
 Now while Darrell and his young companion 
 were directing their gaze to the right of the vil- 
 lage lane, toward the small gray church — toward 
 the sacred burial-ground in which, here and 
 there among humbler graves, stood the monu- 
 mental stone inscribed to the memory of some 
 former Darrell, for whose remains the living sod 
 had been preferred to the family vault; while 
 both slowly nearcd the funeral spot, and leaned, 
 silent and musing, over the rail that fenced 
 it from the animals turned to graze on the 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 58 
 
 sward of the surrounding frreen, a foot-traveler, ' His dress bespoke pretension to a certain 
 a stran'^er in the place, loitered on the thresh- rank ; but its component parts were strangely 
 old of The small wayside inn, about fifty yards ill-assorted, out of date, and out of repair: 
 oft" to the left of the lane, and looked hard at pearl-colored trowsers, with silk braids down 
 the still ficrures of the two kinsmen. t their sides ; brodequins to match — Parisian 
 
 Turnin<i then to the hostess, who was stand- fashion three years back, but the trowsers shab- 
 ino' somewhat within the threshold, a glass of , by, the braiding discolored, the brodequins in 
 brandv-and-water in her hand (the third glass holes. The coat — once a black evening-dress 
 that stranger had called for during his half- coat — of a cut a year or two anterior to that of 
 hour's rest in the hostelr}-), quoth the man — the trowsers ; satin facings — cloth napless, satin 
 
 " The taller gentleman yonder is surely your stained. Over all, a sort of summer traveling- 
 Squire, is it not ? but who is the shorter and cloak, or rather large cape of a waterproof silk, 
 younger person ?" ] once the extreme mode with the Lions of the 
 
 The landlady put forth her head. j Chaussee d'Antin whenever they ventured to rove 
 
 " Oh ! that is a relation of the Squire's down to S^iss cantons or German spas ; but which, 
 on a visit. Sir. I heard coachman say that the from a certain dainty effeminacy in its shape 
 Squire's taken to him hugely ; and they do think and texture, required the minutest elegance in 
 at the hall that the young gentleman will be his the general costume of its wearer as well as the 
 lieir." ' i cleanliest purity in itself. "Worn by this trav- 
 
 '* Aha:— indeed — his heir? "What is the lad's el«r, and well-nigh worn out too, the cape be- 
 name ? "What relation can he be to :Mr. Dar- • came a finery, mournful as a tattered pennon 
 rell V' I over a wreck. 
 
 '• I don't know what relation exactly. Sir ; but j Yet in spite of this dress, however nnbecom- 
 he is one of the Haughtons. and they're been ing, shabby, obsolete, a second glance could 
 kin to the Fawlev folks time out of m'ind." scarcely fail to note the wearer as a man won- 
 
 " Haughton ! — aha ! Thank you, ma'am. | derfully well shaped— tall, slender in the waist, 
 Changclf you please."' ' [long of limb, but with a girth of chest that 
 
 The stranger tossed off his dram, and stretch- j showed immense power — one of those rare fig 
 
 ed his hand for his change 
 
 "Beg pardon, Sir, but this must he forring 
 money,^' said the landlady, turning a five-franc 
 piece on her palm with suspicious curiosity. 
 
 "Foreign! is it possible?" The stranger 
 dived again into his pocket, and apparently with 
 some ditficultT,- hunted out half a crown. 
 
 '• Sixpence" more, if you please. Sir ; three 
 brandies, and bread-and-cheese, and the ale 
 too, Sir. 
 
 ures that a female eye would admire for gi-ace 
 — a recruiting sergeant for athletic strength. 
 
 Bat 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 favorable effect that 
 physical comeliness in itself produces. Diffi- 
 cult 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 
 
 How stnpid I am ! I thought that French ^ cut him ; and this man had that look and that 
 coin was a five-shilUns piece. I fear I have no gait. 
 
 English monev about^me but this half-crown ; i '"So, so," muttered the stranger. "That boy 
 and I can't ask you to trust me, as you don't ^ his heir I — so, so. How can I get to speak to 
 know me." ' ^^ ? I^ bis own house he would not see me : 
 
 " Oh, Sir, 'tis all one if you know the Squire, it must be as now, in the open air ; but how 
 You mav be passing this wav again." j catch him alone ? and to lurk in the inn, in his 
 
 '• I shall not forset mv debtVhen I do, you '' own village— perhaps for a day — to watch an 
 may be sure," said the" stranger ; and, wit"h a occasion; impossible! Besides, where is the 
 nod, he walked awav in the same direction as money for it ? Courage, courage !" He quick- 
 Darrell and Lionel had already taken — through ened his pace, pushed back his hat. " Courage ! 
 a turn-stile bv a pubUc path that, skirting the ; Why not now ? Xow or never !" 
 church-vard and the neighboring parsonage, led While the man thus mutteringly soliloquized, 
 along a"corn-field to the demesnes of Fawley. ! Lionel had reached the gate which opened into 
 The path was narrow, the corn rising on eit"her the grounds of Fawley, just in the rear of the 
 side, so that two persons could not well walk little lake. Over the gate ha swung himself 
 abreast. Lionel was some paces in advance, lightly, and, turning back to Darrell, cried, 
 Darrell walking slow. The stranger followed '• Here is the doe waiting to welcome you !" 
 at a distance ; once or twice he quickened his \ Just as Darrell, scarcely heeding the excla^ 
 pace, as if resolved to overtake Darrell ; then, mation, and with his musing eyes on the ground, 
 apparently, his mind misgave him, and he again approached the gate, a respectful hand opened it 
 fell back.' I wide, a submissive head bowed low, a voice art- 
 
 There was something furtive and sinister ificially soft faltered forth words, broken and in- 
 about the man. Little could be seen of his [ distinct, but of which those most audible were 
 face, for he wore a large hat of foreign make, ' — '-Pardon me — something to communicate — 
 slouched deep over his brow, and his lips and ! important — hear me." 
 
 jaw were concealed by a dark and full mustache j Darrell started— just as the traveler almost 
 and beard. As much of the general outline of i touched him — started — recoiled, as one on 
 the countenance as remained distinguishable ; whose path rises a wild beast. His bended head 
 was, nevertheless, decidedly handsQme ; but a became erect, haughty, indignant, defying ; but 
 complexion naturally rich in color, seemed to j his cheek was pale, and his lip quivered. " Yon 
 have gained the heated look which comes with here ! You in England — at Fawley ! You pre- 
 the earlier habits of intemperance, before it sume to accost me ! You, Sir, you — " 
 fades into the leaden hues of the later. I Lionel just caught the sound of the voice as 
 
oi 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WLTR IT ? 
 
 the doe had come timidly up to him. He turned 
 round sharply, and beheld Darrell's stern, im- 
 perious countenance, on which, stern and im- 
 perious though it was, a hasty glance could dis- 
 cover, 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 evi- 
 dently replying. Lionel paused a moment irres- 
 olute ; 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 to- 
 ward 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 brush- 
 ing through the corn, Darrell strode toward a 
 patch of waste land that adjoined the field : the 
 man followed him, and both passed from Lio- 
 nel'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 plaint- 
 ive. 
 
 "Come," said Lionel, "come." The doe 
 would not stir. 
 
 So the boy walked on alone, not much occu- 
 pied with what had just passed. ''Doubtless," 
 thought he, " some person in the neighborhood 
 upon country business." 
 
 He skirted the lake, and seated himself on a 
 garden bench near the hotise. AVhat did he 
 there think of? — who knows ? Perhaps of the 
 Great World ; perhaps of little Sophy I 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 — 3Ir. 
 Darrell did not feel very well. 
 
 Fairthorn had Lionel all to himself, and hav- 
 ing 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 tliat 
 came within his 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 Dar- 
 rell's voice called out, 
 
 "Fah-thorn, let me speak with you." 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 Every street has two sides, the shady side and the sunny. 
 ■SVhen 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 Fair- 
 thorn appeared at breakfast ; but as soon as 
 Lionel had concluded that meal, Mr. Mills in- 
 formed 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. No- 
 thing in it remarkable, save the portrait of the 
 host's father over the mantle-piece. Books 
 strewed tables, chairs, and floors in the disor- 
 der loved by habitual students. Near the win- 
 dow Avas a glass bowl containing gold fish, and 
 close by. in its cage, a singing-bird. Darrell 
 might exist without companionship in the hu- 
 man species, but not without something which 
 he protected and cherished — a bird — even a 
 fish. 
 
 DaiTell looked really ill ; his keen eye was 
 almost dim, and the lines in his face seemed 
 deeper. But he spoke with his visual calm pas- 
 sionless 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 huiried 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 I You are not angry with me ?" 
 
 "Angry! boy and cousin — no!" resumed Dar- 
 rell, in a tone of unusual tenderness. "Angry 
 — fie I But since the parting must be, 'tis well 
 to abridge the pain of long farewells. You must 
 ■nish, too, to see your mother, and thank her for 
 rearing you up so that you may step from pov- 
 erty into ease with a head erect. You will give 
 to Mrs. Haughton this letter : for yotirself, your 
 inclinations seem to tend toward 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 inde- 
 pendent income. Never let idle sycophants lead 
 you into extravagance, by telling you that you 
 will have more. But indulge not the expecta- 
 tion, however plausible, that you wUl 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 — 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 — "Eno'; 
 what I have thus rudely said was kindly meant. 
 It is a treason to a young man to let him count 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITU IT? 
 
 55 
 
 on a fortane which at hist is left away from him. 
 Now, Lionel, go ; enjoy your spring of life I Go, 
 hopeful and light-hearted. If sorrow reach you, 
 battle with it ; if error mislead you, come fear- 
 lessly to me for counsel. Why, boy — what is 
 this — tears ? Tut, tut." 
 
 '•It is your goodness," faltered Lionel. "I 
 can not 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 emo- 
 tions as awaken leai-s like those. Ah, by-the- 
 by, I lieard from my lawyer to-day about your 
 poor little protigi. Not found yet, but he seems 
 sangniue 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 ot'tcn as you please. Always direct to 
 me here." 
 
 '•Shall you be long abroad?" 
 
 Darrells brows met. "I don't know," said 
 he, curtly. ••Ailieu." 
 
 He opened the door as he spoke. 
 
 Lionel looked at him with wistful yearning. 
 
 filial affection, through his swimming eves. 
 '■God bless you, Sir," he murmured simply, 
 and passed away. 
 
 " That blessing should have come from me !" 
 said Darrcll 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 taJe, reviv- 
 ing 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 ! if it 
 were true ! Oh, shame, shame I" 
 
 Folding his arms tightly on his breast, Dar- 
 rell 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 1 accept it 
 as truth. Father" (looking full at the portrait 
 over the mantle-shelf), "father, fear not — never 
 — never!" 
 
 BOOK III, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Certes, "Ihe 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 thi-ough the green herbage, and basks 
 unmolested in the sun, he crowds perhaps as much en- 
 joyment into one summer hour as a parrot, however 
 pampered and erudite, spreads over a whole drawing- 
 room life spent in saying, " How d'ye do ';" and " Pretty 
 PoU." 
 
 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. Slie walked slowly behind the gray crip- 
 ple who had need to lean so heavily on his stall', 
 and her eye had not even a smile for the golden 
 buttercups that glittered on dewy meads along- 
 side 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 shghtly pouted, while 
 the big tears swelled to her eye. 
 
 "True," said the vagabond; "any thing re- 
 sembling 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 ?" 
 
 Sophy took his hand and pressed it, but she 
 could not trust herself to speak, for she felt that 
 at such effort she would have burst out into 
 hearty crying. Then Waife proceeded to utter 
 many of those wise sayings, old as the hills, and 
 as high above our sorrows as hills are from the 
 valley in which we walk. He said how foolish 
 it was to unsettle the mind by preposterous fan- 
 cies and impossible hopes. The pretty young 
 gentleman could never be any thing to her, nor 
 she to the pretty young gentleman. It might 
 be very well for the pretty young gentleman to 
 promise to con'espond with her, but as soon as 
 he returned to his friends he would have other 
 things to think of, and she would soon be for- 
 gotten; while she, on the contrary, would be 
 thinking of him, and the Thames, and the but- 
 terflies, and find hard life still more irksome. 
 Of all this, and much more, in the general way 
 of consolers who set out on the principle that 
 grief is a matter of logic, did Gentleman Waife 
 deliver himself with a vigor of ratiocination 
 which admitted of no re])ly, and conveyed not 
 a particle of comfort. And feeling this, that 
 great Actor — not that he was acting then — sud- 
 denly stopped, clasped the child in his arms, 
 j and murmured in broken accents — "But if I 
 I see you thus cast down, I shall have no strength 
 I left to hobble on through the world ; and the 
 I sooner I lie down, and the dust is shoveled over 
 ' me, why, the better for you ; for it seems that 
 1 Heaven sends you friends, and I tear you from 
 I them." 
 
',6 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 And then Sophy fairly gave way to her sobs ; 
 she twined her little arms round the old man's 
 neck convulsively, kissed his rough face with 
 implorin.c; pathetic fondness, and forced out 
 through her tears, "Don't talk so! I've been 
 ungrateful and wicked. I don't care for any 
 one but my own dear, dear Grandy." 
 
 After this little scene they both composed 
 themselves, and felt much lighter of heart. 
 They pursued their journey — no longer apart, 
 but side by side, and the old man leaning, though 
 very lightly, on the child's arm. But there was 
 no immediate reaction from gloom to gayety. 
 Waife began talking in softened under-tones, 
 and vaguely, of his own past afflictions; and 
 partial as was the reference, how vast did the 
 old man's sorrows seem beside the child's re- 
 grets ; and yet he commented on them as if 
 rather in pitying her state than grie%-ing for his 
 own. 
 
 "Ah ! at your age, my darling, I had not your 
 troubles and hardships. I had not to trudge these 
 dusty roads on foot with a broken-down, good- 
 for-nothing scatterling. I trod rich carpets, and 
 slept under silken curtains. I took the air in 
 gay carriages — I such a scape-grace — and you, 
 little child — you so good ! All gone I all melt- 
 ed away from me, and not able now to be sure 
 that you will have a crust of bread this day 
 week." 
 
 "Oh, yes I I shall have bread, and you, too, 
 Grandy !" cried Sophy, with cheerful voice. "It 
 was you who taught me to pray to God, and said 
 that in all your troubles God had been good to 
 you; and He has been so good to me since I 
 prayed to Him ; for I have no dreadful jNIrs. 
 Crane to beat me now, and say things more 
 hard to bear than beating — and you have taken 
 me to youi-self. How I prayed for that ! And 
 I take care of you, too, Grandy, don't I? I 
 prayed for that, too; and as to carriages," add- 
 ed Sophy, with superb air, "I don't care if I am 
 never in a carriage as long as I live ; and you 
 know I have been in a van, Mhicli is bigger than 
 a carriage, and I didn't like that at all. But how 
 came people to behave so ill to you, Grandy?" 
 
 " I never said people behaved ill to me, So- 
 phy." 
 
 " Did not they take away the carpets and silk 
 curtains, and all the fine things you had as a 
 little boy ?" 
 
 "I don't know exactly," replied Waife, with 
 a puzzled look, " that people actually took them 
 away — but they melted away. However, I had 
 much still to be thankful for — I was so strong, 
 and had such high spirits, Sophy, and found 
 people not beha\-ing ill to me — quite the con- 
 trarj- — so kind. I found no Crane (she monster) 
 as you did, ray little angel. Suoh prospects be- 
 fore me, if I had walked straight toward them ! 
 But I followed my own fancy, which led me 
 zigzag ; and now that I would stray back into 
 the high-road, you see before you a'man whom 
 a Justice of the Peace could send to the tread- 
 mill for presuming to live without a liveli- 
 hood." 
 
 Sophy. " Xot without a livelihood ? the what 
 did you call it I independent income — that is, 
 the Three Pounds, Grandy ?" 
 
 Waife (admiringly). " Sensible child ! That 
 is true. Yes, Heaven is very good to me still. 
 Ah ! what signifies fortune ? How happy I was 
 
 with my dear Lizzy, and yet no two persons 
 could live more from hand to mouth." 
 
 SoPHT (rather jealously). "Lizzy?" 
 
 Waife (with moistened eyes, and looking 
 down). "My wife. She was only spared to me 
 two years — such sunny years I And how grate- 
 ful I ought to be that she did not live longer. 
 She was saved — such — such — such shame and 
 miser}- 1" A long pause. 
 
 Waife resumed, with a rush from memory, as 
 if plucking himself from the claws of a harpy — 
 "What's the good of looking back! A man's 
 gone self is a dead thing. It is not I — now tramp- 
 ing this road, with you to lean upon — whom I 
 see when I would turn to look behind on that 
 which I once was — it is another being, defunct 
 and buried ; and when I say to myself, ' That 
 being did so and so,' it is like reading an epi- 
 taph on a tombstone. So, at last, solitary and 
 hopeless, I came back to my own land; and I 
 found you — a blessing greater than I had ever 
 dared to count on. And how was I to maintain 
 you, and take you from that long-nosed alliga- 
 tor called Crane, and put you in womanly, gen- 
 tle hands, for I never thought then of subjecting 
 you to all you have since undergone with me. 
 I who did not know one useful thing in life by 
 which a man can turn a penny. And then, as 
 I was all alone in a village ale-house, on my 
 way back from — it does not signify from what, 
 or from whence, but I was disappointed and de- 
 spairing — Providence mercifully threw in my 
 way — ^Ir. Rugge — and ordained me to be of 
 great service to that ruffian — and that ruffian 
 of great use to me." 
 
 Sophy. "Ah! how was that?" 
 
 Waife. "It was Fair-time in the village where- 
 in I stopped, and Rugge's principal actor was 
 taken off by delirium tremens, which is Latin for 
 a disease common to men who eat little and 
 drink much. Rugge came into the ale-house, 
 bemoaning his loss. A bright thought struck 
 me. Once in my day I had been used to act- 
 ing. I offered to tr}- my chance on Mr. Rugge's 
 stage ; he caught at me — I at him. I succeed- 
 ed ; we came to terms, and my little Sophy was 
 thus taken from that ringleted crocodile, and 
 placed with Christian females who wore caps 
 and read their Bible. Is not Heaven good to 
 us, Sophy — and to me, too — me, such a scamp?" 
 
 " And you did all that — suffered all that for 
 me?" 
 
 "Suffered — but I liked it. And, besides, I 
 must have done something ; and there were rea- 
 sons — in short, I was quite happy — no, not act- 
 ually happy, but comfortable and merry. Prov- 
 idence gives thick hides to animals that must 
 exist in cold climates ; and to the man whom it 
 reserves for sorrow. Providence gives a coarse, 
 jovial temper. Then, when by a mercy I was 
 saved from what I most disliked and di'caded, 
 and never would have thought of but that I fan- 
 cied it might be a help to you — I mean the Lon- 
 don stage — and had that bad accident on the 
 railway, how did it end ? Oh ! in saving you 
 (and Waife closed his eyes and shuddered)— in 
 saving your destiny from what might be much 
 worse for you, body and soul, than the worst 
 I that has happened to you with me. And so we 
 have been thrown together; and so you have 
 supported me ; and so, when we could exist 
 I without Mr. Rugge, Providence got rid of him 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 57 
 
 for us. And so we are now walking along the 
 high-road ; and through yonder trees you can 
 catch a peep of the roof under which we are 
 about to rest for a while ; and there you will 
 learn what I have done with the Tliree Pounds !" 
 
 " It is not the Spotted Boy, G randy ?" 
 
 " No," said Waife, sighing ; " the Spotted Boy 
 is a handsome income ; but let us only trust in 
 Providence, and I should not wonder if our new 
 acquisition proved a monstrous — " 
 
 "Monstrous!" 
 
 " Piece of good fortune." 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 The Inrestmeut revealed. 
 
 Gentleman Waife passed through a turnstile, 
 down a narrow lane, and reached a solitary 
 cottage. He knocked at the door ; an old peas- 
 ant woman opened it, and dropped him a civil 
 courtesy. " Indeed, Sir, I am glad you are 
 come. I'se most afeard lie be dead." 
 
 " Dead !" exclaimed Waife. '• Oh, Sophy, if 
 he should be dead !" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 Waife did not heed the question. "What 
 makes you think him dead ?" said he, fumbling 
 in his pockets, from which he at last produced 
 a key. "You have not been disobeying my strict 
 orders, and tampering with the door ?" 
 
 "Lor' love ye, no. Sir. But he made such a 
 noise a fust — awful I And now he's as still as 
 a cor])se. And I did peep through the keyhole, 
 and he was stretched stark." 
 
 "Hunger, perhaps," said the Comedian ; " 'tis 
 his way when he has been kept fasting much 
 over his usual hours. Follow me, Sophy." He 
 put aside the woman, entered the sanded kitch- 
 en, ascended a stair that led from it ; and Sophy 
 following, stopped at a door and listened : not 
 a sound^ Timidly he unlocked the portals and 
 crept in, when, suddenly, such a rush — such a 
 spring, and a mass of something vehement yet 
 soft, dingy yet whitish, whirled past the Actor, 
 and came pounce against Sophy, who therewith 
 uttered a shriek. " Stop him, stop him, for 
 Heaven's sake I" cried Waife. " Shut the door 
 below — seize him 1" Down stairs, however, went 
 the mass, and down stairs after it hobbled Waife, 
 returning in a few moments with the recaptured 
 and mysterious fugitive. "There," he cried, 
 triumphantly, to Sophy, who, standing against 
 the wall with her face buried in her frock, long 
 refused to look up — " there — tame as a lamb, 
 and knows me. See" — he seated himself on the 
 floor, and Sophy, hesitatingly opening her eyes, 
 beheld gravely gazing at her from under a pro- 
 fusion of shaggy locks an enormous — 
 
 Poodle ! 
 
 Cn.cVPTER m. 
 
 UC-nouement. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Zoology in connection with History. 
 " Walk to that young lady, Sir — walk, I say." 
 The poodle slowly rose on his hind-legs, and, 
 
 with an aspect inexpressibly solemn, advanced 
 toward Sophy, who hastily receded into the 
 room in which the creature had been confined. 
 
 " Make a bow — no — a bou; Sir ; that is right : 
 you can shake hands another time. Run down, 
 Sophy, and ask for his dinner." 
 
 " Yes — that I will ;" and Sophy flew down 
 the stairs. 
 
 The dog, still on his hind-legs, stood in the 
 centre of the floor, dignified, but evidently ex- 
 pectant. 
 
 " That will do ; lie down and die. Die this 
 moment, Sir." The dog stretched himself out, 
 closed his eyes, and to all a]»])earauce gave up 
 the ghost. " A most splendid investment," said 
 Waife, with enthusiasm ; " and, upon the whole, 
 dog-cheap. Ho ! i/ou ai-e not to bring up his 
 dinner ; it is not you who are to make friends 
 with the dog ; it is my little girl ; send her up ; 
 Sophy, Sophy." 
 
 " She be fritted. Sir," said the woman, hold- 
 ing a plate of canine comestibles ; " but lauk, 
 Sir ; ben't he really dead ?" 
 
 "Sophy, Sophy." 
 
 "Please let me stay here, Grandy," said 
 Sophy's voice from the foot of the stairs. 
 
 " Nonsense ! it is sixteen hours since he has 
 had a morsel to eat. And he will never bite 
 the hand that feeds him now. Come up, I say." 
 Sophy slowly reascended, and Waife, summon- 
 ing the poodle to life, insisted ujion the child's 
 feeding him. And indeed, when that act of 
 charity was performed, the dog evinced his 
 gratitude by a series of unsophisticated bounds 
 and waggings of the tail, which gradually re- 
 moved Sophy's ajiprehensions, and laid the 
 foundation for that intimate friendship, which 
 is the natural relation between child and dog. 
 
 "And how did 3-ou come by him?" asked 
 Sophy; "and is this really the — the in-\'est- 
 
 MENT ?" 
 
 " Shut the door carefully, but see first that 
 the woman is not listening. Lie down, Sir, 
 there, at the feet of the young lady. Good dog. 
 How did I come by him ? I will tell you. Tlie 
 first day we arrived at the village which we have 
 just left, I went into the tobacconist's. While I 
 was buying my ounce of canaster, that dog en- 
 tered the shop. In his mouth was a sixpence 
 wrapped in paper. He lifted himself on his 
 hind-legs, and laid his missive on the counter. 
 The shopwoman — you know her, INIrs. Traill — 
 unfolded the pajier and read the order. ' Clev- 
 er dog that, Sir.' said she. ' To fetch and car- 
 ry ?' said I, iudiftcrently. ' More than that. Sir ; 
 you shall see. The order is for two-penn'orth 
 "of snuff. The dog knows he is to take back 
 fouqience. I will give him a penny short.' So 
 she took the sixpence and gave the dog three- 
 pence out of it. The dog shook his head and 
 looked gravely into her face. ' That's all you'll 
 get,' said she. The dog shook his head again, 
 and tapped his paw once on the counter, as much 
 as to sav, ' I am not to be done — a penny more, 
 if vou please.' ' If you won't take that, you shall 
 have nothing,' said Mrs. Traill, and she took 
 back the threepence." 
 
 " Dear ! and what did the dog do then— snarl 
 or bite ?" 
 
 "Not so; he knew he was in his rights, and 
 did not lower himself by showing bad temper. 
 The dog looked quietly round, saw a basket 
 
58 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 which contained t^vo or three pounds of candles 
 lying in a corner for the shopboy to take to some 
 customer ; took up the basket in his mouth, and 
 turned tail, as much as to say, ' Tit for tat 
 then.' He understood, you see, what is called 
 the ' law of reprisals.' ' Come back this mo- 
 ment,' cried Mrs. Traill. The dog walked out 
 of the shop ; then she ran after him, and counted 
 the fourpence before him, on which he dropped 
 the basket, picked up the right change, and went 
 off demurely. ' To whom does that poodle be- 
 long r" said I. ' To a poor drunken man,' said 
 Mrs. Traill ; ' I wish it was in better hands.' 
 ' So do I, ma'am,' answered I. ' Did he teach 
 it ?' ' Xo, it was taught by his brother, who was 
 an old soldier, and died in his house two weeks 
 ago. It knows a great many tricks, and is quite 
 young. It might make a fortune as a show, 
 Sir.' So I was thinking. I inquired the own- 
 er's address, called on him, and found him dis- 
 posed to sell the dog. But he asked £3, a sum 
 that seemed out of the question then. Still I 
 kept the dog in my eye ; called every day to 
 make friends with it, and ascertain its capacities. 
 And at last, thanks to you, Sophy, I bought the 
 dog ; and what is more, as soon as I had two 
 golden sovereigns to show, I got him for that 
 sum, and we have still £1 left (besides small 
 savings from our lost salaries) to go to the com- 
 pletion of his education, and the advertisement 
 of his merits. I kept this a secret from Merle — 
 from all. I would not even let the drunken o\vn- 
 er know where I took the dog to yesterday. I 
 brought it here, where, I learned in the village, 
 there were two rooms to let — locked it up — and 
 my story is told." 
 
 " But why keep it such a secret?" 
 
 " Because I don't want Rugge to trace us. 
 He might do one a mischief; because I have a 
 grand project of genteel position and high prices 
 for the exhibition of that dog. And why shoidd 
 it be kno^\-n where we come from, or what we 
 were ? And because, if the owner knew where 
 to find the dog, he might decoy it back from us. 
 Luckily, he had not made the dog so fond of 
 him but what, unless it be decoyed, it will ac- 
 custom itself to us. And now I propose that we 
 should stay a week or so here, and devote our- 
 selves exclusively to developing the native powers 
 of this gifted creature. Get out the dominoes." 
 
 " What is his name ?" 
 
 "Ha ! that is the first consideration. What 
 shall be, his name ?" 
 
 " Has not he one already ?" 
 
 " Yes — trivial and unattractive — Mop ! In 
 private life it might pass. But in pubUc life — 
 give a dog a bad name, and hang him. Mop, 
 indeed!" 
 
 Therewith Mop, considering himself appealed 
 to, rose and stretched himself. 
 
 "Right," said Gentleman Waife ; "stretch 
 yourself; you decidedly require it." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Mop becomes a Personage. Much thought is bestowed 
 on the verbal dignities, without which a Personage 
 ■would become a Mop. The importance of names is 
 apparent in aU history. If Augustus had called him- 
 self king, Rome would have risen against him as a 
 Tarquin; so he remained a simple equestrian, and 
 modestly called himself Imperator. Mop chooses his 
 
 own title in a most mysterious manner, and ceases to 
 be Mop. 
 
 " The first noticeable defect in your name of 
 
 Mop," said Gentleman Waife, " is, as yoit your- 
 
 . self denote, the want of elongation. Moiiosyl- 
 
 I lables are not imposing, and in striking com- 
 
 ; positions their meaning is elevated by periphra- 
 
 I sis ; that is to say, Sophy, that what before was 
 
 a short truth, an elegant author elaborates into 
 
 a long stretch." 
 
 "Certainly," said Sophy, thoughtfully; "I 
 don't think the name of Mop would draw ! StUl 
 he is verv' like a Mop." 
 
 " For that reason the name degrades him the 
 more, and lowers him from an intellectual jjhe- 
 nomenon to a physical attribute, which is vul- 
 gar. I hope that that dog will enable us to rise 
 in the Scale of Being. For whereas we in act- 
 ing could only command a threepenny audience 
 — reserved seats a shilling — he may aspire to 
 half-crowns and dress-boxes, that is, if we can 
 hit on a name which inspires respect. Jsow, al- 
 though the dog is big, it is not by his size that 
 he is to become famous, or we might call him 
 Hercules or Goliah ; neither is it by his beauty, 
 or Adonis would not be unsuitable. It is by his 
 superior sagacity and wisdom. And there I am 
 puzzled to find his prototype among mortals ; 
 for, perhaps, it may be my ignorance of history — " 
 
 "You ignorant, indeed, grmdfather !" 
 
 "But considering the innumerable millions 
 who have lived on the earth, it is astonishing 
 how few I can call to mind who have left behind 
 them a proverbial renown for wisdom. There 
 is, indeed, Solomon, but he fell oft' at the last ; 
 and as he belongs to sacred history, we must 
 not take a liberty with his name. Who is there 
 very, very, verv" wise besides Solomon ? Think, 
 Sophy — profane history." 
 
 Sophy (after a musing pause). " Puss in 
 Boots." 
 
 "Well, he u-as wise; but then he was not 
 human ; he was a cat. Ha ! Socrates. Shall 
 we call him Socrates, Socrates, Socrates ?" 
 
 Sophy. " Socrates, Socrates." 
 
 Mop yawned. 
 
 Waife. ' ■ He don't take to Socrates — prosy I" 
 
 Sophy. " Ah, Mr. Merle's book abotit the 
 Brazen Head, Friar Bacon .' He must have been 
 very wise." 
 
 Waife. "Not bad; mysterious, but not re- 
 condite ; historical, yet familiar. What does 
 Mop say to it? Friar, Friar, Friar Bacon, Sir 
 — Friar." 
 
 Sophy (coaxingly). "Friar." 
 
 Mop, evidently conceiving that appeal is made 
 to some other personage, canine or human, not 
 present, rouses up, walks to tlie door, smells at 
 the chink, returns, shakes his head, and rests 
 on his haunches, eying his two friends super- 
 ciliously. 
 
 Sophy. " He does not take to that name." 
 
 Watfe. "He has his reasons for it ; and. in- 
 deed, there are many worthy persons who disap- 
 prove of any thing that savors of magical prac- 
 tices. Mop intimates that, on entering public 
 life, one should beware of offending the respect- 
 able prejudices of a class." 
 
 Mr. Waife then, once more resorting to the 
 recesses of scholastic memory, filucked there- 
 from, somewhat by the head and shoulders, sun- 
 dry names reverenced in a by-gone age. He 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 59 
 
 thought of the seven wise men of Greece, but 
 could only recall the nomenclature of two out 
 of the seven — a sad proof of the distinction be- 
 tween collegiate fame and popular reno'wn. He 
 called Thales; he called Biou. Mop made no re- 
 sponse. "Wonderful intelligence;"' saidWaife; 
 "he knows that Thales and Bion would not draw I 
 — obsolete." 
 
 ilop was equally mute to Aristotle. He 
 pricked up his ears at Plato, perhaps because 
 the sound was not wholly dissimilar from that 
 of Pouto — a name of which he might have had 
 vague reminiscences. The Eomans not having 
 cultivated an original philosophy, though they 
 contrived to produce great men without it, Waife 
 passed by that perished people. He crossed to 
 China, and tried Confucius. Mop had evident- 
 ly never heard of him. '• I am at the end of my 
 list, so far as the wise men are concerned," said 
 Waife, wiping his forehead. '• If Mop were to 
 distinguish himself by valor, one would find he- 
 roes by the dozen — Achilles, and Hector, and 
 Julius C*sar. and Pompey, and Bonaparte, and 
 Alexander the Great, and the Duke of Marl- 
 borough. Or, if he wrote poetry, we could fit 
 him to a hair. But wise men certainly are 
 scarce, and when one has hit on a wise man's 
 name, it is so little known to the vulgar that it 
 would carry no more weight with it than Spot 
 or Toby. But necessarily some name the dog 
 must have, and take to, sympathetically." 
 
 Sophy meanwhile had extracted the dominoes 
 from Waife 's bundle, and with the dominoes an 
 alphabet and a multiplication-table in printed 
 capitals. As the Comedian's one eye rested 
 upon the last, he exclaimed, '• But after all, 
 Mop"s great strength will probably be in arith- 
 metic, and the science of numbers is the root of 
 all wisdom. Besides, every man, high and low, 
 wants to make a fortune, and associations con- 
 nected with addition and multiplication are al- 
 ways pleasing. Who, then, is the sage at com- 
 putation most universally known ? Unquestion- 
 ably Cocker.' He must take to that — Cocker, 
 Cocker (commandingly). C-o-c-k-e-r," with per- 
 suasive sweetness. 
 
 Mop looked puzzled ; he put his head first on 
 one side, then the other. 
 
 SoPHT (with mellifluous endearment). "Cock- 
 er, good Cocker; Cocker dear." 
 
 Both. '"Cocker, Cocker, Cocker!" 
 
 Excited and bewildered, Mop put up his head, 
 and gave vent to his j)erplexities in a long and 
 lugubrious howl, to which certainly none who 
 heard it could have desired addition or multi- 
 plication, 
 
 •• Stop this instant. Sir — stop : I shoot you ! 
 You are dead — down !"' Waife adjusted his staff 
 to his shoulder gun-wise ; and at the word of 
 command, Down, Mop was on his side, stifi' and 
 lifele--s. •• Still," said Wait'e, "• a name con- 
 nected with profound calculation would be the 
 most appropriate ; for instance. Sir Isaac — " 
 
 Before the comedian could get out the word 
 Newton, Mop had sprung to his four feet, and, 
 with wagging tail and ^vriggling back, evinced a 
 sense ot beatified recognition. 
 
 " Astounding 1' said Waife, rather awed. 
 '■ Can it be the name? Impossible. Six Isaac, 
 Sir Isaac I" 
 
 "Bow wow I" answered Mop, joyously. 
 
 " If there be any truth in the doctrine of me- 
 
 tempsychosis I" faltered Gentleman Waife, " if 
 the great Newton could have transmigrated into 
 that incomparable animal. Newton, Newton." 
 To that name Mop made no obeisance, but. evi- 
 dently still restless, walked round the room, 
 smelUng at every corner, and turning to look 
 back with inquisitive earnestness at his new 
 master. 
 
 "He does not seem to catch at the name of 
 Newton," said Waife, trying it thrice again, and 
 vainly, "and yet he seems extremely well 
 versed in the principle of gravity. Sir Isaac I" 
 The dog bounded toward him, put his paws on 
 his shoulders, and licked his face. "Just cut 
 out those figures carefully, my dear, and see if 
 we can get him to tell us how much twice ten 
 , are — I mean by addressing him as Sir Isaac." 
 
 Sophy cut the figures from the multiplication- 
 table, and arranged them, at Waife's instruction, 
 in a circle on the floor. " Now, Sir Isaac." ^lop 
 lifted a paw, and walked deliberately round the 
 letters. " Now, Sir Isaac, how much are ten 
 times two ?" 3Iop deliberately made his survey 
 and calculation, and pausing at twenty stooped, 
 and took the letters in his mouth. 
 I "It is not natural," cried Sophy, much alarm- 
 ed. "It must be wicked, and I'd rather have 
 I nothing to do with it, please." 
 I " Silly child. He was but obeying my sign. 
 I He had been taught that trick already under the 
 I name of Mop. The only strange thing is, that 
 I he should do it also under the name of Sir Isaac, 
 ! and much more cheerfully too. However, wheth- 
 er he has been the great Newton or not, a live 
 dog is better than a dead Uon. But it is clear 
 that, in acknowledging the name of Sir Isaac, 
 he does not encourage us to take that of New- 
 j ton — and he is right"; for it might be thought 
 I unbecoming to apply to an animal, however ex- 
 I traordinarv", who, by the severity of fortune is 
 ! compelled to exhibit his talents "for a small pe- 
 ' cuniary reward, the family name of so great a 
 philosopher. Sir Isaac, after all, is a vague ap- 
 . pellation — any dog has a right to be Sir Isaac 
 — Newton may be left conjectural. Let us see 
 if we can add to our arithmetical information. 
 Look at me, Sir Isaac." Sir Isaac looked, and 
 grinned aflectionately ; and under that title 
 learned a new combination with a facility that 
 might have relieved Sophy's mind of all su- 
 perstitious belief that the philosopher was re- 
 suscitated in the dog, had she kno\vn that in 
 life that great master of calculations the most 
 abstruse could not accurately cast up a simple 
 sum in addition. Nothing brought him to the 
 end of his majestic tether like dot and carry 
 one. Notable type of our human incomplete- 
 ness, where men might deem our studies had 
 made us most complete. Notable t%"pe, too, of 
 that grandest order of all human genius which 
 seems to arrive at results by intuition, which a 
 child might pose by a row of figures on a slate 
 — while it is solving the laws that link the stars 
 to infinity. But revenons a nos moutons, what 
 the astral attraction that incontestably bound 
 the reminiscences of Mop to the cognominal 
 distinction of Sir Isaac ? I had prepared a very 
 erudite and subtle treatise upon this query, en- 
 livened by quotations from the ancient Mystics 
 — such as lambhchus and Proclus, as well as by 
 a copious reference to the doctrine of the more 
 modem Spiritualists, from Sir Kenelm Digbj 
 
CO 
 
 WHAT "WILL HE DO TVITH IT? 
 
 and Swedenborg, to Jlonsieur Cahagnet and 
 Judge Edmonds: it was to be called Inquiry 
 into the Law of AiRnities, by Fhilomopsos : 
 when, unluckily for my treatise, I arrived at the 
 knowled,a;e of a fact which, though it did not 
 render the treatise less curious, knocked on the 
 head the theory upon which it was based. The 
 baptismal name of the old soldier, flop's first 
 proprietor and earliest preceptor, was Isaac ; 
 and his master being called in the homely 
 household by that Christian name, the sound 
 had entered into Mop's youngest and most en- 
 deared associations. His canine affections had 
 done much toward ripening his scholastic edu- 
 cation. " Where is Isaac ?" " Call Isaac I" 
 '•Fetch Isaac his hat," etc., etc. Stilled was 
 that name when the old soldier died ; but when 
 heard again, Mop's heart was moved, and in 
 missing the old master, he felt more at home 
 with the new. As for the title, " Sir," it was a 
 mere expletive in his ears. Such was the fact, 
 and such the deduction to be drawn from it. 
 Not that it will satisfy every one. I know that 
 philosophers who deny all that they have not 
 witnessed, and refuse to witness what they re- 
 solve to deny, will reject the storj' in toto ; and 
 will prove, by reference to their own dogs, that 
 a dog never recognizes the name of his master 
 ■ — never yet could be taught arithmetic. I know 
 also that there are ilystics who will prefer to 
 believe that Mop was in direct spiritual commu- 
 nication with unseen Isaacs, or in a state of 
 clairvoyance, or under the influence of the odic 
 fluid. But did we ever yet find in human rea- 
 son a question with only one side to it ? Is not 
 truth a polygon? Have not sages arisen in our 
 day to deny even the principle of gravity, for 
 which we had been so long contentedly taking 
 the word of the great Sir Isaac ? It is that 
 blessed spirit of controversy which keeps the 
 world going ; and it is that which, perhaps, ex- 
 plains why 3Ir. Waife, when his memory was 
 fairly put to it, could remember, out of the his- 
 tory of the myriads who have occupied our plan- 
 et from the date of Adam to that in which I now 
 write, so very few men whom the world will 
 agree to call wise, and out of that verv' few so 
 scant a percentage with names sufiiciently known 
 to make them more popularly significant of pre- 
 eminent sagacity than if they had been called 
 — Mops. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Vagrant having got his dog, proceeds to hunt For- 
 tune with it, leaving behind him a trap to catch rats. 
 What the trap does catch is "just like his luck!" 
 
 Sir Isaac, to designate him by his new name, 
 improved much upon acquaintance. He was 
 still in the ductile season of youth, and took to 
 learning as an amusement to himself. His last 
 master, a stupid sot, had not gained his affec- 
 tions — and perhaps even the old soldier, though 
 gratefully remembered and mourned, had not 
 stolen into his innermost heart, as Waife and 
 Sophy gently contrived to do. In short, in a 
 very few days he became perfectly accustomed 
 and extremely attached to them. When Waife 
 had ascertained the extent of his accomplish- 
 ments, and added somewhat to their range in 
 matters which cost no great trouble, he applied 
 himself to the task of composing a little drama, 
 
 which might bring them all into more interest- 
 ing play, and in which, tliough Sophy and him- 
 self were performers, the dog had the premkr 
 role. And as soon as this was done, and the 
 dog's performances thus ranged into methodical 
 order and sequence, he resolved to set oflp to a 
 considerable town at some distance, and to which 
 Mr. Rugge was no visitor. 
 
 His bill at the cottage made but slight inroad 
 into his pecuniary resources ; for in the inter- 
 vals of leisure from his instructions to Sir Isaac, 
 Waife had performed various little ser\-ices to 
 the lone widow with whom they lodged, which 
 Mrs. Saunders (such was her name) insisted 
 upon regarding as money's worth. He had re- 
 paired and regulated to a minute an old clock 
 which had taken no note of time for the last 
 three years ; he had mended all the broken 
 crockery by some cement of his own invention, 
 and for which she got him the materials. And 
 here his ingenuity was remarkable, for when 
 there was only a fragment to be found of a cup, 
 and a fragment or t^vo of a saucer, he united 
 them both into some pretty form, which, if not 
 useful, at all events looked well on a shelf. He 
 bound, in smart, showy papers, sundry tattered 
 old books which had belonged to his landlady's 
 defunct husband, a Scotch gardener, and which 
 she displayed on a side-table, under the Japan 
 tea-tray. Jlore than all, he was of senice to 
 her in her vocation ; for ilrs. Saunders eked 
 out a small pension — which she derived from 
 the affectionate providence of her Scotch hus- 
 band, in insuring his life in her favor — by the 
 rearing and sale of poultry; and Waife saved 
 her the expense of a caqienter by the construc- 
 tion of a new coop, elevated above the reach of 
 the rats, who had hitherto made sad ravage 
 among the chickens ; while he confided to her 
 certain secrets in the improvement of breed and 
 the cheaper processes of fattening, which ex- 
 cited her gratitude no less than her wonder. 
 "The fact is," said Gentleman' Waife, ''that 
 my life has known make-shifts. Once, in a for- 
 eign country, I kept poultiy upon the principle 
 that the poidtrj- should keep me." 
 
 Strange it was to notice such versatility of in- 
 vention, such readiness of resource, such famil- 
 iarity with divers nooks and crannies in the 
 practical experience of life, in a man now so 
 hard put to it for a livelihood. There are per- 
 sons, however, who might have a good stock 
 of talent, if they did not turn it all into small 
 change. And you, reader, know as well as I do, 
 that when a sovereign or a shilling is once bro- 
 ken into, the change scatters and dispends itself 
 in a way quite unaccountable. Still coppers are 
 useful in household bills ; and when Waife was 
 really at a pinch, somehow or other, by hook or 
 by crook, he scraped together intellectual half- 
 pence enough to pay his way. 
 
 Mrs. Saunders grew quite fond of her lodg- 
 ers. Waife she regarded as a prodigy of gen- 
 ius ; Sophy was the prettiest and best of chil- 
 dren; Sir Isaac, she took for gi-anted, was wor- 
 thy of his owners. But the Comedian did not 
 confide to her his dog's learning, nor the use to 
 which he designed to put it. And in still great- 
 er precaution, when he took his leave, he ex- 
 tracted from Mrs. Saunders a solemn promise 
 that she would set no one en his track, in case 
 of impertinent inquiries. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 CI 
 
 "You see before you," said he, '"a man who 
 has enemies — such as rats are to your chickens : 
 chickens despise rats when raised, as yours are 
 now, above the reach of claws and teeth. Some 
 day or other I may so raise a coop for that little 
 one — I am too old for coops. Jleanwhile, if a 
 rat comes sneaking here after us, send it oil" the 
 wrong way, with a flea in its ear." 
 
 Mrs. Saunders promised, between tears and 
 langliter; blessed Waife, kissed So))hy, patted 
 Sir Isaac, and stood long at her threshold watch- 
 ing the three, as the early sun lit their forms 
 receding in the green, narrow lane — dew-drops 
 sparkling on the hedgerows, and the sky-lark 
 springing upward from the young corn. 
 
 Then she slowly turned in-doors, and her 
 home seemed very solitary. We can accustom 
 ourselves to loneliness, but y,e should beware of 
 infringing the custom. Once admit two or three 
 faces seated at your hearthside, or gazing out 
 from your windows on the laughing sun, and 
 when they are gone, they caiTv off the glow 
 from your grate and the sunbeam from your 
 panes. Poor Jlrs. Saunders ! in vain she sought 
 to rouse herself, to put the rooms to rights, to 
 attend to the chickens, to distract her thoughts. 
 The one-eyed cripple, the little girl, the shaggy- 
 faced dog, still haunted her; and when at noon 
 she dined all alone off the remnants of the last 
 night's social supper, the very click of the reno- 
 vated clock seemed to say, "Gone, gone;" and 
 muttering, "Ah! gone," she reclined back on 
 her chair, and indulged herself in a good wo- 
 manlike ciy. From this luxury slie was startled 
 by a knock at the door. " Could they have come 
 back?" No; the door opened, and a genteel 
 young man, in a black coat and white neckloth, 
 step]ied in. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, ma'am — your name's 
 Saunders — sell poultry ?" 
 
 "At your service, Sir. Spring chickens I" 
 Poor people, whatever their grief, must sell their 
 chickens, if they have any to sell. 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am; not at this moment. 
 The fact is, that I call to make some inquiries. 
 Have not you lodgers here?" 
 
 Lodgers ! at that word the expanding soul of 
 ]Mrs. Saunders reclosed hermetically ; the last 
 warning of Waife revibi-ated in her ears : this 
 whitQ-neckclothed gentleman, was he not a rat? 
 
 " No, Sir, I han't no lodgers." 
 
 "But you have had some lately, eh? a crip- 
 pled elderly man and a little girl." 
 
 "Don't know any thing about them; least- 
 ways," said ^Irs. Saunders, suddenly remember- 
 ing that she was told less to deny facts than to 
 send inquirers upon wrong directions — "least- 
 ways, at this blessed time. Pray, Sir, what 
 makes you ask?"^ 
 
 " Why, I was instructed to come down to , 
 
 and find out where this person, one William 
 Waife, had gone. Arrived yesterday, ma'am. 
 All I could hear is, that a person answering to 
 his description left the place several days ago, 
 and had been seen by a boy, who was tending 
 sheep, to come down the lane to your house, and 
 you were supposed to have lodgers (You take 
 lodgers sometimes, I think, ma'am) ; because 
 you had been buying some trifling articles of 
 food not in your usual way of custom. Circum- 
 stantial evidence, ma'am — you can have no mo- 
 tive to conceal the truth." 
 
 "I should think not indeed, Sir," retorted Mrs. 
 Saunders, whom the ominous words "circum- 
 stantial ertdence" set doubly on her guard. " I 
 did see a gentleman such as you mention, and 
 a pretty young lady, about ten days agone, or 
 so, and they did lodge here a uight or two, but 
 they are gone to — " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am — gone where ?" 
 
 "Lunnon." 
 
 By the train or on 
 
 " Really — very likely, 
 foot?" 
 
 "On foot, I s'pose." 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am. If you should see them 
 again, or hear where they are, oblige me by con- 
 veying this card to i\Ir. "Waife. JSIy employer, 
 ma'am, JMr. Gotobed, Craven Street, Strand — 
 eminent solicitor. He has something of im- 
 portance to communicate to ^Mr. Waife." 
 
 " Yes, Sir — a lawyer ; I understand." And as 
 of all rat-like animals in the world Mrs. Saun- 
 ders had the ignorance to deem a lawyer was 
 the most emphatically devouring, she congratu- 
 lated herself with her whole heart on the white 
 lies she had told in favor of the intended victims. 
 
 The blackcoated gentleman having thus obeyed 
 his instructions, and attained his object, nodded, 
 went his way, and regained the fly which he had 
 left at the turnstile. " Back to the inn," cried 
 he — "quick — I must be in time fur the three 
 o'clock train to London." 
 
 And thus terminated the result of the gi-eat 
 barrister's first instructions to his eminent solic- 
 itor to discover a lame man and a little girl. 
 No inquiiy, on the whole, could have been more 
 skillfully conducted. Mr. Gotobed sends his 
 head clerk — tlie head, clerk employs the police- 
 man of the village — gets upon the right track — 
 comes to the right house — and is altogether in 
 the wrong — in a manner highly creditable to his 
 researches. 
 
 "In London, of course — all people of that 
 kind come back to London," said Mr. Gotobed. 
 "Give me the heads in writing, that I may re- 
 port to my distinguished client. Most satisfac- 
 tory. That young man will push his way — 
 business-like and methodical." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The cloud has its silver lining. 
 
 Tnus turning his back on the good fortune 
 which he had so carefully cautioned IMrs. Saun- 
 ders against favoring on his behalf, the vagrant 
 was now on his way to the ancient municipal 
 town of Gatesborough, which being the nearest 
 place of fitting opulence and population, Mr. 
 Waife had resolved to honor with tlie dciiit of 
 Sir Isaac as soon as he had appropriated to him- 
 self the services of that promising quadruped. 
 He liad consulted a map of the county before 
 quitting Mr. Merle's roof, and ascertahied tliat 
 he could reach Gatesborough by a short cut for 
 foot-travelers along fields and lanes. He was 
 always glad to avoid the high-road: doubtless 
 for such avoidance he had good reasons. But 
 prudential reasons were in this instance suj)- 
 ported by vagrant inclinations. High-roads are 
 for the prosperous. By-i)aths and ill-luck go 
 together. But by-patlis have their charm, and 
 ill-luck its pleasant moments. 
 
C2 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 They passed, then, from the high-road into a 
 long succession of green pastures, through which 
 a straight public path conducted them into one 
 of those charming lanes never seen out of this 
 boweiy England — a lane deep sunk amidst high 
 banks, with overhanging oaks, and quivering 
 ash, gnarled witch-elm, vivid holly, and shaggy 
 brambles, with Avild convolvulus and creeping 
 woodbine forcing sweet life through all. Some- 
 times the banks opened abruptly, leaving patches 
 of greensward, and peeps through still seques- 
 tered gates, or over moss-grown pales, into the 
 park or paddock of some rural thane. New 
 villas or old manor-houses on lawny uplands, 
 knitting, as it were, together, England's feudal 
 memories with England's free-born hopes — the 
 old land with its young people ; for England is 
 so old, and the English are so young ! And the 
 gray cripple and the bright-haired child often 
 paused, and gazed upon the demesnes and homes 
 of owners whose lots were cast in such pleasant 
 places. But there was no grudging envy in their 
 gaze ; perhaps because their life was too remote 
 from those grand belongings. And therefore 
 they could enjoy and possess every banquet of 
 the eye. For at least the beauty of what we 
 see is ours for the moment, on the simple con- 
 dition that we do not covet the thing which 
 gives to our eyes that beauty. As the measure- 
 less sky and the unnumbered stars are equally 
 granted to king and to beggar — and in our wild- 
 est ambition we do not sigh for a monopoly of 
 the empyrean, or the fee-simple of the planets 
 — so the earth too, with all its fenced gardens 
 and embattled walls — all its landmarks of stern 
 property and churlish ownership — is ours too by 
 right of eye. Ours to gaze on the fair posses- 
 sions with such delight as the gaze can give ; 
 grudging to the unseen owner his other, and it 
 may be more troubled rights, as little as we 
 grudge an astral proprietor his acres of light in 
 Capricorn. Benignant is the law that saith, 
 " TIiou shall not covet." 
 
 When the sun was at the higliest, our way- 
 farers found a shadowy nook for their rest and 
 repast. Before them ran a shallow limpid trout- 
 stream ; on the otlier side its margin, low grassy 
 meadows, a farm-house at the distance, backed 
 by a still grove, from which rose a still church- 
 tower and its still spire. Behind them a close- 
 shaven sloping lawn terminated the hedgerow 
 of the lane ; seen clearly above it, with parterres 
 of flowers on the sward — drooping lilacs and 
 laburnums farther back, and a pervading fra- 
 grance from the brief-lived and rich syringas. 
 The cripple had climbed over a wooden rail that 
 separated the lane from the rill, and seated him- 
 self under the shade of a fantastic hollow thorn- 
 tree. Sophy, reclined beside him, was gather- 
 ing some pale scentless violets from a mound 
 which the brambles had guarded fi'om the sun. 
 The dog had descended to the waters to quench 
 his thirst ; but still stood knee-deep in the shal- 
 low stream, and appeared lost in philosophical 
 contemplation of a swarm of minnows which his 
 immersion had disturbed ; but which now made 
 itself again visible on the further side of the 
 glassy brook, undulating round and round a tiny 
 rocklet which interrupted the glide of the waves, 
 and caused them to break into a low melodious 
 murmur. "For these and all thy mercies, O 
 Lord, make ns thankful," said the Victim of Ill- 
 
 luck, in the tritest words of a pious custom. 
 But never, perhaps, at aldermanic feasts, was 
 the grace more sincerely said. 
 
 And then he untied the bundle, which the 
 dog, who had hitherto carried it by the way, had 
 now carefully deposited at his side. " As I live," 
 ejaculated Waife, "Mrs. Saunders is a woman 
 in ten thousand. See, Sophy, not contented 
 with the bread and cheese to which I bade her 
 stint her beneficence, a whole chicken — a little 
 cake too for you, Sophy ; she has not even for- 
 gotten the salt. Sophy, that woman deserves 
 the handsomest token of our gratitude ; and we 
 will present her with a silver tea-pot the first mo- 
 ment we can atFord it." 
 
 His spirits exhilarated by the unexpected good 
 cheer, the Comedian gave Avay to his naturally 
 blithe humor; and between every mouthful he 
 rattled or rather drolled on, now infant-like, 
 now sage-like. He cast out the rays of his lib- 
 eral humor, careless where they fell — on the 
 child — on the dog — on the fishes that jilayed 
 beneath the Avave — on the cricket that chirped 
 amidst the grass: the woodpecker tapped the 
 tree, and the cripple's merry voice answered it 
 in bird-like mimicry. To this riot of genial 
 babble there was a listener, of whom neither 
 grandfather nor grandchild was aware. Con- 
 cealed by thick brushwood a few paces fiirther 
 on, a young angler, who might be five or six 
 and twenty, had seated himself, just before the 
 arrival of our vagrant to those banks and waters, 
 for the purpose of changing an imsuccessful fly. 
 At the sound of voices, perhaps suspecting an 
 unlicensed rival — for that part of the stream 
 was pjreserved — he had suspended his task, and 
 noiselessly put aside the clustering leaves to 
 reconnoitre. The piety of Waife's simple gi-ace 
 seemed to surprise him pleasingly, for a sweet 
 approving smile crossed his lips. He continued 
 to look and to listen. He forgot the fly, and a 
 trout sailed him by unheeded. But Sir Isaac, 
 having probably satisfied his speculative mind 
 as to the natural attributes of minnows, now 
 slowly reascended the bank, and after a brief 
 halt and a snifl', walked majestically toward the 
 hidden observer, looked at him with great so- 
 lemnity, and uttered an inquisitive bark — a bark 
 not hostile, not menacing; purely and dryly in- 
 teiTOgative. Thus detected, the angler rose ; 
 and Waife, whose attention was attracted that 
 way by the bark, saw him, called to Sir Isaac, 
 and said politelv, " There is no harm in my dog, 
 Sir." 
 
 The young man muttered some inaudible reply, 
 and, lifting up his rod, as in sign of his occupa- 
 tion or excuse for his vicinity, put aside the in- 
 tervening foliage, and stepped quietly to Waife's 
 side. Sir Isaac followed him — sniffed again — 
 seemed satisfied ; and, seating himself on his 
 haunches, fixed his attention upon the remains 
 of the chicken which lay defenseless on the 
 grass. The new-comer was evidently of the 
 rank of gentleman ; his figure was slim and 
 graceful, his face pale, meditative, refined. He 
 would have impressed you at once with the idea 
 of what he really was — an Oxford scholar ; and 
 you would, perhaps, have guessed him designed 
 for the ministry of the Church, if not actually 
 in orders. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 3tr. Waife excites the admiration, and benignly pities 
 the inlirmity of an Oxford scholar. 
 
 " You are str — str — strangers ?" said the Ox- 
 onian, after a violent exertion to express him- 
 self, caused by an impediment in his speech. 
 
 Waife. "Yes, Sir, travelers. I trust we are 
 not trespassing : this is not private ground, I 
 think?" 
 
 OxoxiAX. "And if — f— f— f it were, my f— 
 f — father would not war — n — n you off — If — f." 
 "It is your father's ground then? Sir, I beg 
 vou a thousand pardons." 
 
 The apology was made in the Comedian's 
 grandest style — it imposed greatly on the young 
 scholar. Waife might have been a duke in dis- 
 guise ; but I will do the angler the justice to say 
 that such discovery of rank would have impress- 
 ed him little more in the vagrant's favor. It 
 had been that impromptu "grace" — that thanks- 
 giving which the scholar felt was for something 
 more than the carnal food — which had first 
 commanded his respect and wakened his inter- 
 est. Then that innocent, careless talk, part ut- 
 tered to dog and child — part soliloquized — part 
 thrown out to the cars of the lively teeming 
 Nature, had touched a somewhat kindred chord 
 in the angler's soul, for he was somewhat of a 
 poet and much of a soliloquist, and could confer 
 with Nature, nor feel that impediment in speech 
 which obstructed his intercourse with men. Hav- 
 ing thus far indicated that oral defect in our new 
 acquaintance, the reader will cheerfully excuse 
 me for not enforcing it overmuch. Let it be 
 among the things sttb audita, as the sense of it 
 gave to a gifted and aspiring nature, thwarted 
 in the sublime career of preacher, an exquisite 
 mournful jjain. And I no more like to raise a 
 laugh at his infirmity behind his back, than I 
 should before his pale, powerful, melancholy 
 face — therefore I suppress the infirmity in giv- 
 ing his reply. 
 
 Oxonian. " On the other side the lane where 
 the garden slopes downward is my fathers 
 house. This ground is his property certainly, 
 but he puts it to its best use, in lending it to 
 those who so piously acknowledge that Father 
 from whom all good comes. Your child, I pre- 
 sume, Sir?" 
 
 "My grandchild." 
 
 " She seems delicate ; I hope you have not 
 far to go?" 
 
 " Not veiy far, thank you, Sir. But my little 
 girl looks more delicate than she is. You are 
 not tired, darling?" 
 
 "Oh, not at all!" There was no mistaking 
 the looks of real love intei'changed between the 
 old man and the child : the scholar felt much 
 interested and somewhat puzzled. "Who and 
 what could tiicy be? so unlike foot wayfarers !" 
 On the other hand, too, Waife took a liking to 
 the courteous young man, and conceived a sin- 
 cere pity for his piiysical affliction. But he did 
 not for those reasons depart from the discreet 
 caution he had prescribed to himself in seeking 
 new fortunes and shunning old jierils, so he 
 turned the subject. 
 
 " You are an angler. Sir ? I suppose the trout 
 in this stream run small." 
 
 "Not very — a little higher up I have caught 
 them at four pounds weight." 
 
 Waife. " There goes a fine fish yonder — see ! 
 balancing himself between those weeds." 
 
 Oxonian. "Poor fellow, let him be safe to- 
 day. After all, it is a cruel sport, and I should 
 break myself of it. But it is strange that what- 
 ever our love for Nature, we always seek some 
 excuse for tnisting ourselves alone to her. A 
 gun — a rod — a sketch-book — a geologist's ham- 
 mer — an entomologist's net — something." 
 
 AVaife. " Is it not because all our ideas would 
 run wild if not concentrated on a definite pur- 
 suit? Fortune and Nature are earnest females, 
 though popular beauties; and they do not look 
 upon coquettish trificrs in the light of genuine 
 wooers." 
 
 The Oxonian who, in venting his previous re- 
 mark, had thought it likely he should be above 
 his listener's comprehension, looked surjiriscd. 
 What pursuits, too, had this one-eyed pliiloso- 
 pher ! 
 
 "You have a definite pursuit, Sir?" 
 
 "I — alas — when a man moralizes, it is a sign 
 that he has known eiTor: it is because I have 
 been a trifler that I rail against triflers. And 
 talking of that, time flies, and we must be oft' 
 and away." 
 
 Sophy rctied the bundle. Sir Isaac, on whom, 
 meanwhile, she had bestowed the remains of 
 the chicken, jumped up and described a circle, 
 
 " I wish you success in your pursuit, whatever 
 it be," stuttered out the angler. 
 
 " And I no less heartily. Sir, wish you success 
 in yours." 
 
 " jNIine ! Success there is beyond my power." 
 
 "How, Sir? Does it rest so much with 
 others?" 
 
 "No, my failure is in myself. My career 
 should be the Church, my pursuit the cure of 
 souls, and — and — this pitiful infirmity ! How 
 can I speak the Divine Word — I — I — a stutter- 
 er!" 
 
 The young man did not pause for an answer, 
 but plunged through the brushwood that be- 
 spread the banks of the rill, and his hurried 
 path could be traced by the wave of the foliage 
 through which he forced his way. 
 
 " We all have our burdens," said Gentleman 
 Waife, as Sir Isaac took up the bundle, and 
 stalked on, placid and refreshed. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The Notnad, entering into civilized life, adopts its arts, 
 fhaves his poodle, and puts on a black coat. Hints at 
 the process by which a Cast-off exalts himself into a 
 Take-in. 
 
 At twilight they stopped at a quiet inn within 
 eight miles of Gatesboro'. Sophy, much tired, 
 was glad to creep to bed. Waife sat up long 
 after her ; and, in preparation for the eventful 
 moiTow, washed and shaved Sir Isaac. You 
 would not have known the dog again ; he was 
 dazzling. Not Ulysses, rejuvenated by Pallas 
 Atliene, could have been more changed for the 
 better. His flanks revealed a skin most daintily 
 mottled; his tail became leonine with an impe- 
 rial tuft ; his mane fell in long curls, like the 
 beard of a Ninevite king ; his boots were those 
 of a courtier in the reign of Charles II. ; his 
 eyes looked forth in dark splendor from locks 
 white as the driven snow. This feat performed. 
 
64 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Waife slept the peace of the righteous, and Sir 
 Isaac stretched on the floor beside the bed, 
 licked his mottled flanks and shivered — '■'■Ilfaiit 
 soitffrlr })our itrc beau." Much marveling, So- 
 phy the next morn beheld the dog ; but before 
 she was up Waife had paid the bill and was 
 waiting for her on the road, impatient to start. 
 He did not heed her exclamations, half compas- 
 sionate, half admiring ; he was absorbed in 
 thought. Thus they proceeded slowly on till 
 within two miles of the town, and then Waife 
 turned aside, entered a wood, and there, with 
 the aid of Sophy, put the dog upon a deliberate 
 rehearsal of the anticipated drama. The dog 
 was not in good spirits, but he went through his 
 part with mechanical accuracy, though slight en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 " He is to be relied npon, in spite of his 
 French origin," said Waife. " All national 
 prejudice fades before the sense of a common 
 interest. And we shall always find more gen- 
 eral solidity of character in a French poodle 
 than in an English mastiff, whenever a poodle 
 is of use to us, and a mastiff is not. But oh, 
 waste of care! oh sacrifice of time to empty 
 names I oh emblem of fashionable education ! 
 It never struck me before — does it not, child 
 though thou art, strike thee now — by the ne- 
 cessities of our drama, this animal must be a 
 French dog?" 
 
 "Well, grandfather?" 
 
 "And we have given hiiji an English name ! 
 Precious result of our own scholastic training ; 
 taught at preparatory academics jn-ecisely that 
 which avails us naught when we are to face the 
 world ! What is to be done ? Unlearn him his 
 own cognomen — teach him another name ; too 
 late, too late! We can not afford the delay." 
 
 "I don't see why he should be called any 
 name at all. He observes your signs just as 
 well without." 
 
 "If I had but discovered that at the begin- 
 ning. Pity ! Such a fine name, too ! Sir Isaac ! 
 Vaititas, ranitatum I What desire chiefly kindles 
 the ambitious ? To create a name — perhaps be- 
 queath a title — exalt into Sir Isaacs a progeny 
 of Mops ! And after all, it is possible (let us 
 lu)pe it in this instance) that a sensible young 
 dog may learn his letters and shoulder his mus- 
 ket just as well though all the appellations by 
 which humanity knows him be condensed into 
 a pitiful monosyllable. Nevertheless (as you 
 will find when you are older), people are obliged 
 in practice to renounce for themselves the ap- 
 plication of those rules which they philosophic- 
 ally prescribe for others. Thus, while I grant 
 that a change of name for that dog is a question 
 belonging to the policy of Ifs and Puts, common- 
 ly called tlie policy of Expediency, about which 
 one may difter with others and one's own self 
 every quarter of an hour — a change of name for 
 me belongs to the policy of Must and Shall, 
 viz., the policy of Necessity, against which let 
 no dog bark, though I have known dogs howl at 
 it ! William Waife is no more ; he is dead — 
 he is buried ; and even Juliet Aramiuta is the 
 baseless fabric of a vision." 
 
 Sophy raised inquiringly her blue, guileless 
 eyes. 
 
 " You see before you a man who has used up 
 the name of Waife, and who, on entering the ! 
 town of Gatesboro', becomes a sober, staid, and I 
 
 respectable personage, under the appellation of 
 Chapman. You are Miss Chapman. Rugpe and 
 his exhibition 'leave not a wrack behind.' " 
 
 Sophy smiled and then sighed — the smile for 
 her grandfather's gay spirits ; wherefore the 
 sigh ? Was it that some instinct in that fresh, 
 loyal nature revolted from the tliought of these 
 aliases, which, if requisite for safety, were still 
 akin to imposture. If so, poor child, she had 
 much yet to set right with her conscience ! All 
 I can say is, that after she had smiled she sighed. 
 And more reasonably might a reader ask his au- 
 thor to subject a zephyr to the microscope than 
 a female's sigh to analysis. 
 
 " Take the dog with you, my dear, back into 
 the lane ; I will join you in a few minutes. You 
 are neatly dressed, and if not, would look so. I, 
 in this old coat, have the air of a peddler, so I will 
 change it, and enter the town of Gatesboro' in 
 the character of — a man whom you will soon see 
 before you. Leave those things alone, de-Isaac- 
 ized Sir Isaac ! Follow your mistress — go " 
 
 Sophy left the wood, and walked on slowly 
 toward the town, with her hand pensively rest- 
 ing on Sir Isaac's head. In less than ten min- 
 utes she was joined by Waife, attired in respect- 
 able black ; his hat and shoes well brushed ; a 
 new green shade to his eye ; and with his finest 
 air oi Pere Noble. He was now in his favorite 
 element. He avas acting — call it not impos- 
 ture. Was Lord Chatham an impostor when he 
 draped his flannels into the folds of the toga, and 
 arrayed the curls of his wig so as to add more 
 sublime efi'ect to the majesty of his brow and 
 the terrors of its nod? And certainly, consid- 
 ering that Waife, after all, was but a ])rofessional 
 vagabond — considering all the turns and shifts to 
 which he has been put for bread and salt — the 
 wonder is, not that he is full of stage tricks and 
 small deceptions, but that he has contrived to 
 retain at heart so much childish simplicity. 
 When a man for a series of years has only had 
 his wits to live by, I say not that he is neces- 
 sarily a I'ogue — he may be a good fellow; but 
 you can scarcely expect his code of honor to 
 be precisely the same as Sir Philip Sidney's. 
 Homer expresses, through the lii>s of Achilles, 
 that sublime love of truth, which, even in those 
 remote times, was the becoming characteristic of 
 a gentleman and a soldier. But, then, Achilles 
 is well oft' during his whole life, which, though 
 distinguished, is short. On the other hand, 
 Ulysses, who is sorely put to it, kept out of his 
 property in Ithaca, and, in short, living on his 
 wits, is not the less befriended by the immacu- 
 late Pallas, because his wisdom savors somewhat 
 of stage trick and sharp practice. And as to 
 convenient aliases and white fibs, where would 
 have been the use of his wits, if Ulysses had 
 disdained such arts, and been magnanimously 
 munched up by Polyphemus ? Having thus 
 touched on the epic side of ilr. Waife's char- 
 acter with the clemency due to human nature, 
 but with the caution required by the interests 
 of society, permit him to resume a " duplex 
 course," sanctioned by ancient precedent, but 
 not commended to modern imitation. Just as 
 our travelers neared the town, the screech of a 
 railway whistle resounded toward their right — 
 a long train rushed from the jaws of a tunnel, 
 and shot into the neighboring station. 
 
 " How lucky I" exclaimed Waife ; " make 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 65 
 
 haste, my dear!" Was he going to take the 
 train? Pshaw! he was at his journey's end. 
 lie was going to mix with the^hrong that would 
 soon stream through those white gates into the 
 town ; he was going to purloin the respectable 
 appearance of a passenger by the train. And 
 so well did he act the part of a bewildered 
 stranger just vomited forth into unfamiliar 
 places by one of those panting steam monsters, 
 so artfully amidst the busy competition of nudg- 
 ing elbows, overbearing shoulders, and the im- 
 pedimenta of carpet-bags, portmanteaus, babies 
 in arms, and shin-assailing trucks, did he look 
 round consequentially on the qiii vive, turning 
 his one eye now on Sophy, now on Sir Isaac, 
 and griping his bundle to his breast as if he 
 suspected all his neighbors to be Thugs, condot- 
 tieri, and swell-mob, that in an instant fly-men, 
 omnibus-drivers, cads, and porters, marked him 
 for their own. "Gatesboro' Arms," "Spread 
 Eagle," " Royal Hotel," " Saracen's Head," — 
 very comfortable, centre of High Street, oppo- 
 site the "Town Hall," — were shouted, bawled, 
 wMspered, or whined into his ear. "/s there 
 an honest porter?" asked the Comedian, pite- 
 ously. An Irishman presented himself. " And 
 is it meself can ser\e your honor?" — "Take 
 this bundle, and walk on before me to the High 
 Street." — "Could not I take the bundle, grand- 
 father? The man will charge so much," said 
 the prudent Sophy. "Hush I you indeed I" 
 said the Phe Aoble, as if addressing an exiled 
 Altesse royale — "you take a bundle — Miss — 
 Chapman I" 
 
 They soon gained the High Street. Waife 
 examined the fronts of the various inns which 
 they passed by, with an eye accustomed to de- 
 cipher the physiognomy of hostehies. " The 
 Saracen's Head" pleased him, though its impos- 
 ing size daunted Sophy. He arrested the steps 
 of the porter, "Follow me close," and stepped 
 across the open threshold into the bar. The 
 landlady herself was there, portly and impos- 
 ing, with an auburn tovpet, a silk gown, a cameo 
 brooch, and an ample bosom. 
 
 " You have a private sitting-room, ma'am ?" 
 said the Comedian, lifting his hat. There are 
 so many ways of lifting a hat — for instance, the 
 way for which Louis XIY. was so renowned. 
 But the Comedian's way on the present occasion 
 rather resembled that of the late Duke of Beau- 
 fort — not quite royal, but as near to royalty as 
 becomes a subject. He added, re-covering his 
 head — " And on the first floor ?" The landlady 
 did not courtesy, but she bowed, emerged from 
 the bar, and set foot on the broad stairs ; then, 
 looking back graciously, her eyes rested on Sir 
 Isaac, who had stalked forth in advance, and 
 with expansive nostrils sniffed. She hesitated. 
 " Your dog, Sir ! shall boots take it round to the 
 stables?" 
 
 "The stables, ma'am — the stables, my dear," 
 turning to Sophy, with a smile more ducal than 
 the previous bow ; " what would they sav at 
 home if they heard that noble animal was con- 
 signed to — stables ? Ma'am, my dog is my com- 
 panion, and as much accustomed to drawing- 
 rooms as I am myself." Still the landlady 
 paused. The dog might be accustomed to draw- 
 ing-rooms, but her drawing-room was not accus- 
 tomed to dogs. She had just laid down a new 
 carpet. And such are the strange and erratic 
 E 
 
 affinities in nature — such are the incongmoos 
 concatenations in the cross-stitch of ideas, that 
 there are associations between dogs and carpets, 
 which, if wrongful to the owners of dogs, beget 
 no unreasonable apprehensions in the proprie- 
 tors of carpets. So there stood the landlady, 
 and there stood the dog ! and there they might 
 be standing to this day had not the Co'median 
 dissolved the spell. "Take up my eflfccts again," 
 said he, turning to the porter ; " doubtless they 
 are more habituated to distinguish between dog 
 and dog at the Boyal Hotel." 
 ^ The landlady was mollified in a moment. 
 Nor was it only the rivalries that necessarily 
 existed between the Saracen's Head and the 
 Royal Hotel that had due weight with her. A 
 gentleman who could not himself deign to car- 
 r}- even that small bundle, must be indeed a 
 gentleman l Had he come with a portmanteau 
 — even with a carpet-bag — the porter's senice 
 would have been no evidence of rank, but, ac- 
 customed as she was chiefly to gentlemen en- 
 gaged in commercial pursuits, it was new to her 
 experience a gentleman with effects so light and 
 hands so aristocratically helpless. Herein were 
 equally betokened the two attributes of birth and 
 wealth — viz., the habit of command, and the 
 disdain of shillings. A vague remembrance of 
 the well-known stoiy how a man and his dog 
 had an-ived at the Granby Hotel, at HaiTogate, 
 and been sent away roomless to the other and 
 less patrician establishment, because, wliile he 
 had a dog, he had not a senant ; when, five 
 minutes after such dismissal, came can-iages 
 and lackeys, and an imperious valet, asking for 
 
 his grace the Duke of A , who had walked 
 
 on before with his dog, and who, oh evei'lasting 
 thought of remorse ! had been sent away to 
 bring the other establishment into fashion*! — a 
 vague reminiscence of that stor\-, I say, flashed 
 upon the landlady's mind, and she exclaimed, 
 " I only thought, Sir, you might prefer the sta- 
 bles; of coui-se, it is as you please — this way, 
 Sir. He is a fine animal, indeed, and seems 
 mild." 
 
 "You may bring up the bundle, porter," quoth 
 the J^ere Noble. " Take my arm, my dear ; 
 these steps are very steep." 
 
 The landlady threw open the door of a hand- 
 some sitting-room — her best : she pulled down 
 the blinds to shut out the glare of the sun, then, 
 retreating to the threshold, awaited further or- 
 ders. 
 
 "Rest yourself, my dear," said the Actor, 
 placing Sophy on a couch with that tender re- 
 spect for sex and childhood which so especially 
 belongs to the high-bred. '• The room will do, 
 ma'am. I will let you know later whether we 
 shall require beds. As to dinner, I am not par- 
 ticular — a cutlet — a chicken — what you ]Jeasc 
 — at seven o'clock. Stay, I beg your pardon for 
 detaining you ; but •where does the JNIayor live ?" 
 
 "His private residence is a mile out of the 
 town ; but his counting-house is just above the 
 Town Hal! — to the right. Sir I" 
 
 "Name?" 
 
 "Mr. HartoppI" 
 
 " Hartopp 1 Ah ! to be sure, Ilartopp. His po- 
 litical opinions, I think are (ventures at a guess) 
 enlightened I"' 
 
 Landlady. "Very much so, Sir. Mr. Har- 
 topp is highly respected." 
 
66 
 
 WHAT WELL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 Waife. "The chief municipal officer of a 
 town so thriving — fine shops and much plate- 
 glass— must march with the times. I think I 
 have heard that Mr. Hartopp promotes the 
 spread of intelligence and the propagation of 
 knowledge." 
 
 Landlady (rather puzzled). "I dare say, 
 Sir. The Mayor takes great interest in the 
 Gatesboro' Athenreum and Literary Institute." 
 
 Waife. "Exactly what I should have pre- 
 sumed from his character and station. I will 
 detain you no longer, ma'am" (Duke of Beau- 
 fort bow). The landlady descended the stairs. 
 Was her guest a candidate for the representa- 
 tion of the town at the next election ? March 
 with the times — spread of inteUigence! All 
 candidates she ever knew had that way of ex- 
 pressing themselves — "March" and "Spread." 
 Not an address had parliamentary aspirant put 
 forth to the freemen and electors of Gatesboro', 
 but what "March" had been introduced by the 
 candidate, and " Spread" been siiggested by the 
 committee. Still she thought that her guest, 
 upon the whole, looked and bowed more like 
 a member of the Upper House. Perhaps one 
 of the amiable though occasionally prosy peers 
 who devote the teeth of wisdom to the cracking 
 of those very hard nuts — " How to educate the 
 masses," "What to do with our criminals," and 
 such like problems, upon which already have 
 been broken so many jawbones tough as that 
 with which Samson slew the Philistines. 
 
 " Oh, grandfather," sighed Sophy, "what are 
 you about? We shall be ruined — you too, who 
 are so careful not to get into debt. And what 
 have we left to pay the people here ?" 
 
 " Sir Isaac ! and this !" returned the Come- 
 dian, touching his forehead. " Do not alarm 
 yourself — stay here and repose — and don't let 
 Sir Isaac out of the room on any account !" 
 
 He took off his hat, brushed the nap carefully 
 with his sleeve, replaced it on his head — not 
 jauntily aside — not like a jetine pretnier, hnt 
 with equilateral brims, and in composed fashion, 
 like a pcre noble — then, making a sign to Sir 
 Isaac to rest quiet, he passed to the door ; there 
 he halted, and turning toward Sophy, and meet- 
 ing her wistful eyes, his own eye moistened. 
 "Ah!" he murmured, "Heaven grant I may 
 succeed now, for if I do, then you shall indeed 
 be a little lady !" 
 
 He was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Showing witli what success Gentleman Waife assumes 
 the pleasing part of Friend to the Enlightenment of 
 the Age and the Progress of the People. 
 
 On the landing-place Waife encountered the 
 Irish porter, who, having left the bundle in the 
 drawing-room, was waiting patiently to be paid 
 for his trouble. 
 
 The Comedian surveyed the good-humored, 
 shrewd face, on every line of which was writ 
 the golden maxim, " Take things asy." " I beg 
 your pardon, my friend ; I had almost forgot- 
 ten you. Have you been long in this town?" 
 "Four years — and long life to your honor!" 
 "Do you know Mr. Hartopp, the ]\Layor?" 
 "Is it his worship the Mayor? Sure and it 
 
 is the Mayor as has made a man o' Mike Cal- 
 laghan." 
 
 The Comedian Evinced urbane curiosity to 
 learn the history of that process, and drew forth 
 a grateful tale. Four summers ago Mike had 
 resigned the " first gem of the sea" in order to 
 assist in making hay for a Saxon taskmakcr. 
 Mr. Hartopp, who farmed largely, had employ- 
 ed him in that rural occupation. Seized by a 
 malignant fever, Mr. Hartopp had helped him 
 through it, and naturally conceived a liking for 
 the man he helped. Thus, as Mike became 
 convalescerjt, instead of passing the poor man 
 back to his own country, which at that time 
 gave little em]jloyment to the surplus of its 
 agrarian population beyond an occasional shot 
 at a parson, an employment, though animated, 
 not lucrative, exercised Mike's returningstrength 
 upon a few light jobs in his warehouse ; and, 
 finally, Mike marrying imprudently the daugh- 
 ter of a Gatesboro' operative, Mr. Hartopp set 
 him up in life as a professional messenger and 
 porter, patronized by the corporation. The nar- 
 rative made it evident that IMr. Hartopp was a 
 kind and worthy man, and the Comedian's heart 
 warmed toward him. 
 
 " An honor to our species, this Mr. Hartopp !" 
 said Waife, striking his staff upon the floor; " I 
 covet his acquaintance. Would he see you if 
 you called at his counting-house ?" 
 
 Mike replied in the atfirmative, with eager 
 
 I pride, " i\Ir. Hartopp would see I'.im at once. 
 
 Sure, did not the Mayor know that time was 
 
 money? Mr. Hartopp was not a man to keep 
 
 the poor waiting." 
 
 "Go down and stay outside the hall door; 
 you shall take a note for me to the Mayor." 
 
 Waife then passed into the bar, and begged 
 the favor of a sheet of note-paper. The land- 
 lady seated him at her own desk, and thus ^vrote 
 the Comedian : 
 
 " Mr. Chapman presents his compliments to 
 the Mayor of Gatesboro', and requests the hon- 
 or of a vei-y short interview, ftlr. Chapman's 
 deep interest in the permanent success of those 
 literary institutes which are so distinguished a 
 feature of this enlightened age, and Mr. May- 
 or's well-known zeal in the promotion of those 
 invaluable societies, must be Mr. Chapman's ex- 
 cuse for the liberty he ventures to take in this 
 request. Mr. C. may add that of late he has 
 earnestly directed his attention to the best means 
 of extracting new uses from those noble but un- 
 developed institutions. — Saracen's Head, etc." 
 
 This epistle, duly sealed and addressed, Waife 
 delivered to the care of jMike Callaghan — and 
 simultaneously he astounded that functionary 
 with no less a gratuity than half a crown. Cut- 
 ting short the fervent blessings which this gen- 
 erous donation naturally called forth, the Co- 
 median said, with his happiest combination of 
 suavity and loftiness, " And should the Mayor 
 ask you what sort of person I am — for I have 
 not the honor to be known to him, and there 
 are so many adventurers about, that he might 
 reasonably expect me to be one — perhaps you' 
 can say that I don't look like a person he need 
 be afraid to admit. You know a gentleman by 
 sight ! Bring back an answer as soon as may 
 be ; perhaps I shan't stay long in the town. You 
 will find me in the High Street, looking at the 
 shops." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 67 
 
 The porter took to his legs — impatient to vent 
 his overflowing heart upon the praises of this 
 munificent stranger. A gentleman, indeed — 
 jMike should think so. If Mike's good word 
 with the Mayor was worth money, Gentleman 
 Waife had put his half-crown out upon famous 
 interest. 
 
 The Comedian strolled along the High Street, 
 and stopped before a stationer's shop, at the win- 
 dow of which was displayed a bill, entitled, 
 
 GATESBOEO' ATIIEXiECJI AND LITEKAEY 
 INSTITLTK. 
 
 LECTLTiE OX COXCHOLOGY, 
 By Professor Losg, 
 
 Author of " Kesearclies into the Natural History of 
 Limpets." 
 
 Waife entered the shop, and lifted his hat — | 
 •'Permit me, Sir, to look at that hand-bill." j 
 " Certainly, Sir ; but the lecture is over — you 
 can see by the date ; it came oft' last week. We | 
 allow the bills of previous proceedings at our 
 AtheniEum to be exposed at the window till the ', 
 new bills are prepared — keeps the whole thing , 
 a\ive. Sir." i 
 
 " Conchology," said the Comedian, " is a sub- I 
 ject which requires deep research, and on which ' 
 a learned man may say much without fear of i 
 contradiction. But how far is Gatesboro' from 
 the British Ocean ?" 
 
 "I don't know exactly. Sir — a long way." 
 " Then, as shells are not familiar to the youth- 
 ful remembrances of your fellow-townsmen, pos- 
 sibly the lecturer may have found an audience 
 rather select than numerous." 
 
 " It was a very attentive audience. Sir — and 
 highly respectabie — ^liss Grieve's young ladies 
 (the genteelest seminary in tlie town) attended." 
 Waife. "Highly creditable to the young la- 
 dies. But, pardon me, is your Athenaum a 
 Mechanics' Institute?" 
 
 Shopman'. "It was so called at first. But, 
 somehow or other, the mere operatives fell oft", 
 and it was thought advisable to change the word 
 'Mechanics' into the word 'Literary.' Gates- 
 boro' is not a manufacturing town, and the 
 mechanics here do not realize the expectations 
 of that taste for abstract science on which the 
 originators of these societies founded their — " 
 
 Waife (insinuatingly interrupting). " Their 
 calculations of intellectual progress and their 
 tables of pecuniary return. Few of these soci- 
 eties, I am told, are really self-supporting — I 
 suppose Professor Long is! — and if he resides 
 in Gatesboro', and writes on limpets, he is prob- 
 ably a man of independent fortune." 
 
 Shopman. " Why, Sir, the Professor ■was en- 
 gaged from London — five guineas and his trav- 
 eling expenses. The funds of the society could 
 ill artbrd such outlay ; but we have a most wor- 
 thy Mavor, who, assisted by his foreman, Mr. 
 Williams, our treasurer, is, I may say, the life 
 and soul of the institute." 
 
 "A literary man himself, your Mayor?" 
 The shopman smiled. "Not much in that 
 wav. Sir ; but any thing to enlighten the work- 
 ing classes. This is Professor Long's great work 
 upon limpets, 2 vols, post octavo. The Mayor has 
 just presented it to the library of the Institute. I 
 was cutting the leaves when you came in." 
 "Very prudent in you, Sir. If limpets were 
 
 but able to read printed character in the En- 
 glish tongue, this work would have more inter- 
 est for them than the ablest investigations upon 
 the political and social condition of man. But," 
 added the Comedian, shaking his head mourn- 
 fully, " the human species is not testaceous — 
 and what the history of man might be to a lim- 
 pet, the history of limpets is to a man." So say- 
 ing, Mr. Waife bought a sheet of card-board and 
 some gilt-foil, relifted his hat, and walked out. 
 The shopman scratched his head thoughtful- 
 ly; he glanced from his window at the form of 
 the receding stranger, and mechanically re- 
 sumed the task of cutting those leaves, which, 
 had the volumes reached the shelves of the li- 
 brary uncut, would have so remained to the 
 crack of doom. 
 
 Mike Callaghan now came in sight, striding 
 fast. " Mr. Mayor sends his love — bother-o"- 
 me — his respex ; and will be happy to see your 
 honor." 
 
 In three minutes more the Comedian was 
 seated in a little ])arlor that adjoined Mr. Har- 
 topp's counting-house — Mr. Hartopp seated also, 
 vis-d-vis. The Maj'or had one of those coun- 
 tenances upon which good-nature throws a sun- 
 shine softer than Claude ever shed upon can- 
 vas. Josiah Hartopp had risen in life by little 
 other art than that of quiet kindliness. As a 
 boy at school, he had been ever ready to do a 
 good turn to his school-fellows ; and his school- 
 fellows at last formed themselves into a kind of 
 police, for the purpose of protecting Jos. Har- 
 topp's pence and person from the fists and fin- 
 gers of each other. He was evidently so anx- 
 ious to please his master, not from fear of the 
 rod, but the desire to spare that worthy man the 
 pain of inflicting it, that he had more trouble 
 taken with his education than was bestowed on 
 the brightest intellect that school ever reared; 
 and where other boys were roughly flogged, Jos. 
 Hartopp was soothingly patted on the head, and 
 told not to be cast down, but try again. The 
 same even-handed justice returned the sugared 
 chalice to his lips in his apprenticeship to an 
 austere leather-seller, who, not bearing the 
 thought to lose sight of so mild a face, raised 
 him into partnership, and ultimately made him 
 his son-in-law and residuary legatee. Then Mr. 
 Hartopp yielded to the advice of friends who de- 
 sired his exaltation, and from a leather-seller 
 became a tanner. Hides themselves softened 
 their asperity to that gentle dealer, and melted 
 into golden fleeces. He became rich enough to 
 hire a farm for health and recreation. He knew 
 little of husbandry, but he won the heart of a 
 I bailift' who might have reared a turni]) from a 
 deal table. Gradually the farm became his fee- 
 ' simple, and the farm-house expanded into a villa. 
 Wealth and honors flowed in from a brimmed 
 horn. The surliest man in the town would have 
 been ashamed of saying a rude tiling to Jos. 
 Hartopp. If he spoke in public, though he 
 hummed and hawed lamentably, no one was so 
 respectfully listened to. As for the parliament- 
 ary representation of the town he could have re- 
 ! turned himself for one seat and Mike Callaghan 
 for the other, had he been so disposed. But he 
 was too full of the milk of humanity to admit 
 into his veins a drop from the gall of party. He 
 suffered others to legislate for his native land, 
 and (except on one occasion, when he had been 
 
68 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 persuaded to assist in canvassing not indeed the 
 electors of Gatesboro' but those of a distant 
 town in which he possessed some influence, on 
 behalf of a certain eminent orator), Jos. Har- 
 topp was only visible in politics whenever Par- 
 liament was "to be petitioned in favor of some 
 humane measure, or against a tax that would 
 have harassed the poor. 
 
 If any thing went wrong with him in his busi- 
 ness, the whole town combined to set it right 
 for him. Was a child born to him, Gatesboro' 
 rejoiced as a mother. Did measles or scarlatina 
 afflict his neighborhood, the first anxiety of 
 Gatesboro' was for Mr. Hartopp's nursery. No 
 one would have said Mrs. Hartopp's nursery; 
 and when in such a department the man's name 
 supersedes the woman's, can more be said in 
 proof of the tenderness he excites ? In short, 
 Jos. Hartopp was a notable instance of a truth 
 not commonly recognized, viz., that aflection is 
 })0wer, and that, if you do make it thoroughly 
 and unequivocally clear that you love your neigh- 
 bors, though it may not be quite so well as you 
 love yourself — still, cordially and disinterestedly, 
 vou will find your neighbors much better fellows 
 "than Mrs. Grundy gives them credit for — but 
 always provided that your talents be not such as 
 to excite their envy, nor your opinions such as 
 to offend their prejudices. 
 
 Mr. Hartopp. "You take an interest, you 
 say, in literary iustitutes, and have studied the 
 subject?"' 
 
 The Comediax. "Of late, those institutes 
 liave occupied my thoughts as presenting the 
 readiest means of collecting liberal ideas into a 
 profitable focus." 
 
 Mr. Hartopp. " Certainly it is a great thing 
 to bring classes together in friendly union." 
 The Comedian-. "For laudable objects." 
 Mr. Hartopp. "To cultivate their under- 
 standings." 
 
 The Comedian. " To warm their hearts." 
 Mr. Hartopp. "To give them useful knowl- 
 edge." 
 
 The Comedian. "And pleasurable sensa- 
 tions." 
 
 Mr. Hartopp. " In a word, to instruct them." 
 The Comedian. "And to amuse." 
 " Eh I" said the Mayor — " amuse !" 
 Now, every one about the person of this ami- 
 able man was on the constant guard to save him 
 from the injurious effects of his own benevo- 
 lence ; and accordingly his foreman, hearing 
 that he was closeted with a stranger, took alarm, 
 and entered on pretense of asking instructions 
 about an order for hides — in reality, to glower 
 upon the intruder, and keep his master's hands 
 out of imprudent pockets. 
 
 Mr. Hartopp, who, though not brilliant, did 
 not want for sense, and was a keener observer 
 than was generally supposed, divined the kindly 
 intentions of his assistant. "A gentleman in- 
 terested in the Gatesboro' Athenajum. My fore- 
 man, Sir — ilr. Williams, the treasurer of our 
 Institute. Take a chair, Williams." 
 
 "You said to amuse, Mr. Chapman, but — " 
 "You did not find Professor Long on con- 
 chology amusing?" 
 
 "Why," said the Mayor, smiling blandly, "I 
 myself am not a man of science, and therefore 
 his lecture though profound, was a little dry to 
 me." 
 
 " Must it not have been still more dry to your 
 workmen, ]\Ir. Mayor?" 
 
 " They did not attend," said WilUams. " Up- 
 hill task Me have to secure the Gatesboro' me- 
 chanics, when any thing really solid is to be ad- 
 dressed to their understandings." 
 
 "Poor things, they are so tired at night," said 
 the Mayor, compassionately ; "but they wish to 
 improve themselves, and they take books from 
 the library." 
 
 " Novels," quoth the stern Williams — " it will 
 be long before they take out that valuable ' His- 
 tory of Limpets.' " 
 
 " If a lecture was as amusing as a novel, 
 would not they attend it?" asked the Come- 
 dian. 
 
 "I suppose they would," returned Mr. Will- 
 iams. "But our object is to instruct; and in- 
 struction. Sir — " 
 
 " Could be made amusing. If, for instance, 
 the lecturer could produce a live shell-fish, and 
 by showing what kindness can do toward devel- 
 oping intellect and aflection in beings without 
 soul, make man himself more kind to his fellow- 
 man ?" 
 
 Mr. Williams laughed grimly. "Well, Sir." 
 
 "This is what I should propose to do." 
 
 " With a shell-fish I" cried the Mayor. 
 
 " No, Sir ; with a creature of nobler attributes 
 A DOG I" 
 
 The listeners stared at each other like dumb 
 animals as Waife continued : 
 
 " By winning interest for the individuality of 
 a gifted quadruped, I should gradually create 
 interest in the natural histon.- of its species. I 
 should lead the audience on to listen to compar- 
 isons with other members of the great family 
 which once associated with Adam. I should 
 lay the foundation for an instructive course of 
 natural history, and from vertebrated mammi- 
 fers who knows but we might gradually arrive 
 at the nervous system of the molluscous division, 
 and produce a sensation by the production of a 
 limpet I" 
 
 "Theoretical," said Mr. Williams. 
 
 " Practical, Sir ; since I take it for granted 
 that the Athenceum, at present, is rather a tax 
 upon the richer subscribers, including Mr. May- 
 or." 
 
 " Nothing to speak of," said the mild Hartopp. 
 Williams looked toward his master with un- 
 speakable love, and groaned. " Nothing indeed 
 —oh !" 
 
 "These societies should be wholly self-sup- 
 porting," said the Comedian, " and inflict no pe- 
 cuniary loss upon ilr. [Mayor." 
 
 " Certainly," said Williams, " that is the right 
 principle. Sir. ]\Ii-.yor should be protected." 
 
 " And if I show you how to make these soci- 
 eties self-supporting — " 
 
 " We should be very much obliged to you." 
 
 " I propose, then, to give an exhibition at your 
 rooms." 
 
 Mr. Williams nudged the Mayor, and coughed, 
 the Comedian not appearing to remark cough 
 or nudge. 
 
 " Of course gratuitously. I am not a profes- 
 sional lecturer, gentlemen." 
 
 Mr. Williams looked charmed to hear it. 
 
 " And when I have made my first effort suc- 
 cessful, as I feel sure it will be, I will leave it to 
 you, gentlemen, to continue my undertaking. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WTTK IT ? 
 
 69 
 
 But I can not stay long here. If the day after 
 to-morrow — " 
 
 "That is our ordinary soirie night," said the 
 Mavor. "But you said a dog, Sir — dogs not 
 admitted — Eh, Williams ?" 
 
 Mr. Williams. '"A mere by-law, which the 
 sub-committee can suspend if necessary. But 
 would not the introduction of a live animal be 
 less dignified than — " 
 
 " A dead failure," put in the Comedian, grave- 
 ly. The Mayor would have smiled, but he was 
 afraid of doing so lest it might hurt the feelings 
 of Mr. Williams, who did not seem to take the 
 joke. 
 
 "We are a purely intellectual body," said 
 that latter gentleman, " and a dog — " 
 
 "A learned dog, I presume?" observed the 
 Mayor. 
 
 Mr. Williams (nodding). "Might form a dan- 
 gerous precedent for the introduction of other 
 quadrupeds. We might thus descend even to 
 the level of a learned pig. We are not a men- 
 agerie, i\Ir. — Mr. — " 
 
 "Chapman," said the Mayor, urbanely. 
 " Enough," said the Comedian, rising, with 
 his gi-and air : " if I considered myself at liberty, 
 gentlemen, to say who and what I am, you would 
 be sure that I am not trifling with what /con- 
 sider a very grave and important subject. As to 
 suggesting any thing derogatory to the dignity 
 of science, and the eminent repute of the Gates- 
 boro' Athena?um, it would be idle to vindicate 
 myself. These gray hairs are — " 
 
 He did not conclude that sentence, save by a 
 slight wave of the hand. The two burgesses 
 bowed reverentially, and the Comedian went 
 on: 
 
 " But when you speak of precedent, Mr. Will- 
 iams, allow me to refer you to precedents in 
 point. Aristotle wrote to Alexander the Great 
 for animals to exhibit to the Literary Institute 
 of Athens. At the colleges in Egypt lectures 
 were delivered on a dog called Anubis, as in- 
 ferior, I boldly assert, to that dog which I have 
 referred to, as an Egyptian College to a British 
 Institute. The ancient Etrurians, as is shown 
 by the erudite Schweighaeuser, in that passage 
 — you understand Greek, I presume, Mr. Will- 
 iams?" 
 
 Mr. Williams could not say he did. 
 The Comedian. "Then I will not quote that 
 passage in Schweighteuser upon the Molossian 
 dogs in general, and the dog of Alcibiades in 
 particular. But it proves beyond a doubt that, 
 in every ancient literary institute, learned dogs 
 were highly estimated ; and there was even a 
 philosophical academy called the Cynic — that 
 is, Doggish, or Dog-school, of which Diogenes 
 was the most eminent professor. He, you know, 
 went about with a lantern looking for an honest 
 man, and could not find one ! Why ? Because 
 the Society of Dogs had raised his standard of 
 human honesty to an impracticable height. But 
 I weary you ; otherwise I could lecture on in 
 this way "for the hour together, if you think the 
 Gatesboro' operatives prefer erudition to amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 "A great scholar," whispered Mr. Williams 
 aloud. "And I've nothing to say against j-our 
 precedents. Sir. I think you have made out 
 that part of the case. But, after all, a learned 
 dog is not so very uncommon as to be in itself 
 
 the striking attraction which you appear to sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "It is not the mere learning of my dog of 
 which I boast," replied the Comedian. "Dogs 
 may be learned, and men too ; but it is the way 
 that learning is imparted, whether by dog or 
 man, for the edification of the masses, in order, 
 as Pope expresses himself, 'to raise the genius 
 and to mend the heart,' that alone adorns the 
 possessor, exalts the species, interests the pub- 
 lic, and commands the respect of such judges as 
 I see before me." The grand bow. 
 
 " Ah 1" said Jlr. Williams, hesitatingly, " sen- 
 timents that do honor to your head and heart ; 
 and if we could, in the first instance, just see the 
 dog privately." 
 
 "Nothing easier !" said the Comedian. "Will 
 you do me the honor to meet him at tea this 
 evening?" 
 
 "Rather will you not come and take tea at 
 my house ?" said the Mayor, with a shy glance 
 toward Mr. Williams. 
 
 The Comedian. " You are very kind ; but my 
 time is so occupied that I have long since made 
 it a rule to decline all private invitations out of 
 my own home. At my years, Mr. Slayor, one 
 may be excused for taking leave of society and 
 its forms ; but j^ou are comparatively young 
 men. I presume on the authority of these gray 
 hairs, and I shall expect you this evening — say 
 at nine o'clock." The Actor waved his hand 
 gi'aciously and withdrew. 
 
 "A scholar and a gentleman," said Williams, 
 emphatically. And the Mayor, thus authorized 
 to allow vent to his kindly heart, added, "A hu- 
 morist, and a pleasant one. Perhaps he is right, 
 and our poor operatives would thank us more 
 for a little innocent amusement than for those 
 lectures, which they may be excused for think- 
 ing rather dull, since even you fell asleep when 
 Professor Long got into the multilocular shell 
 of the very first class of cephalous moUusca ; 
 and it is my belief that harmless laughter has a 
 moral effect upon the working class — only don't 
 spread it about that I said so, for we know excel- 
 lent persons of a serious turn of mind, whose 
 opinions that sentiment might shock." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HiSTOEiCAi Teoblem. " Is Gentleman W'aife a swin- 
 dler or a man of genius?" Akswee — '"Certainly a 
 swindler, if he don't succeed." Julius Ciesar owed 
 two millions when ho risked the experiment of being 
 general in Gaul. If Julius Cassar had not lived to cross 
 the Rubicon and pay off his debts, what would his 
 creditors have called Julius Casar? 
 
 I need not say that Mr. Hartopp and his fore- 
 man came duly to tea, but the Comedian ex- 
 hibited Sir Isaac's talents veiy sparingly — ^just 
 enough to excite admiration without sating cu- 
 riosity. Sophy, whose pretty face and well-bred 
 air were not unappreciated, was dismissed early 
 to bed by a sign from her grandfather, and the 
 Comedian then exerted his powers to entertain 
 his visitors, so that even Sir Isaac was soon for- 
 gotten. Hard task, by writing, to convey a fair 
 idea of this singular vagrant's pleasant vein. It 
 was not so much what he said as the way of say- 
 ing it, which gave to his desultory talk the charm 
 of humor. He had certainly seen an immense 
 
70 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 deal of life somehow or other ; and without ap- 
 pearing at the time to profit much by observation, 
 without perhaps being himself conscious that 
 he did profit, there was something in the very 
 enfantillage of his loosest prattle, by which, with 
 a glance of the one lustrous eye, and a twist of 
 the mobile lip, he could convey the impression 
 of an original genius playing with this round 
 world of ours — tossing it up, catching it again — 
 easily as a child plays with his party-colored ball. 
 His mere book-knowledge was not much to boast ] 
 of, though early in life he must have received a 
 fair education. He had a smattering of the an- 
 cient classics, sufficient, perhaps, to startle the 
 unlearned. If he had not read them, he had 
 read about them ; and at various odds and ends 
 of his life he had picked up acquaintance with 
 the popular standard modern writers. But lit- 
 erature with him was the smallest stripe in the 
 party-colored ball. Still it was astonishing how- 
 far and wide the Comedian could spread the 
 sands of lore that the' winds had drifted round 
 the door of his playful, busy intellect. Where, 
 for instance, could he ever have studied the na- 
 ture and prospects of Mechanics' Institutes? and 
 yet how well he seemed to understand them. 
 Here, perhaps, his experience in one kind of 
 audience helped him to the key to all miscella- 
 neous assemblages. In fine, the man was an 
 actor: and if he had thought fit to act the part 
 of Professor Long himself, he would have done 
 it to the life. 
 
 The two burghers had not spent so pleasant an 
 evening for many years. As the clock struck 
 twelve, the Mayor, whose gig had been in wait- 
 ing a whole hour to take him to his villa, rose 
 reluctantly to depart. 
 
 "And," said Williams, " the bills must be out 
 to-morrow. What shall we advertise ?" 
 
 " The simpler the better," said Waife ; " only 
 pray head the performance with the assurance 
 that it is imder the special patronage of his 
 worship the Mayor." 
 
 The Mayor felt his breast swell as if he had 
 received some overwhelming personal obligation. 
 
 " Suppose it runs thus," continued the Co- 
 median : 
 
 '•Illustrations from Domestic Life and Nat- 
 ural Historv, with live examples, Part Fikst — 
 The Dog T' 
 
 "It will take," said the Mayor; "dogs are 
 such popular animals !" 
 
 " Yes," said Williams ; " and though for that 
 very reason some might think that by the ' live 
 example of a dog' we compromised the dignity 
 of the Institute — still the importance of Nat- 
 ural History — " 
 
 "And," added the Comedian, "the sanctify- 
 ing influences of domestic life — " 
 
 " May," concluded Mr. Williams, " carry off 
 whatever may seem to the higher order of 
 minds a too familiar attraction in the — dog!" 
 
 "I do not fear the result," said Waife, "pro- 
 vided the audience be sufficiently numerous ; 
 for that (which is an indispensable condition to 
 a fair experiment), I issue handbills — only 
 where distributed by the ilayor." 
 
 "Don't be too sanguine. I distributed bills 
 on behalf of Professor Long, and the audience 
 was not numerous. However, I will do my best. 
 Is there nothing more in which 1 can be of use 
 to you, Mr. Chapman ?" 
 
 "Yes, later." Williams took alarm and ap- 
 proached the Mayor's breast-pocket protecting- 
 ly. The Comedian drew him aside and whis- 
 pered, "I intend to give the Mayor a little out- 
 line of the exhibition, and bring him into it, in 
 order that his fellow-townsmen may signify 
 their regard for hira by a cheer ; it will please 
 his good heart and be touching, you'll see — 
 mum 1" Williams shook the Comedian by the 
 hand, relieved, aftected, and confiding. 
 
 The visitors departed ; and the Comedian 
 lighted his hand-candlestick, whistled to Sir 
 Isaac, and went to bed, without one compunc- 
 tious thought upon the growth of his bill and 
 the deficit in his pockets. And yet it was true, 
 as Sophy implied, that the Comedian had an 
 honest horror of incurring debt. He generally 
 thought twice before he risked owing even the 
 most trifling bill ; and when the bill came in, if 
 it left him penniless, it was paid. And now, 
 what reckless extravagance! The best apart- 
 ments ! dinners — tea — in the first hotel of the 
 town! half a crown to a porter! That lavish 
 mode of life renewed with the dawning sun ! — 
 not a care for the morrow ; and I dare not con- 
 jecture how few the shillings in that purse. 
 What aggravation, too, of guilt ! Bills incurred 
 without means under a borrowed name! I 
 don't pretend to be a lawyer; but it looks to 
 me very much like swindling. Yet the wretch 
 sleeps. But are we sure that we are not shal- 
 low moralists ? Do we cany into account the 
 right of genius to draw bills upon the Future ? 
 Does not the most prudent general sometimes 
 biu'n his ships? Does not the most upright 
 merchant sometimes take credit on the chance 
 of his ventures ? May not that peaceful slum- 
 berer be morally sure that he has that argosy 
 afloat in his own head, which amply justifies his 
 use of " the Saracen's ?" If his plan should 
 fail ? He will tell you that is impossible ! But 
 if it should fail, you say. Listen ; there runs a 
 story — (I don't vouch for its truth. I tell it as 
 it was told to me) — there runs a story, that in 
 the late Eussian war a certain naval veteran, 
 renowned for professional daring and scientific 
 invention, was examined before some great of- 
 ficials as to the chances of taking Cronstadt. 
 " If you send me," said the admiral, " with so 
 many ships-of-the-line, and so many gun-boats, 
 Cronstadt, of course, wiU be taken." " But," 
 said a prudent lord, " suppose it should net be 
 taken?" "That is impossible — it must be tak- 
 en!" "Yes," persisted my lord, "you think 
 so, no doubt ; but still, if it should not be taken 
 — what then ?" " What then ! — why, there's an 
 end of the British fleet !" The great men took 
 alarm, and that admiral was not sent. But they 
 misconstrued the meaning of his answer. He 
 meant not to imply any considerable danger to 
 the British fleet. He meant to prove that one 
 hypothesis was impossible by the suggestion of 
 a counter impossibility more self-evident. " It 
 is impossible but what I shall take Cronstadt I" 
 "But if you don't take it?' "It is impossible 
 but what" I shall take it ; for if I don't take it, 
 there's an end of the British fleet ; and as it is 
 impossible that there should be an end of the 
 British fleet, it is impossible that I should not 
 take Cronstadt I" — Q.E.D. 
 
"«aiAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 In -n-hich every thing depends on Sir Isaac's success in 
 discovering the Law of Attraction. 
 
 On the appointed evening, at eight o'clock, 
 the great room of the Gatesboro' Athenreum was | 
 unusually well tilled. Not only had the Mayor 
 exerted himself to the utmost for tliat object, 
 but the handbill itself promised a rare relief 
 from the jjrosiness of abstract enlightenment 
 and elevated knowledge. Moreover, the stran- 
 ger himself had begun to excite speculation and 
 curiosity. He was an amateur, not a ciit-and- 
 dry professor. The Mayor and Mr. "Williams 
 had both sj^read the report that there was more 
 in him than appeared on the surface : prodig- 
 iously learned, but extremely agreeable — fine 
 manners, too ! Who could he be ? Was Chap- 
 man his real name? etc., etc. 
 
 The Comedian had obtained permission to 
 arrange the room beforehand. He had the 
 raised portion of it for his stage, and he had 
 been fortunate enough to find a green curtain 
 to be drawn across it. From behind this screen 
 he now emerged, and bowed. The bow re- 
 doubled the first conventional applause. He 
 then began a very short address — extremely 
 well delivered, as you may suppose, but rather 
 in the conversational than the oratorical style. 
 He said it was his object to exhibit the intel- 
 ligence of that Universal Friend of Man — the 
 Dog — in some manner approjniate, not only 
 to its sagacious instincts, but to its affectionate 
 nature, and to convey thereby the moral that 
 talents, however great, learning, however deep, 
 were of no avail, unless rendered serviceable to 
 Man. (Applause.) He must be pardoned, then, 
 if, in order to effect this object, he was com- 
 pelled to borrow some harmless effects from the 
 stage. In a word, his Dog would represent to 
 them the plot of a little drama. And he, though 
 he could not say that he was altogether unac- 
 customed to public speaking (here a smile, mod- 
 est, but august as that of some famous parlia- 
 mentan,- orator who makes his first appearance 
 at a vestry), still wholly new to its practice in 
 the special part he had undertaken, would rely 
 on their indulgence to efforts aspiring to no oth- 
 er merit than that of aiding the Hero of the 
 piece in a familiar illustration of those qualities 
 in which Dogs might give a lesson to Human- 
 ity. Again he bowed, and retired behind the 
 curtain. A pause of three minutes ; the cur- 
 tain drew up. Could that be the same Mr. 
 Chapman whom the spectators beheld before 
 them? Could three minutes suflSce to change 
 the sleek, respectable, prosperous-looking gen- 
 tleman who had just addressed them, info that 
 image of threadbare poverty and hunger-pinch- 
 ed dejection? Little aid "from theatrical cos- 
 tume : the clothes seemed the same, only to 
 have grown wondrous aged and rusty. The 
 face, the figure, the man — these had utidergone 
 a transmutation beyond the art of a mere stage 
 wardrobe, be it ever so amply stored, to eftect. 
 But for the patch over the eye you could not 
 have recognized Mr. Chapman. There was. in- 
 deed, about him still an air of dignity; but it 
 was the dignity of woe — a dignity, too, not of 
 an affable civilian, but of some veteran soldier. 
 You could not mistake. Though not in uni- 
 form, the melancholy man must have been a 
 
 warrior ! The way the coat was buttoned across 
 the chest, the black stock tightened round the 
 throat, the shoulders thrown back in the disci- 
 plined habit of a life, though the head bent for- 
 ward in the despondency of an eventful crisis — 
 all spoke the decayed, but not ignoble, hero of a 
 hundred fields. 
 
 There was something foreign, too, about the 
 veteran's air. Mr. Chapman had looked so 
 thoroughly English — that tragical and meagre 
 personage, which had exfoliated an arid stem 
 from Mr. Chapman's buxom leaves, looked so 
 unequivocally French. Not a word had the 
 Comedian yet said; and yet all this had the 
 first sight of him conveyed to the audience. 
 There was an amazed murmur, then breathless 
 stillness. The story rapidly unfolded itself, 
 partly by words, much more by look and action. 
 There sate a soldier who had fought under Na- 
 poleon at Marengo and Austerlitz, gone through 
 the snows of ISIuscovy, escaped the fires ( f Wa- 
 terloo — the soldier of the Empire ! Wondrous 
 ideal of a wondrous time ! and nowhere win- 
 ning more respect and awe than in that land of 
 the old English foe, in which, with slight knowl- 
 edge of the Beautiful in Art, there is so rever- 
 ent a sympathj- for all that is giand in ]\Ian ! 
 There sate the soldier, penniless and friendless 
 — there, scarcely seen, reclined his grandchild, 
 weak and slowly dying for the want of food; 
 and all that the soldier possesses wherewith to 
 buy bread for the day is his cross of the Legion 
 of Honor. It was given to him by the hand of 
 the Emperor — must he pawn or sell it ? Out on 
 the pomp of decoration which we have substi- 
 tuted for the voice of passionate nature, on our 
 fallen stage 1 Scenes so faithful to the shaft of 
 a column — dresses by which an antiquary can 
 define a date to a year ! Is delusion there ? Is 
 it thus we are snatched from Thebes to Athens? 
 No; place a really fine actor on a deal-board, 
 and for Thebes and Athens you may hang up a 
 blanket! Why, that very cross which the old 
 soldier holds — away from his sight — in that 
 tremulous hand, is but patched up from the foil 
 and card-board bought at the stationer's shop. 
 You might see it was nothing more, if you tried 
 to see. Did a soul present think of such minute 
 investigation ? Not one. In the actor's hand 
 that trumpery became at once the glorious thing 
 by which Napoleon had planted the sentiment 
 of knightly heroism in the men whom Danton 
 would have launched upon earth ruthless and 
 bestial, as galley-slaves that had burst their 
 chain. 
 
 The badge wrought from foil and card-board 
 took life and soul ; it begot an interest, inspired 
 a pathos, as much as if it had been made — oh, 
 not of gold and gems, but of flesh and blood. 
 And the simjile broken words that the old ^lan 
 addressed to it ! The scenes, the fields, the 
 hopes, the glories it conjured up! And now to 
 be WTenched away — sold to supply Man's hum- 
 blest, meanest wants — sold — the last symbol of 
 such a past! It was indeed ^'propter vilam vi- 
 vendi perdere causas." He would have star\-ed 
 rather — but the Child? And then the child 
 rose up and came into play. She would not 
 suffer such a sacrifice — she was not hungry — 
 she was not weak; and when voice failed her, 
 she looked up into that iron face and smiled — 
 nothing but a smile. Out came the pocket- 
 
72 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 handkerchiefs ! The soldier seizes the cross 
 and turns away. It shallhe sold ! As he opens 
 the door, a dog enters gravely — licks his hand, 
 approaches the table, raises itself on its hind- 
 legs, surveys the table dolefully, shakes its head, 
 whines, comes to its master, pulls him by the 
 skirt, looks into his face inquisitively. 
 
 What does all this mean ? It soon comes out, 
 and very naturally. The dog belonged to an 
 old fellow-soldier, who had gone to the Isle of 
 France to claim his share in the inheritance of 
 a brother who had settled and died there, and 
 who, meanwhile, had confided it to the care of 
 our veteran, who was then in comparatively easy 
 circumstances, since ruined by the failure and 
 fraud of a banker to whom he had intrusted his 
 all ; and his small pension, including the yearly 
 sum to which his cross entitled him, had been 
 forestalled and mortgaged to ])ay the petty debts 
 which, relying on his dividend from the banker, 
 he had innocently incurred. The dog's owner 
 had been gone for months ; his return might be 
 daily expected. Meanwhile the dog was at the 
 hearth, but the wolf at the door. Now this sa- 
 gacious animal had been taught to perform the 
 duties of messenger and major-domo. At stated 
 intervals, he a])plied to his master for sous, and 
 brought back the supplies which the sous pur- 
 chased. He now, as usual, came to the table for 
 the accustomed coin — the last sou was gone — 
 the dog's occupation was at an end. But could 
 not the dog be sold? Impossible — it was the 
 property of another — a sacred deposit; one 
 would be as bad as the banker if one could ap- 
 ply to one's own necessities the property one 
 held in trust. These little l)iograpliical particu- 
 lars came out in that sort of bitter and pathetic 
 humor which a study of Shakspeare, or the ex- 
 perience of actual life had taught the Comedian 
 to be a natural relief to an intense sorrow. The 
 dog meanwhile aided the narrative by his by- 
 play. Still intent upon the sous, he thrust his 
 nose into his master's pockets — he appealed 
 touchingly to the child, and finally put back his 
 head and vented his emotion in a lugubrious 
 and elegiacal howl. Suddenly there is heard 
 without the sound of a showman's tin trumpet ! 
 Whether the actor had got some obliging per- 
 son to perform on that instrument, or whether, 
 as more likely, it was but a trick of ventrilo- 
 quism, we leave to conjecture. At that note, 
 an idea seemed to seize the dog. He ran first 
 to his master, who was on the threshold about 
 to depart ; pulled him back into the centre of the 
 room ; next he ran to the child, dragging her 
 toward the same spot, though with great tender- 
 ness, and then, uttering a joyous bark, he raised 
 himself on his hind-legs, and, with incompara- 
 ble solemnity, performed a minuet step! The 
 child catches the idea from the dog. " Was he 
 not more worth seeing than the puppet-show in 
 the streets ? might not people give money to see 
 him, and the old soldier still keep his cross? 
 To-day there is a public Jete in the gardens yon- 
 der ; that showman must be going thither ; why 
 not go too?" What! he, the old soldier — he 
 stoop to show off a dog ! he ! he ! The- dog look- 
 ed at him deprecatingly, and stretched himself 
 on the floor — lifeless ! 
 
 Yes, that is the alternative — shall his child 
 die too, and he be too proud to save her? Ah ! 
 and if the cross can be saved also ! But pshaw ! 
 
 what did the dog know that people would care 
 to see? Oh, much, much. When the child 
 was alone and sad, it would come and play with 
 her. See these old dominos ! She ranged them 
 on the floor, and the dog leaped up and came 
 to prove his skill. Artfully, then, the Comedian 
 had planned that the dog should make some sad 
 mistakes, attended by some marvelous surprises. 
 No, he would not do; yes, he would do. The 
 audience took it seriously, and became intense- 
 ly interested in the dog's success ; so sorry for 
 his blunders, so triumphant in his lucky hits. 
 And then the child calmed the hasty, irritable 
 old man so sweetly, and corrected the dog so 
 gently, and talked to the animal ; told it how 
 much they relied on it, and produced an infant 
 alphabet, and spelled out " Save us." The dog 
 looked at the letters meditatively, and hence- 
 forth it was evident that he took more pains. 
 Better and better; he will do, he will do! The 
 child shall not starve, the cross shall not be sold ! 
 Down dro]is the curtain. — End of Act I. 
 
 Act II. opens with a dialogue spoken off the 
 stage. Invisible dramatis persona, tliat subsist, 
 with airy tongues, upon the mimetic art of the 
 Comedian. You understand that there is a ve- 
 hement dispute going on. The dog must not be 
 admitted into a part of the gardens where a 
 more refined and exclusive section of the com- 
 pany have hired seats, in order to contemplate, 
 without sharing, the rude dances or jostling 
 promenade of the promiscuous meny-makers. 
 Much hubbub, much humor; some persons for 
 the dog, some against him ; privilege and deco- 
 rum here, equality and fraternity there. A Bo- 
 napartist colonel sees the cross on the soldier's 
 breast, and, yni/le tonnerres, he settles the point. 
 He pays for three reserved seats — one for the 
 soldier, one for the child, and a third for the 
 dog. The veteran enters ; the child, not strong 
 enough to have pushed through the crowd, raised 
 on his shoulder, Eolla-like ; the dog led by a 
 string. He enters erect and warrior-like ; his 
 spirit has been roused by contest ; his struggles 
 have been crowned by victory. I3ut (and here 
 the art of the drama and the actor culminated 
 toward the highest point) — but he now at once 
 includes in the list of his dramatis 'persona the 
 whole of his Gatesboro' audience. They are that 
 select company into which he has thus forced 
 his way. As he sees them seated before him, 
 so calm, orderly, and dignified, inauvaise lionte 
 steals over the breast more accustomed to front 
 the cannon than the battery of ladies' eves. He 
 places the child in a chair, abashed and hum- 
 bled ; he drops into a seat beside her shrinking- 
 ]y ; and the dog, with more self-possession and 
 sense of his own consequence, brushes with his 
 paw some imaginary dust from a third chair, as 
 in the superciliousness of the well-dressed, and 
 then seats himself, and looks round Mith serene 
 audacity. 
 
 The chairs were skillfully placed on one side 
 of the stage, as close as possible to the front row 
 of the audience. The soldier ventures a furtive 
 glance along the lines, and then speaks to his 
 grandchild in whispered, bated breath: "Now 
 they are there, what are they come for? To 
 beg ? He can never have the boldness to ex- 
 hibit an animal for sous — impossible ; no, no, 
 let them slink back again and sell the cross." 
 And the child whispers courage ; bids him look 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 73 
 
 again along the rows ; those faces seem very | 
 knid. He again lifts his eyes, glances round, 
 and with an extemporaneous tact that completed 
 the illusion to which the audience were already 
 wentlv lending themselves, made sundry com- 
 plimentary comments on the different faces 
 actualiv before him, selected most felicitously. 
 The audience, taken by surprise, as some fair 
 female, or kindly burgess, familiar to their 
 associations, was thus pointed out to their ap- 
 plause, became heartily genial in their cheers 
 and laugliter. And the Comedian's face, un- 
 moved by such demonstrations — so shy and sad 
 — insinuated its pathos underneath cheer and 
 laugh. You now learned through the child that 
 a dance, on which the company had been sup- 
 posed to be gazing, was concluded, and that 
 they would not be displeased by an interval of 
 some other diversion. Now was the time ! The 
 dog, as if to convey a sense of the prevalent 
 ennui, yawned audibly, patted the child on the 
 shoulder, and looked up in her face. " A game 
 of dominos," whispered the little girl. The dog 
 gleefully grinned assent. Timidly she stole forth 
 the old' dominos, and ranged them on the 
 ground; on which she slipped from her chair; 
 the dog slipped from his; they began to play. 
 The experiment was launched ; the soldier saw 
 that the curiosity of the company was excited — 
 that the show would commence — the sous fol- 
 low ; and as if he at least would not openly 
 shame his service and his Emperor, he turned 
 aside, slid his hand to his breast, tore away his 
 cross, and hid it. Scarce a murmured word 
 accompanied the action — the acting said all; 
 and a noble thrill ran through the audience. 
 Oh, sublime art of the mime ! 
 
 The JIayor sat very near where the child 
 and dog were at play. The Comedian had (as 
 he before implied he would do) discreetly pre- 
 pared that gentleman for direct and personal 
 appeal. The little girl turned her blue eyes in- 
 nocently toward Mr. Hartopp, and said, "The 
 dog beats me, Sir ; will you try what you can 
 do?" 
 
 A roar, and universal clapping of hands, 
 amidst which the worthy magistrate stepped on 
 the stage. At the command of its young mis- 
 tress, the dog made the magistrate a polite bow, 
 and straiglit to the game went magistrate and 
 dog. From that time the interest became, as 
 it were, personal to all present. "Will you 
 come, Sir ?" said the child to a young gentleman, 
 who was straining his neck to see how the 
 dominos were played ; " and observe that it is 
 all fair. You too, Sir?" to Mr. Williams. The 
 Comedian stood beside the dog, whose move- 
 ments he directed with undetected skill, while 
 appearing only to fix his eyes on the ground in 
 conscious abasement. Those on the rows fronr 
 behind now pressed forward ; those in advance 
 either came on the stage, or stood up intently 
 contemplating. The Mayor was defeated, the 
 crowd became too thick, and the caresses be- 
 stowed on the dog seemed to fatigue him. He 
 rose and retreated to a corner haughtily. " Man- 
 ners, .Sir," said the soldier ; " it is not for the like 
 of us to be proud ; excuse him, ladies and gen- 
 tlemen." — " He only wishes to please all," said 
 the child, deprecatingly. " Say how many would 
 you have round us at a time, so that the rest 
 may not be prevented seeing you ?" She spread 
 
 the multiplication figures before the dog ; the 
 dog put his paw on 10. "Astonishing I" said 
 the Mayor; "Will you choose them yourself, 
 Sir?" The dog nodded, walked leisurely round, 
 keeping one eye toward the one eye of his mas- 
 ter, and selected ten pcrsous, among whom 
 were the Mayor, Mr. Williams, and three jiretty 
 young ladies, who had been induced to ascend 
 the stage. The others were chosen no less judi- 
 ciously. 
 
 The dog was then led artfully on from one 
 accomplishment to another, much within the 
 ordinary range which bounds the instruction of 
 learned animals. He was asked to say how 
 many ladies were on the stage ; he sjiclt three. 
 What were their names? "The Graces." Then 
 he was asked who was the first magistrate in 
 the town. The dog made a bow to the Mayor. 
 "Wliat had made that gentleman first magis- 
 trate?" The dog looked to the alphabet and 
 spelt " Worth." " Were there any jjcrsons pres- 
 ent more powerful than the Mayor?" The dog 
 bowed to the three young ladies. " What made 
 them more powerful ?" The dog spelt " Beau- 
 ty." When ended the applause these answers 
 received, the dog went through the musket ex- 
 ercise with the soldier's staff"; and as soon as he 
 had j)erformed that, lie came to the business part 
 of the exhibition, seized the hat which his mas- 
 ter had dropped on the ground, and carried it 
 round to each person on the stage. They looked 
 at one another. " He is a poor soldier's dog," 
 said the child, hiding her face. "No, no; a 
 soldier can not beg," cried the Comedian. The 
 Mayor dropped a coin in the hat ; others did 
 the same, or aflfected to do it. The dog took 
 the hat to his master, who waved him aside. 
 There was a pause. The dog laid the hat soft- 
 ly at the soldier's feet, and looked up to the 
 child beseechingly. 
 
 "_What," asked she, raising her head proud- 
 ly — " what secures Worth and defends Beau- 
 ty ?" The dog took up the staff' and slioulder- 
 ed it. And to what can the soldier look for 
 aid when he starves, and will not beg ? The 
 dog seemed puzzled — tlie suspense was awful. 
 " Good Heavens," thought the Comedian, " if 
 the brute should break down after all ! — and 
 when I took such care that the words should lie 
 undisturbed — right before his nose !" With a 
 deep sigh the veteran started from his despond- 
 ent attitude, and crept along the floor as if for 
 escape — so broken down, so crest-fallen. Ev- 
 ery eye was on that heart-broken face and re- 
 ceding figure ; and the eye of that heart-broken 
 face was on the dog, and the foot of that reced- 
 ing figure seemed to tremble, recoil, start, as it 
 passed by the alphabetical letters which still lay 
 on the ground as last arranged. " Ah ! to what 
 should he look for aid?" repeated the grand- 
 child, clasping her little hands. The dog had 
 now caught the cue, and put his paw first upon 
 " Worth," and then upon Beatty. " Worth !" 
 cried the ladies — "Beauty!" exclaimed the 
 INIayor. " Wonderful, wonderful !" " Take up 
 the" hat," said the child, and turning to the 
 Mayor— "Ah! tell him, Sir, that what Worth 
 and Beauty give to Valor in distress is not alms, 
 but tribute." 
 
 The words were little better than a hack clap- 
 trap ; but the sweet voice glided through the 
 assembly, and found its way into every heart. 
 
74 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 "Is it so ?" asked the old soldier, as his hand 
 hoveringly paused above the coins. " Upon my 
 honor, it is. Sir," said the Mayor, with serious 
 emphasis. The audience thought it the best 
 speech he had ever made in his life, and cheered 
 him till the roof runs; again. "Oh! bread, 
 bread, for you, Darling !" cried the veteran, bow- 
 ing his head over the child, and taking out his 
 cross and kissing it with passion; "and the 
 badge of honor still for me!" 
 
 While the audience was in the full depth of 
 its emotion, and generous tears in i^any an eye, 
 Waife seized his moment, dropped the actor, and 
 stc]iped forth to the front as the man — simple, 
 quiet, earnest man — artless man ! 
 
 " This is no mimic scene, ladies and gentle- 
 men. It is a tale in real life that stands out be- 
 fore you. I am here to appeal to those hearts 
 that are not vainly open to human sorrows. I 
 plead for what I have represented. True, that 
 the man wlio needs your aid is not of that sol- 
 diery which devastated Europe. But he has 
 fought in battles as severe, and been left by foi-- 
 tune to as stern a desolation, True, he is not a 
 Trenchman : he is one of a land you will not 
 love less than France, — it is your own. He, too, 
 has a child whom he would save from famine. 
 He, too, has nothing left to sell or to pawn for 
 bread — except — oh, not this gilded badge, see, 
 this is only foil ami card-board — except, I say, 
 the thing itself, of which you respect even so 
 poor a symbol — nothing left to sell or to ])awn 
 but Honor ! For these I have pleaded this night 
 as a showman ; for these, less haughty than the 
 ^Frenchman, I stretch my hands toward you 
 without shame; for these I am a beggar." 
 
 He was silent. The dog quietly took up the 
 hat and approached the Mayor again. The 
 Mayor extracted the half-crown he had pre- 
 viously deposited, and dropped into the hat two 
 golden sovereigns. Who does not guess ^the 
 rest ? All crowded forward — youth and age, 
 man and woman. And most ardent of all were 
 those whose life stands most close to vicissitude 
 — most exposed to beggary — most sorely tried 
 in tlie alternative between bread and honor. 
 Not an operative there but spared his mite. 
 
 CHAPTER XHL 
 
 Omne ignotnm pro Magnifico — Rumor, knowing nothing 
 of his antecedents, exalts Gentleman Waife into Don 
 Magnifico. 
 
 The Comedian and his two coadjutors were 
 followed to the Saracen's Head Inn by a large 
 crowd, but at a respectful distance. Though I 
 know few things less pleasing than to have been 
 decoyed and entrapped into an unexpected de- 
 mand upon one's purse — when one only count- 
 ed, too, upon an agreeable evening — and hold, 
 therefore, in just abhorrence the circulating 
 plate which sometimes follows a popular ora- 
 tion, homily, or other eloquent appeal to British 
 liberality ; yet I will venture to say there was 
 not a creature whom the Comedian had sur- 
 prised into impulsive beneficence who regretted 
 his action, grudged its cost, or thought he had 
 paid too dear for his entertainment. All had 
 gone through a series of such pleasurable emo- i 
 tions, that all had, as it were, wished a vent for i 
 
 their gratitude — and when the vent was found 
 it became an additional pleasure. But, strange 
 to say, no one could satisfactorily explain to 
 himself these two questions — for what, and to 
 whom, had he given his money? It was not a 
 general conjecture that the exhibitor wanted 
 the money for his own uses. No, des])ite the 
 evidence in favor of that idea, a person so re- 
 sj)ectable, so dignified — addressing them, too, 
 with that noble assurance to which a man who 
 begs for himself is not morally entitled — a per- 
 son thus cliaracterized must be some high-heart- 
 ed philanthropist who condescended to display 
 his powers at an institute purely intellectual, 
 perhaps on behalf of an eminent but decayed 
 author, whose name, from the respect due to 
 letters, was delicately concealed. Mr. Williams 
 — considered the hardest head and most practi- 
 cal man in the town — originated and maintained 
 that hypothesis. Probably the stranger was an 
 author himself — a great and atliucnt author. 
 Had not great and atHuent authors — men who 
 are the boast of our time and land — acted, yea, 
 on a common stage, and acted inimitably, too, 
 on behalf of some lettei-ed brother or" literary 
 object? Therefore in these guileless minds, 
 with all the pecuniary advantages of extreme 
 penury and forlorn position, the Comedian ob- 
 tained the resjiect due to prosperous circum- 
 stances and high renown. But there was one 
 universal wish expressed by all who had been 
 present, as they took their way homeward — and 
 that wish was to renew llie pleasure they had 
 experienced, even if they paid the same price 
 for it. Could not the long-closed theatre be re- 
 ojjened, and the great man be induced by phil- 
 anthropic motives, and an assured sum, raised 
 by voluntary subscriptions, to gratify the wliole 
 town, as he had gratified its selected intellect? 
 Mr. Williams, in a state of charitable thaw, now 
 softest of the soft, like most hard men when once 
 softened, suggested this idea to the Mayor. The 
 Mayor said, evasively, that he would tliink of it, 
 and that he intended to pay his respects to Mr. 
 Chapman before he returned home — that very 
 night — it was proper. Mr. Williams and many 
 others wished to accompany his worship. But 
 the kind magistrate suggested that Mr. Chapman 
 would be greatly fatigued ; that the presence of 
 many might seem more an intrusion than a com- 
 pliment ; that he, the Mayor, had better go alone, 
 and at a somewhat later hour, when Mr. Chap- 
 man, though not retired to bed, might have had 
 time for rest and refreshment. This delicate 
 consideration had its weight ; and the streets 
 were thin when the Mayor's gig stopped, in its 
 way villa-ward, at the Saracen's Head. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 It is the intei-val between our first repinings and our final 
 resignation, in which, both with individuals and com- 
 munities, is to be found all that makes a History worth 
 telling. Ere yet we yearn for what is out of our reach, 
 we are still in the cradle. When wearied out with our 
 yearnings, Desire again falls asleep — we are on the 
 death-bed. 
 
 Sophy (leaning on her grandfather's arm, as 
 they ascend the stair of the Saracen's Head). 
 "But I am so tired, grandy — I'd rather go to 
 bed at once, please." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 75 
 
 Gentleman Waife. " Surely you could take 
 something to eat first — something nice, Miss 
 Chapman? (whispering close) We can live in 
 clover now" — a phrase which means (aloud to 
 the landlady, who crossed tlie landing-place 
 above) '• grilled chicken and mushrooms for 
 supper, ma'am ! Why don't you smile, Sophy ? 
 Oh, darling, you are ill I" 
 
 '■ No, no, grandy dear — only tired — let me go 
 to bed. I shall be better to-moiTow — I shall 
 indeed I"' 
 
 Waife looked fondly into her face, but his 
 spirits were too much exhilarated to allow him 
 to notice the unusual flush upon her cheek, ex- 
 cept with admiration of the increased beauty 
 which the heightened color gave to her soft 
 features. 
 
 " Well," said he, " you are a pretty child ! — 
 
 a very pretty child — and you act wonderfully. 
 
 You would make a fortune on the stage, but — " 
 
 Sophy (eagerly). " But no, no, never ! — not 
 
 the stage !" 
 
 Waife. " I don't wish you to go on the stage, 
 as you know. A private exhibition — like the 
 one to-night, for instance — has (thrusting his 
 hand into his pocket) much to recommend it." 
 
 Sophy (with a sigh). •' Thank Heaven, that 
 is over now, and you'll not be in want of money 
 for a long, long time ! Dear Sir Isaac !" 
 
 She began caressing Sir Isaac, who received 
 her attentions with solemn pleasure. They were 
 now in Sophy's room; and Waife, after again 
 pressing the child in vain to take some refresh- 
 ment, bestowed on her his kiss and blessing, 
 and whistled Malbrook s'en va-t-cn guerre to Sir 
 Isaac, who, considering that melody an invita- 
 tion to supper, licked his lips, and stalked forth, 
 rejoicing, but decorous. 
 
 Left alone, the child breathed long and hard, 
 pressing her hands to her bosom, and sunk 
 wearily on the foot of the bed. There were no 
 shutters to the window, and the moonlight came 
 in gently, stealing across that part of the wall 
 and floor which the ray of the candle left in 
 shade. The girl raised her eyes slowly toward 
 the window — toward the glimpse of the blue 
 sky, and the slanting lustre of the moon. There 
 is a certain epoch in our childhood when what is 
 called the romance of sentiment first makes itself 
 vaguely felt. And ever with the dawn of that 
 sentiment the moon and the stars take a strange 
 and haunting fascination. Few persons in middle 
 life — even though they be genuine poets — feel 
 the peculiar spell in the severe stillness and 
 mournful splendor of starry skies which im- 
 presses most of us, even though no poets at all, 
 in that mystic age when childhood nearly touch- 
 es upon youth, and turns an unquiet heart to 
 those marvelous riddles within us and without, 
 which we cease to conjecture when experience 
 has taught us that they have no solution upon 
 this side the grave. Lured by the light, the 
 child rose softly, approached the window, and 
 resting her upturned face upon both hands, 
 gazed long in the heavens, communing evident- 
 ly with herself, for her lips moved and murmur- 
 ed indistinctly. Slowly she retired from the 
 casement, and again seated herself at the foot 
 of the bed, disconsolate. And then her thoughts 
 ran somewhat thus, though she might not have 
 shaped them exactly in the same words : " Xo ! 
 I can not understand it. Whv was I contented 
 
 and happy before I knew him f Why did I see 
 no harm, no shame in this way of life — not even 
 on that stage with those people — until he said, 
 ' It was what he wished I had never stoojied to.' 
 And grandfather says our paths are so difl'crent, 
 they can not cross each other again. Tiiere is 
 a path of life, then, whidi I can never enter; 
 there is a path on which I must always, always 
 walk — always, always, always that path — no es- 
 cape ! Never to come into that other one where 
 there is no disguise, no hiding, no false names 
 — never, never I" She started impatiently, and 
 with a wild look, '"It is killing me!" 
 
 Then, terrified by her own impetuosity, she 
 threw herself on the bed, weeping low. Her 
 heart had now gone back to her grandfather ; 
 it was smiting her for ingratitude to him. Could 
 there be shame or wrong in what he asked — in 
 what he did ? And was she to murmur if she 
 aided him to exist ? AVhat was the ojjinion of 
 a stranger boy, compared to the approving, shel- 
 tering love of her sole guardian and tried, fos- 
 tering friend? And could people choose their 
 own callings and modes of life ? If one road 
 went this way, another that ; and they on the 
 one road were borne farther and farther away 
 from those on the other — as that idea came, 
 consolation stopped, and in her noiseless v.eep- 
 ing there was a bitterness as of despair. Bat 
 the tears ended by relieving the grief that caused 
 them. Wearied out of conjecture and complaint, 
 her mind relapsed into the old native, childish 
 submission. With a fervor in which there was 
 self-reproach, she repeated her meek, nightly 
 prayer, that God would bless her dear grandfa- 
 ther, and suffer her to be his comfort and sup- 
 port. Then mechanically she undressed, extin- 
 guished the candle, and crept into bed. The 
 moonlight became bolder and bolder; it ad- 
 vanced up the floors, along the walls; now it 
 floods her very pillow, and seems to her eyes to 
 take a holy, loving kindness, holier and more 
 loving as the lids droop beneath it. A vague 
 remembrance of some tale of " Guardian spir- 
 its," with which Waife had once charmed her 
 wonder, stirred through her. lulling thoughts, 
 linking itself with the presence of that encirchng 
 moonlight. There ! see, the eyelids are closed 
 — no tear upon their fringe. See the dimples 
 steal out as the sweet lips are parted. She 
 sleeps, she dreams already ! Where and what 
 is the rude world of waking now? Are there 
 not guardian spirits? Deride the question if 
 thou wilt, stern man, the reasoning and self- 
 reliant ; but th(^, fair mother, who hast mark- 
 ed the strange happiness on the face of a child 
 that has wept itself to sleep — what sayest thou 
 to the soft tradition, which surely had its origin 
 in the heart of the earliest mother? 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 There is no man eo friendless but what he can find a 
 friend sincere enough to tell hira disagreeable truths. 
 
 Mean-while the Comedian had made him- 
 self and Sir Isaac extremely comfortable. No 
 unabstemious man by habit was Gentleman 
 Waife. He could dine on a crust, and season 
 it with mirth ; and as for exciting drinks, there 
 was a childlike innocence in his humor never 
 
76 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 known to a brain that has been washed in alco- 
 hol. But on this special occasion, "VVaife's heart 
 was made so bounteous by the novel sense of 
 prosperity that it compelled him to treat him- 
 self. He did honor to the grilled chicken, to 
 which he had vainly tempted Sophy. He or- 
 dered half a pint of port to be mulled into negus. 
 He helped himself with a bow, as if himself were 
 a guest, and nodded each time he took off his 
 glass, as much as to say, "Your health, I\Ir. 
 Waife I" He even offered a glass of the exhil- 
 arating draught to Sir Isaac, who, exceedingly 
 offended, retreated under the sofa, whence he 
 peered forth through his deciduous ringlets, with 
 brows knit in grave rebuke. Nor was it with- 
 out deliberate caution — a whisker first, and then 
 a paw — that he emerged from his retreat, when 
 a plate, heaped with the remains of the feast, 
 was placed upon the hearth-rug. 
 
 The supper over and the attendant gone, the 
 negus still left, Waife lighted his pipe, and 
 gazing on Sir Isaac, thus addressed that canine 
 philosopher: "Illustrious member of the Quad- 
 rupedal Society of Friends to Man, and as pos- 
 sessing those abilities for practical life which but 
 few friends to man ever display in his service, 
 promoted to high rank — Commissary General of 
 the Victualing Department, and Chancellor of 
 the Exchequer — I have the honor to inform you 
 that a vote of thanks in your favor has been pro- 
 posed in this House, and carried unanimously." 
 Sir Isaac, looking shy, gave another lick to the 
 plate, and wagged his tail. "It is true that 
 thou wert once (shall I say it?) in fault at 
 * Beauty and Worth ;' thy memory deserted 
 thee ; thy peroration was on the verge of a 
 break-down ; but ' Nemo mortalium omnibus 
 horis sajjit,' as the Latin gi-ammar philosophic- 
 ally expresseth it. Mortals the wisest, not only 
 on two legs, but even upon four, occasionally 
 stumble. The greatest general, statesman, sage, 
 is not he who commits no blunder, but he who 
 best rejjairs a blunder, and converts it to success. 
 This was thy merit and distinction 1 It hath 
 never been mine I I recognize thy superior 
 genius. I place in thee unqualified confidence ; 
 and consigning thee to the arms of Morpheus, 
 since I see that panegyric acts on thy nervous 
 system as a salubrious soporific, I now move that 
 this House do resolve itself into a Committee of 
 Ways and Means for the Consideration of the 
 Budget 1" 
 
 Therewith, while Sir Isaac fell into a profound 
 sleep, the Comedian deliberately emptied his 
 pockets on the table ; and arrajiging gold and 
 silver before him, thrice carefully counted the 
 total, and then divided it into sundry small 
 heaps. 
 
 " That's for the bill," quoth he—" Civil List ! 
 — a large item. That's for Sophy, the darling I 
 She shall have a teacher, and learn French — 
 Education Grant. Current Expenses for the 
 next fortnight; Miscellaneous Estimates — to- 
 bacco — we'll call that Secret Service Money. 
 Ah, scamp, vagrant 1 is not Heaven kind to thee 
 at last ? A few more such nights, and who 
 knows but thine old age may have other roof 
 than the work-house ? And Sophy? Ah, what 
 of her? Merciful Providence, spare my life till 
 she has outgrown its uses !" A tear came to his 
 eye ; he brushed it away quickly, and re-count- 
 ing his money, hummed a joyous tune. 
 
 The door opened ; Waife looked up in sur- 
 prise, sweeping his hand over the coins, and re- 
 storing them to his pocket. 
 The ilayor entered. 
 
 As Mr. Hartopp walked slowly up the room, 
 his eye fixed Waife's; and that eye was so search- 
 ing, though so mild, that the Comedian felt him- 
 self change color. His gay spirits fell — falling 
 lower and lower, the nearer the Mayor's step 
 came to him ; and when Hartopp, without speak- 
 ing, took his hand — not in compliment — not in 
 congratulation, but pressed it as if in deep com- 
 passion, still looking him full in the face, with 
 those pitying, penetrating eyes, the Actor ex- 
 perienced a sort of shock, as if he were read 
 through, despite all his histrionic disguises — 
 read through to his heart's core ; and, as silent 
 as his visitor, sunk back on his chair abashed — 
 disconcerted. 
 
 Me. Hartopp. " Poor man !" 
 The Comedian (rousing himself with an ef- 
 fort, but still confused). "Down, Sir Isaac, 
 down ! This visit, Mr. Mayor, is an honor 
 which may well take a dog by surprise ! For- 
 give him !" 
 
 Mr. Hartopp (patting Sir Isaac, who was in- 
 quisitively sniffing his garments, and drawing a 
 chair close to the Actor, who thereon edged his 
 own chair a little away — in vain ; for, on that 
 movement, Mr. Hartopp advanced in propor- 
 tion). "Your dog is a very admirable and clever 
 animal ; but in the exhibition of a learned dog, 
 there is something which tends to sadden one. 
 By what privations has he been forced out of 
 his natural ways "/ By what fastings and severe 
 usage have his instincts been distorted into 
 tricks ? Hunger is a stern teacher, Sir. Chap- 
 man ; and to those whom it teaches, we can not 
 always give praise unmixed with pity." 
 I The Comedian (ill at ease under this alle- 
 I gorical tone, and surprised at quicker intelli- 
 gence in Mr. Hart0]>p than he had given that 
 person credit for) — " You speak like an oracle, 
 Mr. Mayor ; but that dog, at least, has been 
 j mildly educated, and kindly used. Inborn gen- 
 ius. Sir, will have its vent. Hum ! a most in- 
 ' telligent audience honored us to-night ; and our 
 I best thanks are due to you." 
 
 Mk. Hartopp. "Mr. Chapman, let us be 
 ' frank with each other. I am not a clever man 
 j — perhaps a dull one. If I had set up for a 
 clever man I should not be where I am now, 
 I Hush I no compliments. But my life has brought 
 I me into frequent contact with those v.-ho suffer; 
 I and the dullest of us gain a certain sharpness in 
 ' the matters to which our obsen-ation is habitu- 
 : ally drawn. You took me in at first, it is true. 
 I I thought you were a philanthropical humorist, 
 ' who might have crotchets, as many benevolent 
 men, with time on their hands and money in 
 I their pockets, are apt to form. But when it came 
 to the begging hat (I ask your pardon — don't let 
 j me offend you) — when it came to the begging 
 ' hat, I recognized the man who wants philan- 
 thropy from others, and whose crotchets are to 
 be regarded in a professional point of view. Sir, 
 I have come here alone, because I alone per- 
 haps see the case as it really is. Will you con- 
 ; fide in me ? you may do it safely. To be plain, 
 who and what are you ?" 
 
 The Comedian "(evasively). "What do you 
 . take me for, Mr. Mavor? What can I be other 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 77 
 
 tlian an itinerent showman, who has had resort 
 to a harmless stratagem in order to obtain an 
 audience, and create a surprise that might cov- 
 er the naked audacity of the ' begging hat?' " 
 
 Mk. Hartopp (gravely). "When a man of 
 your ability and education is reduced to such 
 stratagems, he must have committed some great 
 faults. Pray Heaven it be no worse than faults I" 
 
 The Comedian (bitterly). ''That is always 
 the way with the prosperous. Is a man unfor- 
 tunate — they say, ' Why don't he help himself?' 
 Does he try to help himself — they say, ' With 
 so much ability, why does not he help himself 
 better?' Ability and education! Snares and 
 springes, Mr. Mayor ! Ability and education ! 
 the two worst man-traps that a poor fellow can 
 put his foot into ! Aha ! Did not you say if 
 you had set up to be clever, you would not be 
 where 3"ou now are? A wise saying; I admire 
 you for it. Well, well, I and my dog have 
 amused your townsfolk ; they have amply repaid 
 us. We are public sen-ants; according as we 
 act in public — hiss us or applaud. xVre we to 
 submit to an inquisition into our private charac- 
 ter? Are you to ask how many mutton bones 
 has that dog stolen I how many cats has he wor- 
 ried! or how many shirts has the showman in 
 his wallet ! how many debts has he left behind 
 him ! what is his rent-roll on earth, and his ac- 
 count with heaven! — go and put those questions 
 to ministers, philosophers, generals, poets. When 
 they have acknowledged your right to put them, 
 come to me and the other dog!" 
 
 Mr. Haktopp (rising and drawing on his 
 ploves). '■ I beg your pardon ! I have done. Sir. 
 And yet I conceived an interest in you. It is 
 because I have no talents myself that I admire 
 those who have. I felt a mournful anxiety, too, 
 for your poor little girl — so young, so engaging. 
 And is it necessaiy that you should bring up 
 that child in a course of life certainly equivocal, 
 and to females dangerous?" 
 
 The Comedian lifted his eyes suddenly, and 
 stared hard at the face of his visitor, and in that 
 face there was so much of benevolent humanity 
 — so much sweetness contending with authori- 
 tative rebuke — that the vagabond's hardihood 
 gave way ; he struck his breast and groaned 
 aloud. 
 
 Mr. Haetopp (pressing on the advantage he 
 had gained). "And have you no alarm for her 
 health? Do you not see how delicate she is? 
 Do you not see that her very talent comes from 
 her susceptibility to emotions, which must wear 
 her away ?" 
 
 Waife. "No, no! stop, stop, stop! you ter- 
 rify me, you break my heart. Man, man I it is 
 all for her that I toil, and show, and beg — if you 
 call it begging. Do you think I care what be- 
 comes of this battered hulk ? Not a straw. 
 What am I to do ? What ! what ! You tell me 
 to confide in you — wherefore? How can you 
 help me? Who can help me? Would you 
 give me employment? ^\^lat am I fit for? No- 
 thing! You could find work and bread for an 
 Irish laborer, nor ask who or what he was ; but 
 to a man who strays toward you, seemingly from 
 that sphere in which, if Poverty enters, she 
 drops a courtesy, and is called ' genteel,' you crj-, 
 ' Hold, produce your passport ; where are your 
 credential^— references?" I have none. I have 
 slipped out of the world I once moved in. I 
 
 : can no more appeal to those I knew in it than 
 
 if I had transmigrated from one of yon stars, 
 
 , and said, ' See there what I was once !' Oh, but 
 
 I you do not think she looks ill! — do vou? do 
 
 you ? Wretch that I am ! And I thought to 
 
 save her!" 
 
 The old man trembled from head to foot, and 
 , his cheek was as jjale as ashes. 
 I Again the good magistrate took his hand, but 
 ■ this time the clasp was encouraging. ''Cheer 
 I tip ; where there is a will there is a way ; you 
 i justify the opinion I formed in your favor, de- 
 spite all circumstances to the contrary. When 
 I asked you to confide in me, it was" not from 
 I curiosity, but because I would serve you, if I 
 can. Reflect on what I have said. True, vou 
 can know but little of me. Learn what is said 
 of me by my neighbors before you trust me fur- 
 ther. For the rest, to-morrow you will have 
 many proposals to renew your performance. 
 Excuse me if I do not actively encourage it. I 
 ; will not, at least, interfere to your detriment ; 
 \ but — " 
 
 j "But," exclaimed Waife, not much heeding 
 , this address — "but you think she looks ill? you 
 j think this is injuring her ? you think I am mur- 
 i dering my grandchild — my angel of life, my 
 , aU !" 
 
 I " Not so ; I spoke too bluntly. Y'et still — " 
 I "Yes, yes; yet still — " 
 
 I "Still, if you love her so dearly, would you 
 
 I blunt her conscience and love of truth ? Were 
 
 I you not an impostor to-night ? Would you ask 
 
 her to reverence, and imitate, and pray for an 
 
 impostor?" 
 
 " I never saw it in that light !" faltered Waife, 
 struck to the soul; "never, never, so help me 
 Heaven !" 
 
 "I felt sure you did not," said the Mayor; 
 " you saw but the sport of the thing ; you "took 
 to it as a school-boy. I have known many such 
 men, with high animal spirits like yours. Such 
 men err thoughtlessly; but did they ever sin 
 consciously, they could not keep those hiu'h spir- 
 its ! Good-night, Mr. Chapman, I shall hear 
 from you again." 
 
 The door closed on the form of the visitor; 
 Waife's head sunk on his breast, and all the 
 deep lines upon brow and cheek stood forth, 
 records of mighty griefs revived — a countenance 
 so altered, now that its innocent arch play was 
 gone, that you would not have known it. At 
 length he rose very quietly, took up the candle, 
 and stole into Sophy's room. Shading the light 
 with careful hand, he looked on her face as she 
 slept. The smile was still upon the parted lip 
 — the child was still in the fairj- land of dreams. 
 But the cheek was thinner than it had been 
 weeks ago, and the little hand that rested on 
 the coverlet seemed wasted. Waife took that 
 hand noiselessly into his own ; it was hot and 
 dry. He dropped it with a look of unutterable 
 fear and anguish ; and shaking his head jiite- 
 ously, stole back again. Seating himself by the 
 table at which he had been caught counting his 
 gains, he folded his arms and rooted his gaze 
 on the floor; and there, motionless, and as if 
 in stupefied suspense of thought itself, he sate 
 till the da^n crept over the sky — till the sun 
 shone into the windows. The dog, crouched at 
 his feet, sometimes started up and whined as to 
 attract his notice: he did not heed it. The 
 
78 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 clock struck six, the house bescan to stir. The 
 chambermaid came into the room ; Waife rose 
 and took his hat, brushing its nap mechanically 
 with his sleeve. " Who did you say was the 
 best here ?" he asked with a vacant smile, 
 touchincc the chambermaid's arm. 
 
 "Sir! the best— what ?" 
 
 " The best doctor, ma'am — none of your par- 
 ish apothecaries — the best physician — Dr. Gill 
 — did you say Gill? Thank you; his address, 
 High Street. Close by, ma'am." With his 
 grand bow, such is habit I — Gentleman Waife 
 smiled graciously, and left the room. Sir Isaac 
 stretched himself, and followed. 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 In every civilized society there is found a r.ice of men 
 who retain the instincts of the aboriginal cannibal, 
 and live upon their fellow-raen as a natural food. 
 These interesting but formidable bipeds, having caught 
 their victim, invariably select one part of his body on 
 which to fasten their relentless grinders. The part 
 thus selected is peculiarly susceptible, Providence hav- 
 ing made it alive to the least nibble ; it is situated just 
 above the hip-joint, it is protected by a tesuraent of 
 exquisite fibre, vulgarly called " the Breeches pock- 
 et." The thoroughbred .Anthropophagite usually be- 
 gins with his own relations and friends; and so long 
 a-i he confines hia voracity to the domestic circle, the 
 Laws interfere little, if at all, with his venerable pro- 
 pensities. But when he has exhausted all that allows 
 itself to be edible in the bosom of private life, the Man- 
 eater falls loo.se on Society, and takes to prowling^ 
 then " Saitre qui pent!" the Laws rouse themselves, 
 put on their spectacles, call for their wigs and gowns, 
 and the Anthropophagite tuined prowler is not always 
 sure of his dinner. It is when he has arrived at this 
 stage of development that tlis Man-eater becomes of 
 importance, enters into the domain of History, and 
 occupies the thoughts of Moralists. 
 
 On' the same morning in which Waife thus 
 went forth from the " Saracen's Head" in quest 
 of the doctor, but at a later hour, a man, who, 
 to judge by the elaborate smartness of his attire, 
 and the jaunty assuranc-e of his saunter, must 
 have wandered from the gay purlieus of Regent 
 Street, threaded his way along the silent and 
 desolate thoroughfares that intersect the re- 
 motest districts of Bloomsbury. He stopped at 
 the turn into a small street still more seques- 
 tered than those which led to it, and looked up 
 to the angle on the wall wliercon the name of 
 the street should have been inscribed. But the 
 wall had been lately whitewashed, and the white- 
 wash had obliterated the expected epigraph. 
 The man muttered an impatient execration ; 
 and turning roimd as if to seek a passenger of 
 whom to make inquiry, beheld, on the opposite 
 side of the way, another man apparently engaged 
 in the same research. Involuntarily each crossed 
 over the road toward the otlier. 
 
 "Pray, Sir," quoth the second wayfarer in 
 that desert, "can you tell me if this is a street 
 that is called a Place— Poddon Place, Upper?" 
 
 "Sir," returned the sprucer wayfarer, "it is 
 the question I would have asked of you." 
 
 " Strange !" 
 
 "Very strange indeed that more than one 
 person can, in this busy age, employ himself in 
 discovering a Poddon Place ! Not "a soul to in- 
 quire of — not a shop that I see — not*an orange 
 stall !" 
 
 " Ha!" cried the other, in a hoarse sepulchral 
 voice — "Ha! there is a pot-boy! Boy — boy — 
 
 boy! I say; Hold, there! hold! Is this Pod- 
 don Place — Upper?" 
 
 "Yes, it be," answered the pot-boy, with a 
 sleepy air, caught in that sleepy atmosphere ; 
 and chiming his pewter against an area rail 
 with a dull clang, he chanted forth " Pots oho !" 
 with a note as dirge-like as that which in the 
 City of the Plague chanted "Out with the 
 dead!" 
 
 Meanwhile the two wayfarers exchanged bows 
 and parted — the sprucer wayfarer, whether from 
 the indulgence of a reflective mood, or from an 
 habitual indifterence to things and persons not 
 concerning him, ceased to notice his fellow- 
 solitary, and rather busied himself in sundry 
 little coquetries appertaining to his own person. 
 He passed his hand through his hair, rearranged 
 the cock of his hat, looked complacently at his 
 boots, which still retained the gloss of the morn- 
 ing's varnish, drew down his wristbands, and, 
 in a word, gave sign of a man who desires to 
 make au et!'ect, and feels that he ought to do it. 
 So occupied was he in this self-commune, that 
 when he stopped at length at one of the small 
 doors in the small street, and lifted his hand to 
 the knocker, he started to see that Wayfarer the 
 Second was by his side. 
 
 The two men now examined each other 
 briefly but deliberately. Wayfarer the First 
 was still young — certainly handsome, but with 
 an indescribable look about the eye and lip, 
 from which the other recoiled with an instinct- 
 ive awe — a hard look, a cynical look — a side- 
 long, quiet, defying, remorseless look. His 
 clothes were so new of gloss, that they seemed 
 put on for the first time, were shaped to the pre- 
 vailing fashion, and of a taste for colors less 
 subdued than is usual with Englishmen, yet still 
 such as a person of good mien could wear with- 
 out incurring the charge of vulgarity, though 
 liable to that of self-conceit. If you doubted 
 that the man were a gentleman, you would have 
 been puzzled to guess what else he could be. 
 Were it not for the look we have mentioned, 
 and which was perhaps not habitual, his appear- 
 ance might have been called prepossessing. In 
 his figure there was the grace, in his step the 
 elasticity, which come from just proportions and 
 muscular strength. In his hand he carried a 
 supple switch stick, slight and innocuous to ap- 
 pearance, but weighted at the handle after the 
 fashion of a life-preserver. The tone of his 
 voice was not displeasing to the ear, though 
 there might be something artificial in the swell 
 of it — the sort of tone men assume when they 
 desire to seem more frank and oflf-hand than 
 belongs to their nature — a sort of rollicking 
 tone which is to the voice what swagger is to the 
 gait. Still that look ! — it produced on you the 
 effect which might be created by sume strange 
 animal, not without beauty, but deadly to man. 
 Wayfarer the Second was big and burly, middle- 
 aged, large-whiskered, his complexion dirty. 
 He wore a wig — a wig evident, unmistakable 
 — a wig curled and rusty — over the wig a dingy 
 white hat. His black stock fitted tight round 
 his throat, and across his breast he had thrown 
 the folds of a Scotch plaid. 
 
 Waitarer the First. " You call here, too 
 — on Mrs. Crane?" 
 
 Wayf.\rer the Second. "Mrs. "Crane? — 
 you too ? Strange !" 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 79 
 
 Wattaekr the FmsT (with constrained ci- 
 vilitv). " Sir, I call on business — private busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Watfaeek the Second (with candid surli- 
 ness). " So do I." 
 
 WaTFAKER THE FlKST. "Oh!" 
 
 Wayfarer the Secosd. '• Ha I the locks un- 
 bar I"' 
 
 The door opened, and an old meagre woman- 
 sen-ant presented herself. 
 
 Wayfarer the First (gliding before the big 
 man with a serpent's undulating celerity of 
 movement;. " ilrs. Crane lives here?" — " Yes." 
 " She's at home, I suppose ?"' — '• Yes I" "Take 
 up my card ; say I come alone — not with this 
 gentleman." 
 
 Wavfarer the Second seems to have been 
 rather put out by the manner of his rival. He 
 recedes a step. 
 
 "You know the ladv of this mansion well, 
 Sir?" 
 
 " Extremely well." 
 
 " Ha I then I yield you the precedence ; I 
 yield it, Sir, but conditionally. Y'ou will not be 
 long?" 
 
 " Not a moment longer than I can help ; the 
 land will be clear for you in an hour or less." 
 
 "Or less, so please you, let it be or less. 
 Servant, Sir." 
 
 "Sir, yours. — Come, my Hebe; track the 
 dancers, that is, go up the stairs, and let me re- 
 new the dreams of youth in the eyes of Crane !" 
 
 The old woman, meanwhile, had been turning 
 over the card in her ^vithered palm, looking from 
 the card to the visitor's face, and then to the 
 card again, and mumbling to herself. At length 
 she spoke : 
 
 "Y'^ou, Mr.' Losely — you I — Jasper Losely! 
 how you be changed I what ha' ye done to your- 
 self? where's your comeliness ? where's the look 
 that stole ladies' hearts ? — you, Jasper Losely ! 
 you are his goblin I" 
 
 " Hold your peace, old hussey I" said the visit- 
 or, evidently annoyed at remarks so disparaging. 
 "I am Jasper Losely, more bronzed of cheek, 
 more iron of hand." He raised his switch with 
 a threatening gesture, that might be in play; 
 for the lips wore smiles, or might be in eJhiest, 
 for the brows were benf ; and pushing into the 
 passage, and shutting the door, said — "Is your 
 mistress up stairs ? show me to her room, or — " 
 The old crone gave him one angry glance, which 
 sunk frightened beneath the cruel gleam of his 
 eyes, and hastening up the stairs with a quicker 
 stride than her age seemed to warrant, cried out 
 — "Mistress, mistress I here is Mr, Losely! — 
 Jasper Losely himself 1" By the time the visit- 
 or had reached the landing-place of the fii^st 
 floor, a female form had emerged from a room 
 above ; — a female face peered over the banisters. 
 Losely looked up and started as he saw it. A 
 haggard face — the face of one over whose life 
 there has passed a blight. When last seen by 
 him it had possessed beauty, though of a mas- 
 culine rather than womanly character. Now of 
 that beauty not a trace 1 the cheeks sunken and 
 hollow, left the nose sharp, long, beaked as a 
 bird of prey. The hair, once glossy in its ebon 
 hue, now grizzled, harsh, neglected, hung in 
 tortured tangled meshes — a study for an artist 
 who would paint a fury. But the eyes were 
 bright — brighter than ever ; bright now with a 
 
 glare that lighted up the whole face bending 
 over the man. In those burning eyes was there 
 love ? was there hate ? was there welcome ? was 
 there menace ? Impossible to distinguish ; but 
 at least one might perceive that there was joy. 
 
 "So," said the voice from above, "so we do 
 meet at last, Jasper Losely ; you are come !" 
 
 Drawing a loose kind of dressing-robe more 
 closely round her, the mistress of the house now 
 descended the stairs— rapidly, flittingly, with a 
 step noiseless as a spectre's, and, grasjiingLose- 
 ly firmly by the hand, led him into a chill, dank, 
 sunless drawing-room, gazing into his face fix- 
 edly all the while. 
 
 He winced and writhed. "There, there, let 
 us sit down, my dear Mrs. Crane." 
 
 " And once I was called Bella," 
 
 "Ages ago! Basta! All things have their 
 end. Do take those eyes of yours off my face ; 
 they were always so bright I — and really now 
 they are perfect burning glasses ! How close it 
 is. Peuh ! I am dead tired. ^lay I ask for a 
 glass of water — a drop of wine in it — or — bran- 
 dy will do as well ?" 
 
 " Ho ! yon have come to brandy, and morning 
 drams — eh, Jasper?" said Mrs. Crane, with a 
 strange, dreary accent. "I too once tried if 
 fire could bum up thought, but it did not suc- 
 ceed with me ; that is years ago ; — and — there 
 — see, the bottles are full still !" 
 
 While thus speaking, she had unlocked a 
 chiffonier of the shape usually found in "gen- 
 teel lodgings," and taken out a leather spirit- 
 case containing four bottles, with a couple of 
 wine-glasses. This case she placed on the table 
 before Mr. Losely, and contemplated him at leis- 
 ure while he helped himself to the raw spirits. 
 
 As she thus stood, an acute student of Lava- 
 ter might have recognized, in her harsh and 
 wasted countenance, signs of an original nature 
 superior to that of her visitor ; on her knitted 
 brow, a sense higher in quality than on his 
 smooth, low forehead; on her straight, stem 
 lip, less cause for distnist than in the false good- 
 humor which curved his handsome mouth into 
 that smile of the fickle, which, responding to 
 mirth but not to affection, is often lighted and 
 never warmed. It is true that in that set press- 
 ure of her lip there might be cruelty, and, still 
 more, the secretiveness which can harbor de- 
 ceit ; and yet, by the nenous workings of that 
 lip, when relieved from such pressure, you would 
 judge the woman to be rather by natural tem- 
 perament passionate and impulsive than sys- 
 tematically cruel or deliberately false — false or 
 cruel only as some predominating passion be- 
 came the soul's absolute tvrant, and adopted the 
 tyrant's vices. Above all, in those very lines de- 
 structive to beauty, that had been plowed, not 
 by time, over her sallow cheekS, there was writ- 
 ten the susce])tibility to grief, to shame, to the 
 sense of fall, which was not visible in the unre- 
 flective reckless aspect of the sleek human ani- 
 mal before her. 
 
 In the room, too, there were some evidences 
 of a cultivated taste. On the walls, book- 
 shelves, containing volumes of a decorous and 
 severe literature, such as careful parents allow 
 to studious daughters — the stately master-pieces 
 of Fenelon and Racine — selections, approved by 
 boarding-schools, from Tasso, Dante, Metasta- 
 sio ; — among English authors, Addison, John- 
 
80 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 son, Blair (his lectures as well as sermons) — ; bounding all return for loval sacrifice to the 
 elementary works on such sciences as admit fe- honor you vouchsafed in accepting it !" 
 male neophytes into their porticoes if not into Uttering this embittered irony, which never- 
 their penetralia — botany, chemistry, astronomy, theless seemed rather to please than to offend 
 Prim as soldiers on parade stood the books — not ^ her guest, she kept moving about the room, and 
 a gap in their ranks — evidently never now dis- i (whether from some drawer in the furniture, or 
 placed for recreation — well bound, yet faded, : from her own person, Losely's careless eye did 
 dnsty . — relics of a by-gone life. Some of them not observe) she suddenly drew forth a minia- 
 miglit' perliaps have" been prizes at school, or ture, and, placing it before him, exclaimed, 
 birth-dav gifts from proud relations. There, : " Ah, but you are altered from those days — see 
 too, on the table, near the spirit-case, lay open what you then were I" Losely's gaze thus abrupt- 
 a once handsome work-box — no silks now on ly invited, fixed itself on the effigies of a youth 
 the skeleton reels— discolored, but not by use, eminently handsome, and of that kind of beauty 
 in its nest of tarnished silk, slept the golden which, without being effeminate, approaches to 
 thimble. There, too, in the corner, near a mu- the fineness and brilliancy of the female coun- 
 sic-stand piled high with musical compositions tenance — a beauty which renders its possessor 
 of various schools and graduated complexity, inconveniently conspicuous, and too often, by 
 from ''lessons for beginners" to the most ardu- winning that ready admiration which it costs no 
 ous gamut of a Gerroan oratorio, slunk pathet- effort to obtain, withdraws the desire of applause 
 ically a poor lute harp, the strings long since from successes to be achieved by labor, and hard- 
 broken. There, too, by the window, hung a ens egotism by the excuses it lends to self-es- 
 wire bird-cage, the bird' long since dead. In a teem. It is true that this handsome face had 
 word, round The woman gazing on Jasper Losely, not the elevation bestowed by thoughtful ex- 
 as he' complacently drank his brandy, grouped pression : but thoughtful expression is not the 
 the forlorn tokens of an early state — the lost attribute a painter seeks to give to the abstract 
 golden age of happy girlish studies, of harmless comeliness of early youth — and it is seldom to 
 ■■•irlish taltes. ' ■ be acquired without that constitutional wear and 
 
 " Basta — eno','' said Mr. Losely, pushing aside tear which is injurious to mere physical beauty, 
 the glass which he had twice filled and twice And over the whole countenance was diffused a 
 drained — " to business. Let me see the child — \ sunny light, the freshness of thoughtless health, 
 
 I feel up to it now." 
 
 A darker shade fell over Arabella Crane's 
 face as she said : 
 
 "The child — she is not here! I have dis- 
 posed of her long ago." 
 
 "Eh I disposed of her! what do you mean?" 
 
 of luxuriant vigor, so that even that arrogant 
 vanity which an acute observer might have de- 
 tected as the prevailing mental characteristic, 
 seemed but a glad exultation in the gifts of be- 
 nignant nature. Not there the look which, in 
 the matured man gazing on the briglit ghost of 
 
 Do you ask as if you feared I "had put her his former self, might have daunted the timid 
 out of the world? No"! Well, then — you come and warned the wise. "And I was like this, 
 to England to see the child ? You miss — you , True I I remember well when it was taken, and 
 love, the child of that — of that — " She paused, ' no one called it flattering," said Mr. Losely, with 
 checked herself, and added in an altered voice pathetic self-condolence. " But I can't be very 
 — "of that honest, high-minded gentlewoman, much changed," he added, with a half laugh, 
 whose memory must be so dear to me — you love "At my age one may have a manlier look, 
 
 that child; very natural, Jasper." 
 
 " Love her! a child I have scarcely seen since 
 she was born ! — do talk common sense. No. 
 But have I not told you that she ought to be 
 money's worth to me — ay, and she shall be yet, 
 despite that proud man's disdainful insolence 
 
 yet — 
 
 "Yet still be handsome, Jasper," said Mrs. 
 Crane. ' ' You are so. But look at me — what 
 am I ?" 
 
 '• Oh, a yen,' fine woman, my dear Crane — 
 always were. But you neglect yourself; you 
 
 'That proud man — what ! you have ventured should not do that ; keep it up to the last. Well, 
 to address him — visit him — since your return to but to return to the child. You have disposed 
 England ?" of her without my consent, without letting me 
 
 " Of course. That's what brought me over, i know." 
 I imagined the man would rejoice at what I told | "Letting you know ! How many years is if 
 him — -open his purse-strings — lavish blessings since you even gave me your address? Never 
 and bank-notes. And the brute would not even fear, she is in good hands." 
 believe me — all because — " i "Whose? At all events I must see her." 
 
 "Because you had sold the right to be be- "See her! "VMiat for?" 
 lieved before." I told you, when I took the child, , " 'SMiat for ! Hang it, it is natural that, now 
 that you w^ould never succeed there — that I I am in England, I should at least wish to know 
 would never encourage you in the attempt. But , what she is like. And I think it very strange 
 
 you had sold the futtu-e, as you sold your past 
 — too cheaply, it seems, Jasper." 
 
 "Too cheaply, indeed. Who could ever have 
 supposed that I should have been fobbed off with 
 such a pittance ?" 
 
 "Who, indeed, Jasper! You were made to 
 spend fortunes, and call them pittances when 
 spent, Jasper ! You should have been a prince, 
 Jasper — such princely tastes! Trinkets and 
 dress, horses and dice, and plenty of ladies to 
 look and die! Such princely spirit too! — 
 
 that you should send her away, and then make 
 all these difficulties. "SMiat's your object? I 
 don't understand it." 
 
 "My object! What could be my object but 
 to serve you ? At your request I took, fed, rear- 
 ed a child, whom you could not expect me to 
 love, at my own cost. Did I ever ask you for a 
 shilling ? ' Did I ever suffer you to give me one ? 
 Never ! At last, hearing no more from you, and 
 what little I heard of yon, making me think that 
 if any thing happened to me (and I was very ill 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 81 
 
 at the time), you could only find her a burden ; " Hanged!" said Mrs. Crane, 
 at last, I sav, the old man came to me — you had " Of course, hanged," returned Losely, re- 
 given him my address — and he oftered to take suming the reckless voice and manner in which 
 her, and I consented. She is with him." there was that peculiar levity which comes from 
 "The old man! She is with him! And hardness of heart, as from the steel's hardness 
 
 where is he ?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " Humph ! How does he live ? 
 got any money ?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " Did any old friends take him up ?" 
 Would he go to old friends 
 
 comes the blade's play. "But if a man did not 
 
 sometimes forget consequences, there would be 
 
 Can he have , an end of the gallows. I am glad that his eye 
 
 j never left mine." And the leaden head of the 
 
 , switch fell with a dull, dumb sound on the floor. 
 
 Mrs. Crane made no immediate rejoinder, but 
 
 fixed on her lawless visitor a cazc in which there 
 
 Mr. Losely tossed off two fresh glasses of | was no womanly fear (though Loscly'sasiiect and 
 brandy, one after the other, and, rising, walked | gesture might have sent a thrill tlnough the 
 to and fro the room, his hands buried in his \ nerves of many a hardy man), but wiiich was not 
 pockets, and in no comfortable vein of reflec- without womanly compassion, her countenance 
 tion. At length he paused, and said, "Well, ! gradually softening more and more, as jf under 
 upon the whole, I don't see what I could do the influence of recollections mournful but not 
 with the girl just at present, though, of course, hostile. At length she said, in a low voice, 
 I ought to know where she is, and with whom. "Poor Jasper! Is all the vain ambition that 
 Telline, Mrs. Crane, what is she like — pretty made you so false shrunk into a ferocity that 
 or plain ?" finds you so powerless ? Would your existence, 
 
 " I suppose the chit would be called pretty — after all, have been harder, poorer, meaner, if 
 by some persons at least." , your faith had been kept to me !" 
 
 ' " T'f ''3/ pretty ? handsome ?" asked Losely, ab- I Evidently disliking that turn in the conversa- 
 ruptlv. ' tion, but checking a reply that might have been 
 
 " Handsome or not, what does it signify ? rude had no visions of five pounds — ten pounds 
 what good comes of beauty ? You had beauty — loomed in the distance, Mr. Losely said, 
 enough ; what have you done with it ?" ' i " Pshaw ! Bella, pshaw ! I was a fool, I dare 
 
 At that question Losely drew himself up with ! say, and a sad dog — a very sad dog ; but I had 
 a sudden loftiness of look and gesture, which, always the greatest regard for you, and always 
 though prompted but by oflended vanity, im- shall! Hillo, what's that? A knock at the 
 proved the expression of the countenance, and door ! Oh, by-the-by, a queer-looking man, in 
 restored to it much of its earlier character. ' a white hat, called at the same time I did, to 
 Mrs. Crane gazed on him, startled into admira- I see you on private business — gave way to me — 
 tion, and it was in an altered voice, half re- j said he should come again ; may I ask who he 
 proachful, half bitter, that she continued — is ?" 
 
 "And now that you are satisfied about her, "I can not guess; no one ever calls here on 
 have vou no questions to ask about me — what business, except the tax-gatherer." 
 I do— ^how I live?" The old woman-servant now entered. "A 
 
 "ily dear :Mrs. Crane, I know that you are i gentleman, ma'am— says his name is Rugge." 
 comfortably ofi", and were never of a mercenary | "Rugge — Rugge— let me think." 
 
 temper. I trust you are happy, and so forth — 
 I wish I were ; things don't prosper with me. 
 If you could conveniently lend me a five-pound 
 note — " 
 
 * ' You would borrow of me, Jasper ? Ah ! 
 you come to me in your troubles. You shall 
 have the money — five pounds — ten pounds — 
 what you please, but you will call again for it ? 
 you need me now — you will not utterly desert 
 me now?" 
 
 ' ' Best of creatures ! never !" He seized her 
 hand, and kissed it. She withdrew it quickly 
 from his clasp, and, glancing over him from 
 head to foot, said, "But are you really in need? 
 you are well-dressed, Jasper; that you always 
 were." 
 
 "Xot always; three days ago very much the 
 reverse ; but I have had a trifling aid, and — " 
 
 "Aid in England? from whom? where? Not 
 from him whom, you say, you had the courage 
 to seek ?" 
 
 "From whom else? Have I no claim? A 
 miserable alms flung to me. Curse him ! I tell 
 you that man's look and language so galled me 
 — so galled," echoed Losely, shifting his hold 
 from the top of his switch to the centre, and 
 bringing the murderous weight of the lead down 
 on the palm of his other hand, " that, if his eye 
 had quitted me for a moment, I think I must 
 have brained him, and been — " 
 
 I am here, Mrs. Crane," said the manager, 
 striding in. "You don't perhaps call me to 
 mind by name ; but — oho — not gone, Sir ! Do 
 I intrude prematurely?" 
 
 "Xo, I have done; good-day, my dear Mrs. 
 Crane." 
 
 "Stay, Jasper. I remember you now, Mr. 
 Rugge ; take a chair." 
 
 She whispered a few words into Losely's ear, 
 then turned to the manager, and said aloud, 
 " I saw you at ^Ir. Waife's lodging, at the time 
 he had that bad accident." 
 
 "And I had the honor to accompany you 
 home, ma'am, and — hut shall I speak out be- 
 fore this gentleman?" 
 
 " Certainly ; you see he is listening to you 
 with attention. This gentleman and I have no 
 secrets from each other. What has become of 
 that person ? Tiiis gentleman wishes to know." 
 
 Losely. "Y'es, Sir, I wish to know— particu- 
 larly." 
 
 RcGGE. " So do I ; that is partly what I came 
 about. You are aware, I think, ma'am, that I 
 engaged him and Juliet Araminta — that is, 
 Sophy." 
 
 Losely. "Sophy— engaged them. Sir — how?" 
 
 Rugge. "Theatrical line. Sir— Rugge's Ex- 
 hibition ; he was a great actor once, that fellow 
 Waife." 
 
 Loselt. "Ob, actor! — well, Sir, go on." 
 
82 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 RuGGE (who in the course of his address turns 
 from the lady to the gentleman, from the gentle- 
 man to the lady, with appropriate gesture and 
 appealing look). "But he became a wreck, a 
 block of a man ; lost an eye and his voice too. 
 However, to serve him, I took his grandchild and 
 him too. He left me — shamefully, and ran off 
 with his grandchild, Sir. Now, ma'am, to be 
 plain with you, that little girl I looked upon as 
 my property — a very valuable property. She is 
 worth a great deal to me, and I have been done 
 out of her. If you can help me to get her back, 
 articled and engaged say for three years, I am 
 willing and happy, ma'am, to pay something 
 handsome — uncommon handsome." 
 
 Mrs. Ckane (loftily). " Speak to that gentle- 
 man — he may treat with you." 
 
 LosELT. " Whatdo you call uncommon hand- 
 some, Mr. — Mr. Tugge?" 
 
 RuGGE. "Rugge! Sir; we shan't disagree, I 
 hope, provided you have the power to get Waife 
 to bind the girl to me." 
 
 LosELY. "I may have the power to transfer 
 the young lady to your care ; young lady is a 
 more respectful phrase than girl ; and possibly 
 to dispense with Mr. Waife's consent to such ar- 
 rangement. But excuse me if I say that I must 
 know a little more of yourself before I could 
 promise to exert such a power on your behalf." 
 
 Rugge. "Sir, I shall be proud to improve 
 our acquaintance. As to Waife, the old vaga- 
 bond, he has injured and alfronted me. Sir. I 
 don't bear malice, but I have a spirit — Britons 
 have a sjjirit, Sir. And you will remember, 
 ma'am, tluit when I accompanied you home, I 
 observed that Mr. Waife was a mysterious man, 
 and had apparently known better days, and that 
 when a man is mysterious, and falls into the 
 sear and yellow leaf, ma'am, without that which 
 should accompany old age. Sir, one has a right 
 to suspect that some time or other he has done 
 something or otiier, ma'am, which makes him 
 fear lest the very stones prate of his where- 
 abouts. Sir. And you did not deny, ma'am, 
 that the mystery was suspicious, but you said, 
 with uncommon good sense, that it was nothing 
 to me what Mr. Waife had once been, so long 
 as he was of use to me at that particular season. 
 Since then, Sir, he has ceased to be of use — 
 ceased, too, in tlie unhandsomest manner. And 
 if you would, ma'am, from a sense of justice, 
 just unravel the mystery, put me in possession 
 of the secret, it might make that base man of 
 use to me again — give me a handle over him. 
 Sir, so that I might awe him into restoring my 
 property, as, morally speaking, Juliet Araminta 
 most undoubtedly is. That's M'hy I call — leav- 
 ing my company, to which I am a father, or- 
 phans for the present. But I have missed that 
 little girl — that young lady. Sir. I called her a 
 phenomenon, ma'am — missed her much — it is 
 natural. Sir ; I appeal to you. No man can be 
 done out of a valuable property and not feci it, 
 if he has a heart in his bosom. And if I had 
 her back safe, I should indulge ambition. I have 
 always had ambition. The theatre at York, Sir 
 — that is my ambition; I had it from a child, 
 Sir; dreamed of it three times, ma'am. If I 
 had back my property in that phenomenon, I 
 would go at the thing, slap bang, take the York, 
 and bring out the phenomenon, with a claw !" 
 LosELY (musingly). "You say the young 
 
 lady is a phenomenon, and for this phenomenon 
 you are willing to pay something handsome — a 
 vague expression. Put it into £ s. d." 
 
 RcGGE. " Sir, if she can be bound to me le- 
 gally for three years, I would give £100. I did 
 oti'er to Waife £50— to you. Sir, £100." 
 
 Losely's eyes flashed and his hands opened 
 restlessly. "But, confound it, where is she? 
 have you no clew ?" 
 
 Rugge. "No, but we can easily find one; 
 it was not worth my while to hunt them up be- 
 fore I was quite sure that, if I regained my 
 property in that phenomenon, the law would 
 protect it." 
 
 Mrs. Crane (moving to the door). "Well, 
 Jasper Losely, you will sell the young lady, I 
 doubt not ; and when you have sold her, let me 
 know." She came back and whispered, "You 
 will not perhaps now want money from me, but 
 I shall see you again ; for, if you would find the 
 child, you will need my aid." 
 
 " Certainly, my dear friend, I will call again ; 
 honor bright." 
 
 Mrs. Crane here bowed to the gentlemen, and 
 swept out of the room. 
 
 Thus left alone, Losely and Rugge looked at 
 each other with a shy and yet cunning gaze — 
 Rugge's hands in his trowsers pockets, liis head 
 thrown back — Losely's hands involuntarily ex- 
 panded, his head bewitching'}' bent forward, and 
 a little on one side. 
 
 "Sir," said Rugge at length, "what do you 
 say to a chop and a pint of wine ? Rerhajis we 
 could talk more at our ease elsewhere. I am 
 only in town for a day — left my company thirty 
 miles off — orphans, as I said before." 
 
 " Mr. Rugge," said Losely, " I have no desire 
 to stay in London, or indeed in England ; and 
 the sooner we can settle this matter the better. 
 Grant that we find the young lady, you provide 
 for her board and lodging — teach her your hon- 
 orable profession — behave, of course, kindly to 
 her — " 
 
 " Like a father." 
 
 "And give to me the sum of £100?" 
 
 " That is, if you can legally make her over to 
 me. But, Sir, may I inquire by what authority 
 you would act in this matter?" 
 
 "On that head it will be easy to satisfy you; 
 meanwhile I accept your proposal of an early 
 dinner. Let us adjourn — is it to your house ?" 
 
 "I have no exact private house in London; 
 but I know a public one — commodious." 
 
 " Be it so. After you. Sir." 
 
 As they descended the stairs, the old woman- 
 servant stood at the street door. Rugge went 
 out first — the woman detained Losely. 
 
 "Do you find her altered?" 
 
 "Whom? Mrs. Crane? — why, years Avill tell. 
 But you seem to have known me — I don't re- 
 member you." 
 
 "Not JBridgett Greggs?" 
 
 " Is it possible ? I left you a middle-aged, 
 rosy-faced woman. True, I recognize you now. 
 There's a crown for you. I wish I had more to 
 spare !" 
 
 Bridgett pushed back the silver. 
 
 "No — I dare not! Take money from you, 
 Jasper Losely ! Mistress would not forgive 
 me!" 
 
 Losely, not unreluctantly, restored the crown 
 to his pocket ; and, with a snort, rather than sigh, 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 83 
 
 of relief, stepped into open daylight. As he "They have not gone to London. What could 
 crossed the street to join Rugge, who was wait- they do there ? Any man with a few stage, 
 ing for him on the shady side, he mechanically juggling tricks can get on in country villages, 
 turned to look back at the house,. and, at the but would be lost in cities. Perhaps, as it seems 
 open window of an upper story, he beheld again he has got a dog — we have found out that from 
 those shining eyes which had glared down 'on Jlrs. Saunders — he will make use of it for an 
 him from the stairs. He tried to smile, and itinerant puppct-sliow." 
 
 waved his hand feebly. The eyes seemed to re- j " Punch 1" said ^Ir. liuggc — " not a doubt of 
 turn the smile; and as he walked down tlie it." 
 
 street, arm in arm with the ruffian manager, " In that case," observed Mrs. Crane, " they 
 slowly recovering his springy step, and in the , are jirobably not far off. Let us print handbills, 
 gloss of the new garments that set forth his still ] offering a reward for their clew, and luring the 
 symmetrical proportions, the eyes followed him | old man himself by an assurance that the in- 
 watchfully — steadfastly — till his form had van- quiry is made in order that he may learn of 
 ished, and the dull street was once more a soli- something to his advantage." 
 tude. I In the course of the evening the handbills 
 
 Then Arabella Crane turned from the window. | were printed. The next day they were posted 
 Putting her hand to her heart, " How it beats !" i up on the walls, not only of that village, but oa 
 she muttered ; " if in love or in hate, in scorn [ those of the small towns and hamlets for some 
 or in pity, beats once more with a human emo- , miles round. The handbills ran invitingly thus: 
 
 tion. lie will come again — whether for money ] '"If William Waife, who left on the 20th 
 
 or for woman's wit, what care I — he will come. ' ult., will apply at the Red Lion Inn at , for 
 
 — I will hold, I will cling to him, no more to part X. X., he will learn of something greatly to his 
 — for better, for worse, as it should have been ' advantage. A reward of £o will be given to 
 once at the altar. And the child ?" she paused ; any one who will furnish information where the 
 was it in compunction ? '• The child I" she con- i said William Waife, and the little girl who ac- 
 tinued, fiercely, and as if lashing herself into , companies him, may be found. The said Will- 
 rage, "The child of that treacherous, hateful iam Waife is about sixty years of age, of middle 
 mother — yes! I will help him to sell her back stature, strongly built, has lost one eye, and is 
 as a stage-show — help him in all that docs not lame of one leg. The little girl, called Sophy, 
 lift her to a state from which she may look down is twelve years old, but looks younger ; has blue 
 with disdain on me. Revenge on her, on that i eyes and light brown hair. They had with them 
 cruel house — revenge is sweet. Oh ! that it , a white French poodle dog. This bill is printed 
 were revenge alone that bids me cling to him by the friends of the missing party." The next 
 who desen"es revenge the most." She closed day passed — no information ; but on the day 
 her burning eyes, and sat down droopingly, rock- following, a young gentleman of good mien, 
 
 ing herself to and fro like one in pain. 
 
 dressed in black, rode into the town, stopped at 
 the Red Lion Inn, and asked to see X. X. The 
 two men were out on their researches — Mrs. 
 Crane staid at home to answer inquiries. 
 
 The gentleman was requested to dismount, 
 and walk in. Mrs. Crane received him in the 
 inn parlor, which swarmed with flies. She stood 
 in the centre — vigilant, gi-im spider of the place. 
 
 " I ca-ca-call," said the gentleman, stammer- 
 ing fearfully, " in con-con-sequence of a b-b-bill 
 • — I — ch-chanced to see in my ri-ri-ri-ride yes- 
 terday — on a wa-wa-wall : — You — you, I — sup- 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 In life it is diflBcult to say who do you the most mischief, 
 enemies with the worst intentions, or friends with the 
 best. 
 
 The conference between Mr. Rugge and Mr. 
 Losely terminated in an appointment to meet, 
 the next day, at the village in which this story 
 opened. Meanwhile Mr. Rugge would return 
 to his "orphans," and arrange performances in sup- 
 
 which, for some days, they might dispense with ! " Am X. X.," put in Mrs. Crane, growing im- 
 a Father's part. Losely, "on his side, undertook ' patient, '-one of the friends of Mr. Waife, by 
 to devote the intervening hours to consultation whom the handbill has been circulated; it will 
 with a solicitor, to whom Jlr. Rugge recom- indeed be a great relief to us to know where they 
 mended him, as to the prompt obtaining of legal are — the little girl more especially." 
 powers to enforce the authority he asserted him- ! Jlrs. Crane was respectably dressed — in silk, 
 self to possess. He would also persuade Jlrs. i iron-gray; she had crisped her flaky tresses into 
 Crane to accompany him to the village, and aid stiff, hard ringlets, that fell like long screws 
 in the requisite investigations — entertaining a from under a black velvet band. Mrs. Crane 
 tacit but instinctive belief in the superiority of never wore a caji — nor could you fancy her in a 
 her acuteness. " Set a female to catch a fe- cap ; but the velvet band looked as rigid as if 
 male," quoth Mr. Rugge. gummed to a hoop of steel. Her manner and 
 
 On the day and in the place thus fixed, the tone of voice were those of an educated pei-son, 
 three hunters opened their chase. They threw not unused to some society above the vulgar ; 
 off at the cobbler's stall. They soon caught the and yet the visitor, in whom the reader recog- 
 same scent which had been followed by the law- nizes the piscatorial Oxonian, with wliom Waife 
 yer's clerk. They arrived at Mrs. Saunders's — had interchanged philosojihy on the marge of 
 there the two men would have been at fault like ' the running brooklet, drew back as she advanced 
 their predecessor. But the female was more and spoke ; and, bent on an errand of kindness, 
 astute. To drop the metaphor, Mrs. Saunders he was seized with a vague misgiving, 
 could not stand the sharp cross-examination of i Mrs. Craxe (blandly). " I fear they must be 
 one of her own sex. "That woman deceives badly off. I hope they are not wanting the 
 us," said Jlrs. Crane, on leaving the house, necessaries of life. But pray be seated, Sir." 
 
84 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 She looked at him again, and with more respect 
 in her address than she had before thrown into 
 it, added, with a half courtesy, as she seated 
 herself by his side, " A clergyman of the Estab- 
 lished Church, I presume. Sir?" 
 
 Oxonian (stammer, as on a former occasion, 
 respectfully omitted). "With this defect, ma'am ! 
 But to the point. Some days ago I happened 
 to fall in with an elderly person, such as is de- 
 scribed, with a very pretty female child, and a 
 French dog. Tlie man — gentleman, perhaps, I 
 may call him, judging from his conversation — 
 interested me much ; so did the little girl. And 
 if I could be the means of directing real friends 
 anxious to serve them — " 
 
 Mrs. Ckane. "You would indeed be a bene- 
 factor. And where are they now. Sir?" 
 
 Oxonian. " That I can not positively tell you. 
 But before I say more, will you kindly satisfy 
 my curiosity ? He is perhaps an eccentric per- 
 son — this Mr. Waife ? — a little — " The Oxonian 
 stopped, and touched his forehead. ]\Irs. Crane 
 made no prompt reply — she was musing. Un- 
 warily the scholar continued : " Because, in that 
 case, I should not like to interfere. So many 
 persons are shut up, where there is no insanity ; 
 but where there is property — " 
 
 Mrs. Crane. " Quite right. Sir. His friends 
 would not interfere with his roving ways, his lit- 
 tle whims, on any account. Poor man, why 
 should they? No property at all for them to 
 covet, I assure you. But it is a long story. I 
 had the care of that dear little girl from her in- 
 fancy ; sweet child !" 
 
 Oxonian. " So she seems." 
 
 Mrs. Crane. " And now she has a most com- 
 fortable home provided for her; and a young 
 girl, with good friends, ought not to be tramp- 
 ing about the country, whatever an old man 
 may do. You must allow that. Sir ?" 
 
 Oxonian. " Well — yes, I allow that ; it oc- 
 curred to me. But what is the man ? — the gen- 
 tleman ?" 
 
 Mrs. Crane. "Very ' eccentric,' as you say, 
 and inconsiderate, perhaps, as to the little girl. 
 We will not call it insane. Sir ; we can't bear to 
 look at it in that light. But — are you married ?" 
 
 Oxonian (blushing). "No, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Crane. "But you have a sister, per- 
 haps ?" 
 
 Oxonian. "Yes; I have one sister." 
 
 Mrs. Crane. " Would you like your sister to 
 be running about the country in that way — car- 
 ried oft' from her home, kindred, and friends?" 
 
 Oxonian. "Ah ! 1 understand. The poor lit- 
 tle girl is fond of the old man — a relation, grand- 
 father perhaps ? and he has taken her from her 
 home ; and though not actually insane, he is 
 still—" 
 
 Mrs. Crane. " An unsafe guide for a female 
 child, delicately reared, /reared her; of good 
 prospects too. Oh, Sir, let us save the child! 
 Look — " She drew from a side-pocket in her 
 stiff' iron-gray apron a folded paper ; she placed 
 it in the Oxonian's hand ; he glanced over and 
 returned it. 
 
 " I see, ma'am. I can not hesitate after this. 
 It is a good many miles off' where I met the per- 
 sons whom I have no doubt that you seek ; and 
 two or three days ago my father received a let- 
 ter from a very worthy, excellent man, with 
 whom he is ofte'n brought into communication 
 
 upon benevolent objects — a Mr. Ilartopp, the 
 Mayor of Gatesboro', in which, among otlier 
 matters, the mayor mentioned briefly that the 
 Literary Institute of that town had been much 
 delighted by the performance of a very remark- 
 able man with one eye, about whom there seem- 
 ed some mystery, with a little girl and a learn- 
 ed dog ; and I can't help thinking that the man, 
 the girl, and the dog must be those whom I saw 
 and you seek." 
 
 Mrs. Crane. "At Gatesboro'? — is that far?" 
 
 " Some way ; but you can get a cross train 
 from this village. I hope that the old man will 
 not be separated from the little girl ; they seem- 
 ed very fond of each other." 
 
 " No doubt of it — very fond ; it would be cru- 
 el to separate them. A comfortable home for 
 both. I don't know, Sir, if I dare oft'er to a 
 gentleman of your evident rank the reward — 
 but for the poor of your parish." 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, our poor want for nothing. My 
 father is rich. But if you would oblige me by a 
 line after you have found these interesting jjcr- 
 Rons — I am going to a distant part of the coun- 
 try to-morrow — to Montford Court, in 
 
 shire." 
 
 Mrs. Crane. " To Lord Montfort, the head 
 of the noble family of Vipont ?" 
 
 Oxonian. " Yes. You know any of the fam- 
 ily, ma'am? If you could refer me to one of 
 them, I should feel more satisfied as to — " 
 
 Mrs. Crane (hastily). "Indeed, Sir, every 
 one must know that great family by name and 
 repute. I know no more. So you are going to 
 Lord Montford's ! The Marchioness, they say, 
 is very beautiful !" 
 
 Oxonian. " And good as beautiful. I have 
 the honor to be comiected both with her and 
 Lord Montfort ; they are cousins, and my grand- 
 father was a Vipont. I should have told you 
 my name — Morley ; George Vipont Morley." 
 
 ]Mrs. Crane made a profound courtesy, and, 
 with an unmistakable smile of satisfaction, said, 
 as if half in sohloquy, " So it is to one of that 
 noble family — to a Vipont — that the dear child 
 will owe her restoration to my embrace ! Bless 
 you, Sir!" 
 
 " I hope I have done right," said George Vi- 
 pont Morley, as he mounted his horse. " I 
 must have done right, surely !" he said, again, 
 when he was on the high-road. " I fear I have 
 not done right," he said, a third time, as the 
 face of Mrs. Crane began to haunt him; and 
 when, at sunset, he reached his home, tired out, 
 horse and man, with an unusually long ride, 
 and the green water-bank on which he had 
 overheard poor Waife's simple grace and joyous 
 babble came in sight, " After all," he said, dole- 
 fully, " it was no business of mine. I meant 
 well, but — " His little sister ran to the gate to 
 greet him. " Yes, I did quite right. How should 
 I like my sister to be roving the country, and 
 acting at Literary Institutes with a poodle dog ? 
 Quite right. Kiss me, Jane !" 
 
 CHAPTER XVHL 
 
 Let a king and a beggar converse freely together, and it 
 is the beggar's fault if he does not say something which 
 makes the king lift his hat to him. 
 
 The scene shifts back to Gatesboro', the fore- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 noon of the day succeeding the memorable Ex- 
 hibition at the' Institute of that learned town. 
 Mr. Hartopp was in the little parlor behind his 
 countrv-house, his hours of business much 
 broken into by those intruders who deem no 
 time unseasonable for the indulgence of curios- 
 itv, the interchancje of thought, or the interests 
 of general humanity and of national enlighten- 
 ment. The excitement produced on the pre- 
 vious evening by Mr. Chapman, Sophy, and Sir 
 Isaac, was preatly on the increase. Persons who 
 had seen them naturally called on the Mayor to 
 talk over the Exhibition. Persons who had not 
 seen them stilL more naturally dropped in just 
 to learn what was really llr. Mayor's private 
 opinion. The little parlor was thronged by a 
 regular levee. There was the proprietor of a 
 dismal building, still called "The Theatre," 
 which was seldom let except at election-time, 
 when it was hired by the popular candidate for 
 the delivery of those harangues upon liberty and 
 conscience", tyranny and oppression, which fur- 
 nish the staple of declamation equally to the 
 dramatist and the orator. Tliere was also the 
 landlord of the Royal Hotel, who had latch- 
 built to his house " The City Concert-room" — 
 a superb apartment, but a losing speculation. 
 There, too, were three highly respectable per- 
 sons, of a serious turn of mind, who came to 
 suggest doubts whether an entertainment of so 
 frivolous a nature was not injurious to the mo- 
 ralitv of Gatesboro'. Besides these notables, 
 there were loungers and gossips, with no partic- 
 ular object except that of ascertaining who Mr. 
 Chapman was by birth and parentage, and sug- 
 gesting the expediency of a deputation ostensi- 
 bly for the purpose of asking him to repeat his 
 pe'rformance, but charged with private instruc- 
 tions to cross-examine him as to his pedigree. 
 The gentle Mayor kept his eyes fixed on a 
 mighty ledger-book, pen in hand. The attitude 
 was a rebuke on intruders, and in ordinary times 
 would have been so considered. But mildness, 
 however majestic, is not always effective in pe- 
 riods of civic commotion. The room was ani- 
 mated by hubbub. You caught broken sen- 
 tences here and there crossing each other, like 
 the sounds that had been frozen in the air, and 
 set free by a thaw, according to the veracious 
 narrative of Baron Munchausen. 
 
 Plat-hocse Peopeietoe. " The theatre is 
 the—" 
 
 Seeious Gen-tlemak. "Plausible snare by 
 which a population, at present grave and well- 
 disposed, is decoyed into becoming — " 
 
 Excited Admieee. "A French poodle, Sir, 
 that plays at dominoes like a — " 
 
 Cbedclocs Cokjectueer. "Benevolent phil- 
 anthropist, condescending to act for the benefit 
 of some distressed brother who is — " 
 
 Pkofrietoe of City Coxcekt-Room. "One 
 hundred and twenty feet long by forty, Mr. 
 Mayor ! Talk of that damp theatre, Sir I — you 
 might as well talk of the — " 
 
 Suddenly the door flew open, and, pushing 
 aside a clerk who designed to announce him, in 
 burst Mr. Chapman himself. 
 
 He had evidently expected to find the Mayor 
 alone, for at the sight of that throng he check- 
 ed himself, and stood mute at the threshold. 
 The levee, for a moment, was no less surprised, 
 and no less mute. But the good folks soon re- 
 
 covered themselves. To many it was a pleas- 
 ure to accost and congratulate the man who, the 
 night before, had occasioned to them emotions 
 so agreeable. Cordial smiles broke out — friend- 
 ly hands were thrust forth. Brief but hearty 
 compliments, mingled with entreaties to renew 
 the performance to a larger audience, were 
 showered round. The Comedian stood, hat in 
 hand, mechanically passing his sleeve over its 
 nap, muttering, half inaudibly, " You see before 
 you a man" — and turning his single eye from 
 one face to the other, as if struggling to guess 
 wliat was meant, or where he was. The Mayor 
 rose and came fonvard. " My dear friends," 
 said he, mildly, " Mr. Chapman calls by appoint- 
 ment. Perhaps he may have something to say 
 to me confidentially." 
 
 The three serious gentlemen, who had hither- 
 to remained aloof, eying Mr. Chapman much 
 as three inquisitors might have eyed a Jew, 
 shook three solemn heads, and set the example 
 of retreat. The last to linger were the rival 
 proprietors of the theatre and the city concert- 
 room. Each whispered the stranger — one the 
 left ear, one the right. Each thrust into his 
 hand a printed paper. As the door closed on 
 them the Comedian let fall the papers ; his arm 
 drooped to his side ; his whole frame seemed to 
 collapse. Hartopp took him by the hand, and 
 led him gently to his own arm-chair beside the 
 table. The Comedian dropped on the chair, 
 still without speaking. 
 
 Me. H.4.ETOPP. " SVhat is the matter ? "What 
 has happened?" 
 
 Waife. " She is very ill — in a bad way ; the 
 doctor says so — Dr. Gill." 
 
 Me. Hartopp (feelingly). "Your little girl in 
 a bad way I Oh, no. Doctors always exagger- 
 ate, in order to get more credit for the cure. 
 Not that I would disparage Dr. Gill — fellow- 
 townsman — first-rate man ; still, 'tis the way 
 with doctors to talk cheerfully if one is in dan- 
 ger, and to look solemn if there is nothing to 
 fear." 
 
 Waife. " Do you think so — you have chil- 
 dren of vour own, Sir? — of her age, too? — Eh! 
 eh !" 
 
 Mr. Haetopp. "Yes ; I know all about chil- 
 dren — better, I think, than ;Mrs. H. does. What 
 is the complaint?" 
 
 Waife. " The doctor says it is low fever." 
 
 ilR. Hartopp. " Caused by nervous excite- 
 ment, perhaps." 
 
 Waife (looking up). "Yes — that's what he 
 savs — nervous excitement." 
 
 Mr. Hartopp. "Clever, sensitive children, 
 subjected precociously to emulation and emo- 
 tion, are always liable to such maladies. 3Iy 
 third girl, Anna Maria, fell into a low fever, 
 caused by nervous excitement in trjing for 
 school prizes." 
 
 Waife. "Did she die of it. Sir?" 
 
 Me. Haetopp (shuddering). "Die — Xo ! I 
 removed her from school — set her to take care 
 of the poultrj- — forbade all French exercises, 
 made her take English exercise instead — and 
 ride on a donkey. She's quite another thing 
 now — cheeks as red as an apple, and as firm as 
 a cricket-ball." 
 
 Waife. "I will keep poultry; I will buy a 
 donkey. Oh, Sir! you don't think she will go 
 to heaven yet, and leave me here ?" 
 
86 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Me. HLvrtopp. ' ' Not if vou give her rest and j forlorn creature, who could give no reason why 
 quiet. But no excitement — no exhibitions." he should not be rather in the Gatesboro' Parish 
 
 — ' • '■ 1 . .1.1-1 -\ Stocks than in its chief magistrate's easv-chair. 
 
 Yet were the Major's sympathetic liking and 
 respectful admiration whollv unaccountable ? 
 Euns there not between one warm human heart 
 and another the electric chain of a secret un- 
 derstanding? In that maimed outcast, so stub- 
 bomlv hard to himself — so tremulouslv sensitive 
 
 Walfe (emptring his pockets on the table). 
 '•Will vou kindlv count that monev, Sir? 
 Don't vou think that would be enough to find 
 her some prettv lodging hereabouts till she gets 
 quite strong again? With green fields — she's 
 fond of green fields, and a farm-vard with 
 ponltrv — though we were lodging a few davs ago 
 with a good woman who kept hens, and Sophv i for his sick child— was there not the majestv to 
 did not seem to take to them much. A canary ' which they who have learned that Nature has 
 
 bird is more of a companion, and — ' 
 
 Haetopp (interrupting). " Ay — ay — and you I 
 what would yon do ?" 
 
 Waife. '-Why, I and the dog would go away 
 for a little while about the country." 
 
 Haetopp. ' ' Exh ibiting ?" 
 
 Waite. "That money wiU not last forever, 
 and what can we do — I and the dog — in order 
 to get more for her ?" 
 
 Haetopp (pressing his hand warmly). "Ton 
 are a good man, Sir. I am sure of it : you can 
 not have done things which you should be afraid 
 to tell me. Make me your confidant, and I may 
 then find some employment fit for yon, and 
 
 her nobles reverently bow the head I A man, 
 true to man's grave religion, can no more de- 
 spise a life wrecked in all else, while a hallow- 
 ing afi"ection stands out subhme through the 
 rents and chinks of fortune, than he can profane 
 with rude mockery a temple in ruins — if still 
 left there the altar. 
 
 CH.VPTEK XIX. 
 Xerr well so far as it goes. 
 
 _ Me. Haetopp. " I can not presume to ques- 
 
 you need not separate yoorself from jonr little I tion you further, ilr. Chapman. But to one of 
 girl." " your* knowledge of the world, I need not say 
 
 Waife. " Separate from her .' I should only that your silence deprives me of the power to 
 leave her for a few davs at a time till she gets . assist yourself. We'll talk no more of that." 
 well. This monev wi'll keep her— how long ? i Waife. " Thank you gratefully, Mr. Mayor." 
 Two months— three ? — how long? — the Doctor Me. Haetopp. " Bat for the little girl, make 
 would not charae much." I your mind easy — at least for the present. I 
 
 Haetopp. '"You will not confide in me, then ? ; "will place her at my farm cottage. My bailiff's 
 At your age — have vou no friends — no one to , wife, a kind woman, wiU take care of her, while 
 speak a gw>d word for you?" | you pursue your calling elsewhere. As for this 
 
 Does she want a good word spoken for her ? \ bit of a doctor myself. Every man blessed with 
 Heaven has written it in her face." \ a large family, in whose house there is always 
 
 Hartopp persisted no more ; the excellent some interesting case of smaU-pox, measles, 
 man was sincerely grieved at his visitor's oh- hooping-cough, scarlarina, etc., has a good pri- 
 stinate avoidance of the true question at issue; vate practice of his own. I'm not brilliant in 
 for the Mavor could have found employment for ; book-learning, 3Ir. Chapman, but as to chil- 
 a man of Waife's evident education and talent. ', dren's complaints in a practical way" (added 
 But such employment would entail responsibil- : Hartopp. with a glow of pride), "Mrs. H. says 
 itics and trtist. ' How recommend to it a man she'd rather trust the little ones to me than Dr. 
 of vshose life and circumstances nothing could GiU. ITl see your child, and set her up, I'll be 
 be known — a man without a character? — And bound. But now I think of it,"' continued Har- 
 Waife interested him deeply. We have all topp, softening more and more, " if exhibit you 
 felt that there are some persons toward whom must, why not stay at Gatesboro' for a time ? 
 we are attracted bv a peculiar sympathy not to More may be made in this to^-n than else- 
 be explained — a something in the manner, the where." 
 
 cut of the face, the tone of the voice. If there ; "Xo, no; I could not have the heart to act 
 are fiftv applicants for a benefit in otir gift, one , here again without her. I feel at present as if 
 of the fiftv -n-ins his way to oar preference at ^ I can never again act at all I Something else 
 first sight,'though with no better right to it than ; will turn up. Providence is so kind to me, >Ir. 
 his fellows. We can no more say why we like Mayor." 
 
 the man than we can say why we faU in love \ Waife turned to the door — "You wiU come 
 with a woman in whom no one else would dis- soon ?" he said, anxiously, 
 cover a charm. " There is," says a Latin love- \ The ^Mayor, who had been locking up his 
 poet, "no why or wherefore in liking." Har- ledgers and papers, replied, "I will but stay to 
 topp, therefore, had taken, from the first mo- ' give some orders ; in a quarter of ar hour I shall 
 ment, to Waife — the staid, respectable, thriving be at your hotel" 
 man, all mtiffled up from head to foot in the 
 whitest lawn of reputation — to the wandering, 
 shifty, tricksome scatterling, who had not seem- 
 
 inglv secured, through the course of a life bor- CHAPTEPw XX. 
 
 denng upon age, a single certificate for good ^^^ ^^ ^^ ^, 
 
 conduct. On his hearthstone, beside his ledger- 
 book, stood the Mavor, looking with a respect- Sopht was lying on a sola 
 fol admiration that puzzled himself upon the window in her own room, and on her lap was 
 
 tirav.-n near tue 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 87 
 
 the doll Lionel had given to her. Carried with 
 her in her wanderings, she had never played 
 ■n-ith it ; never altered a ribbon in its yellow 
 tresses ; but at least once a day she had taken 
 it forth and looked at it in secret. And all that 
 morning, left much to herself, it had been her 
 companion. She was smoothing down its frock, 
 which she fancied had got ruffled — smoothing it 
 down with a sort of fearful tenderness, the doll 
 all the while staring her full in the face with its 
 blue bead eyes. Waife, seated near her, was 
 trying to talk gayly ; to invent tairy tales blithe 
 with sport and fancy, but his invention tlagged, 
 and the fairies prosed awfully. He had placed 
 the dominoes before Sir Isaac, but Sophy had 
 scarcely looked at them, from the languid, hea- 
 vy eyes on which the doll so stupidly fixed its 
 own. 8ir Isaac himself seemed spiritless ; he 
 was aware that something was wrong. Xow and 
 then he got up restlessly, sniffed the dominoes, 
 and placed a paw gently, very gently, on Sophy's 
 knee. Not being encouraged, he lay down again 
 uneasily, often shifting his position as if the floor 
 was grown too hard for him. Thus the Mayor 
 found the three. He approached Sophy with 
 the step of a man accustomed to sick rooms and 
 ailing children — step light as if shod with felt 
 — put his hand on her shoulder, kissed her fore- 
 head, and then took the doll. Sophy started, 
 and took it back from him quickly, but without 
 a word ; then she hid it behind her pillow. The 
 Mayor smiled — "My dear child, do you think 
 I should hurt your doll ?" 
 
 Sopliy colored, and said murmuringly, "No, 
 Sir, not hurt it, but — " she stopped short. 
 
 ' • I have been talking to your grandpapa about 
 you, my dear, and we both wish to give you a 
 little holiday. Dolls are well enough for the 
 winter, but green fields and daisy-chains for the 
 summer." 
 
 Sophy glanced from the Mayor to her grand- 
 father, and back again to the Mayor, shook her 
 curls from her eyes and looked seriously inquis- 
 itive. 
 
 The Mayor, observing her quietly, stole her 
 hand into his own, feeling the pulse as if mere- 
 ly caressing the tender wrist. Then he began 
 to descrihe his bailifl's cottage, with woodbine 
 round the porch, the farm-yard, the bee-hives, 
 the pretty duck-pond with an osier island, and 
 the great China gander who had a pompous 
 strut, which made him the drollest creature pos- 
 sible. And Sophy should go there in a day or 
 two, and be as happy as one of the bees, but not 
 so busy. 
 
 Sophy listened very earnestly, very gravely, 
 and then sliding her hand from the flavor, 
 caught hold of her grandfather's arm firmly, 
 and said, " And you, Grandy — will you like it ? 
 won't it be didl for you, Grandy, dear?" 
 
 "Why, my darling," said Waife, "I and Sir 
 Isaac will go and take a stroll about the coun- 
 try for a few weeks, and — " 
 
 SoPJiY (passionately). " I thought so ; I thought 
 he meant tliat. I tried not to believe it ; go 
 away — you ? and who's to take care of you ? 
 who'll understand you ? I want care ! I — I ! 
 No, no ,• it is you — you who want care. I shall 
 be well to-morrow — quite well, don't fear. He 
 shall not be sent away from me ; he shall not. 
 Sir. Oh, grandfather, grandfather, how could 
 you ?'' She flung herself on his breast, clinging I 
 
 there, clinging as if infancy and age were but 
 parts of the same whole. 
 
 "But," said the Mayor, "it is not as if you 
 were going to school, my dear ; you arc going 
 for a holiday. And your grandfather must 
 leave you — must travel about — 'tis his calling. 
 If you fell ill and were with him, think how 
 much you would be in his way. Do you know," 
 he added, smiling, "I shall' begin to fear that 
 you are selfish." 
 
 " Seltish !" exclaimed Waife, angi-ily. 
 
 " Selfish 1" echoed Sophy, with a melancholy 
 scorn that came from a sentiment so deep that 
 mortal eye could scarce fatliom it. " Oh, no, 
 Sir ! can you say it is for his good, not for, what 
 he supposes, mine, that you want us to part ? 
 The pretty cottage — and all for me — and what 
 for him? — tramp, tramp along the hot, dusty 
 roads. Do you see that he is lame ? Oh, Sir, 
 I know him — you don't. Selfish! he would 
 have no merry ways that make you laugh with- 
 out me; would you, Grandy, dear? Go away, 
 you are a naughty man — go, or I shall hate you 
 as much as that dreadful Mr. Rugge." 
 
 "Rugge — who is he?" said the Mayor,«curi- 
 ously, catching at any clew. 
 
 "Hush, my darling! — hush!" said Waife, 
 fondling her on his breast. "Hush! What is 
 to be done. Sir?" 
 
 Hartopp made a sly sign to him to say no 
 more before Sophy, and then replied, address- 
 ing himself to her — 
 
 "What is to be done ? Nothing shall be done, 
 my dear child, that you dislike. I don't wish 
 to part you two. Don't hate me — lie down 
 again — that's a dear. There, I have smoothed 
 your pillow for you ■ oh, here's your pretty doll 
 again." 
 
 Sophy snatched at the doll petulantly, and 
 made what the French call a 7/ioue at the good 
 man, as she suff'ered her grandfather to replace 
 her on the sofa. 
 
 " She has a strong temper of her own," mut- 
 tered the Mayor • " so has Anna Maria a strong 
 temper!" 
 
 Now, if I were any^vay master of my own pen, 
 and could write as I pleased, without being hur- 
 ried along, helter-skelter, by the tyrannical ex- 
 actions of that "young Rapid" in buskins and 
 chiton, called "The Historic IMuse," I would 
 break ofi" this chapter, open my window, rest 
 my eyes on the green lawn without, and indulge 
 in a rhapsodical digression upon that beautifier 
 of the moral life, which is called "Good Tem- 
 per." Ha! — the Historic Muse is dozing. By 
 her leave I — Softly. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 Being an Essay on Temper in general, and a hazardous 
 experiment on the reader's in particular. 
 
 There, the window is open ! how instinctive- 
 ly the eye rests upon the green I liow the calm 
 color lures and soothes it ! But is there to the 
 green only a single hue ? See how infinite the 
 variety of its tints ! What sombre gravity in 
 yon cedar, yon motionless pine-tree ! What 
 lively but unvarying laugli in yon glossy laurels! 
 Do those tints charm us like the play in the 
 young leaves of the hlac — lighter here, darker 
 
88 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 there, as the breeze (and so slight the breeze !) 
 stirs them into checker — into rijiple ? Oh sweet 
 green, to the world what sweet temper is to 
 man's life! Who would reduce into one dye 
 all thy lovely varieties? who exclude the dark 
 steadfast verdure that lives on through the win- 
 ter day ; or the mutinous caprice of the gentler, 
 vounger tint that came fresh through the tears 
 of Ajn-il, and will shadow with sportive tremor 
 the blooms of luxuriant June? 
 
 Happy the man on whose marriage-hearth 
 temper smiles kind from the eyes of woman ! 
 "No deity present," saith the heathen proverb, 
 "where absent — Pnidence" — no joy long a 
 guest where Peace is not a dweller. Peace, so 
 like Faith, that they may be taken for each 
 otlier, and poets have clad them with the same 
 vail. But in cliildhood, in early youth, expect 
 not the changeless green of the cedar. Wouldst 
 thou distinguish fine temper from spiritless dull- 
 ness, from cold simulation — ask less what the 
 temper, than what the disposition. 
 
 Is the nature sweet and trustful, is it free from 
 the morbid self-love which calls itself "sensitive 
 feeli»g," and frets at imaginary offenses ; is the 
 tendency to be grateful for kindness — yet take 
 kindness meekly, and accept as a benefit what 
 the vain call a due? From dispositions thus 
 blessed, sweet temper will come forth to glad- 
 den tliee, spontaneous and free. Quick witii 
 some, witli some slow, word and look emerge 
 out of the lieart. Be thy fi.rst question, " Is tlie 
 heart itself generous and tender?" If it be so, 
 self-control comes with deepening afl:ection. 
 Call not that a good heart which, Imstening to 
 sting if a fibre be ruffled, cries, " I am no hypo- 
 crite." Accept that excuse, and revenge be- 
 comes virtue. But where the heart, if it give 
 the offense, pines till it win back the pardon ; if 
 offended itself, bounds forth to forgive, ever 
 longing to sootlie, ever grieved if it wound ; tlien 
 be sure that its nobleness will need but few 
 trials of pain in each outbreak, to refine and 
 chastise its expression. Fear not then ; be but 
 noble thyself, thou art safe ! 
 
 Yet what in childhood is often called, rebuk- 
 ingly, " temper," is but the cordial and puissant 
 vitality which contains all the elements that 
 make temj^r the sweetest at last. Who among 
 us, how wise soever, can construe a child's 
 heart? who conjecture all the springs that se- 
 cretly vibrate within, to a touch on the surface 
 of feeling ? Eacli child, but especially the girl- 
 child, would task the whole lore of a sage, deep 
 as Shakspeare, to distinguish those subtle emo- 
 tions which we grown folks have outlived. 
 
 " She has a strong temper," said the JNtayor, 
 when Sophy snatched the doll from his hand a 
 second time, and pouted at him, spoiled child, 
 looking so divinely cross, so petulantly pretty. 
 And how on earth could the Mayor know what 
 associations with that stupid doll made her 
 think it profaned by the touch of a stranger? 
 Was it to her eyes as to his — mere wax-work 
 and frippery, or a symbol of holy remembrances, 
 of gleams into a fairer world, of " devotion to 
 something afar from the sphere of her sorrow?" 
 Was not the evidence of " strong temper" the 
 very sign of aff'ectionate depth of heart ? Poor 
 little Sophy. Hide it again — safe out of sight — 
 close, inscrutable, unguessed, as childhood's 
 first treasures of sentiment ever are ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 The object of Civilization beinjj always to settle people 
 one way or tlie other. Hie Mayor of Gatesboro' entertains 
 a statesmanliice ambition to settle Gentleman Waife: 
 no doubt a wise conception, and in accordance with the 
 genius of the Nation. — Every Session of Parliament, 
 England is employed in settling folks, whether at home 
 or at the Antipodes, who ignorantly object to be settled 
 in her way ; in short, " I'll settle them," has become a 
 vulgar idiom, tantamount to a threat of uttermost ex- 
 termination or smash. — Therefore the Jlayor of Gates- 
 boro', harboring that benignant idea with reference to 
 "Gentleman A\'aife," all kindly readers will exclaim, 
 "Dii, Meliora! What will he do with it?" 
 
 The doll once more safe behind the pillow, 
 Sophy's face gradually softened ; she bent for- 
 ward, touched the Mayor's hand timidly, and 
 looked at him with pleading, penitent eyes, still 
 wet with tears — eyes that said, though the lips 
 were silent — " I'll not hate you. I was ungrate- 
 ful and peevish ; may I beg pardon?" 
 
 "I forgive you with all my heart," cried the 
 Mayor, interpreting the look aright. ' ' And now 
 try and compose yourself and sleep while I talk 
 with your grandpapa below." 
 
 " I don't see how it is possible that I can leave 
 her," said Waife, when the two men hud ad- 
 journed to the sitting-room. 
 
 "I am sure," quoth the Mayor, seriously, "that 
 it is the best thing for her ; her pulse has much 
 nervous excitability ; she wants a complete rest ; 
 she ought not to move about with you on any 
 account. But come — though I must not know, 
 it seems, who and what you arc, Mr. Chapman 
 — I don't tliiuk you will run oft" with my cows, 
 and if you like to stay at the Bailitt"'s Cottage 
 for a week or two with your grandchild, you 
 shall be left in peace, and asked no questions. 
 I will own to you a weakness of mine — I value 
 myself on being seldom or never taken in. I 
 don't think I could forgive the man who did 
 take me in. But taken in I certainly shall be, 
 if, despite all your mystery, you are not as hon- 
 est a fellow as ever stood upon shoe-leather! 
 So come to the cottage." 
 
 Waife was very much aff'ectcd by this confid- 
 ing kindness ; but he shook his head despond- 
 ently, and that same abject, almost cringing hu- 
 mility of mien and manner which had pained, 
 at times, Lionel and Vance, crept over the whole 
 man, so that he seemed to cower and shrink as 
 a Pariah before a Brahman. "No, Sir; thank 
 you most humbly. No, Sir — that must not be. 
 I must work for my daily bread, if what a poor 
 vagabond like me may do can be called work. 
 I have made it a rule for years not to force my- 
 self to the hearth and home of any kind man, 
 who, not knowing my past, has a right to sus- 
 pect me. Where I lodge, I pay as a lodger ; or 
 whatever favor shown me spares my purse, I try 
 to return in some useful, humble way. Why, 
 Sir, how could I make free and easy with an- 
 other man's board and roof-tree for days or 
 weeks together, when I would not even come to 
 your hearthstone for a cup of tea ?" The Mayor 
 remembered, and was startled. Waife hurried 
 on. " But for my poor child I have no such 
 scruples — no. shame, no false pride. I take what 
 you off'er her gratefully — gratefully. Ah, Sir, 
 she is not in her right place with me ; but 
 there's no kicking against the pricks. Where 
 was I? Oh! well, I tell you what we will do, 
 Sir. I will take her to the Cottage in a day or 
 two — as soon as she is ■well enough to go — and 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 89 
 
 spend the dar Ti^ith her, and deceive her, Sir! 
 yes, deceive, cheat her, Sir! I am a cheat — a 
 plaver — and she'll think I'm goinci to stay with 
 her; and at night, when she's asleep, I'll creep 
 off, I and the other dog. But I'll leave a letter 
 for her — it will soothe her, and she'll be patient 
 and wait. I will come back again to see her in a 
 week, and once every week till she's well again." 
 
 " And what will you do ?" 
 
 "I don't know" — but, said the actor, forcing 
 a laugh — " I'm not a man likely to starve. Oh, 
 never fear. Sir I" 
 
 So the Mayor went away, and strolled across 
 the fields to his Bailiff's cottage, to prepare for 
 the guest it would receive. 
 
 " It is all very well that the poor man should 
 be away for some days," thought Mr. Hartopp. I 
 "Before he comes again, I shall have hit on ; 
 some plan to ser\"e him ; and I can learn more | 
 about him from the child in his absence, and j 
 see what he is really fit for. There's a school- 
 master wanted in ilorley's village. Old ilorley | 
 vrrote to me to recommend him one. Good j 
 salary — pretty house. But it would be wrong 
 to set over young children — recommend to a | 
 respectable proprietor and his parson — a man 
 whom I know nothing about. Impossible ! that 
 will not do. If there was any place of light 
 service which did not require trust or responsi- 
 bility — but there is no such place in Great Brit- 
 ain. Suppose I were to set him up in some 
 easy way of business-^a little shop, eh? I don't 
 know. What would Williams say ? If, indeed, 
 I were taken in I — if the man I am thus credu- 
 lously trusting turned out a rogue" — the Mayor 
 paused and actually shivered at that thought — 
 " why then, I should be fallen indeed. 3Iy wife 
 would not let me have half-a-croT\-n in my 
 pockets ; and I could not walk a hundred yards 
 but AVilliams would be at my heels to protect 
 me from being stolen by gipsies. Taken in by 
 him! Xo, impossible ! But if it turn out as I 
 suspect — that contrary to vulgar pritdence. I am 
 divining a really great and good man in difficul- 
 ties — Aha, what a triumph I shall then gain 
 over them all. How Williams will revere me !" 
 The good man laughed aloud at that thought, 
 and walked on with a prouder step. 
 
 CHAPTER XXm. 
 
 A pretty trifle in its ■waj-, no doubt, is the love between 
 youth and youth — Gay varieties of the bauble spread 
 the counter of the Great Toy-Shop — But thou, courte- 
 ous Dume Nature, raise thine arm to yon shelf, some- 
 what out of everyday reach, and bring me down that 
 obsolete, neglected, unconsidered thing, the Love be- 
 tween Age and Childhood. 
 
 The next day Sophy was better — the day 
 after, improvement was more visible — and on 
 the third day AVaife paid his bill, and conducted 
 her to the nirnl abode to v.'hich, credulous at 
 last of his promises to share it with her for a 
 time, he enticed her fated steps. It was little 
 more than a mile beyond the suburbs of the 
 town, and though the walk tired her, she con- 
 cealed fatigue, and would not suffer him to car- 
 ry her. The cottage now smiled out before 
 them — thatched gable roof, with fancy barge 
 board — half Swiss, half what is called Eliza- 
 bethan — all the fences and sheds round it, as 
 
 only your rich traders, condescending to ttim 
 farmers, construct and maintain — slieds and 
 fences, trim and neat, as if models in wax- 
 work. The breezy air came fresh fro^i the new 
 haystacks — from the woodbine round the porch 
 — from the breath of the lazy kine, as tliey stood 
 knee-deep in the pool, that, belted with weeds 
 and broad-leaved water-lilies, lay calm and 
 gleaming amidst level pastures. 
 
 Involuntarily they arrested their steps, to gaze 
 on the cheerful landscape and inhale the balmy 
 air. Meanwhile the Mayor came out from the 
 cottage porch, his wife leaning on his arm, and 
 two of his younger children bounding on before, 
 with joyous faces, giving chase to a gaudy butter- 
 fly which they had started from the woodbine. 
 
 Mrs. Hartopp had conceived a lively curi- 
 osity to see and judge for herself of the ob- 
 jects of her liege lord's benevolent interest. 
 She shared, of course, the anxiety which formed 
 the standing excitement of all those who lived 
 but for one godlike purpose — that of preserv- 
 ing Josiah Hartopp from being taken in. But 
 whenever the Mayor specially wished to se- 
 cure his wife's countenance to any pet project 
 of his own, and convince her either that he was 
 not taken in, or that to be discreetly taken in is, 
 in this world, a very popular and sure mode of 
 getting up, he never failed to attain his end. 
 That man was the cunningest creature ! As 
 full of wiles and stratagems in order to get his 
 own way — in benevolent objects — as men who 
 set up to be clever are for selfish ones. ]\Irs. 
 Hartopp was certainly a good woman, but a 
 made good woman. Married to another man, I 
 suspect that she would have been a shrew. Ve- 
 trnchio would have tamed her, I"ll swear. But 
 she, poor lady, had been gradually, but complete- 
 ly subdued, subjugated, absolutely cowed beneath 
 the weight of her spouse's despotic mildness ; 
 for in Hartopp there icas a v.eight of soft quiet- 
 ude, of placid oppression, wholly irresistible. It 
 would have buried a Titaness under a Pelion of 
 moral feather-beds. Mass upon mass of downy 
 influence descended upon you, seemingly yield- 
 ing as it fell, enveloping, overbearing, stifling 
 you ; not presenting a single hard point of con- 
 tact ; giving in as you pushed against it ; sup- 
 pleing itself seductively round you, softer and 
 softer, heavier and heavier, till, I assure you, 
 ma'am, no matter how high your natural wifely 
 spirit, you would have had it smothered out of 
 you, your last rebellious murmur dying languidly 
 away under the descending fleeces. 
 
 " So kind in yon to come with me, JIary," 
 sa^d Hartopp. "I could not have been hap- 
 ' py without your approval : look at the child — 
 I something about her like Mary Anne, and Mary 
 Anne is the picture of you !" 
 I Waife advanced, uncovering; the two chil- 
 dren, having lost trace of the butterfly, liad run 
 up toward Sophy. But her shy look made them- 
 selves shy — shyness is so contagious — and they 
 ' stood a "little aloof, gazing at her. Sir Isaac 
 stalked direct to the Mayor, sniffed at him, and 
 wagiied his tail. 
 
 Mrs. Hartopp now bent over Sophy, and ac- 
 knowledging that the face was singularly prett}', 
 glanced "graciouslv toward her husband, and 
 said, '•! see the likeness!" then to Sophy, "I 
 fear you are tired, my dear ; you must not over- 
 , fatigue yourself— and you must take milk fresh 
 
• I t 
 
VTHAT WILL HE DO WITH FT ? 
 
 « e oo«M •■>« a att^ I 
 
 ■:rr 
 
 
 tmjimgJ I kA«« 
 
 
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 OM who. »f he |Je«^ 
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 ^. a«aU Boc'be above IS afar, 
 . > .:««i oa — rrfiili far famcj-wtA» m 
 ware Ak: bstfaniODe— todkaadtaUca 
 — laoatfvoat dear. 
 
 •• CJb oa, TCTT litxle voaU do a> i«." 
 
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 rn ^ Utfj »: 'te ti — e h t a ta t! ta i 
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 jd baokea "-^ ^r — f^D fireea a korte — aockn 
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 ^1 » rii JUrmki at tke back oi k 
 
 .X Mten. finu'ol- l»aetke«BW 
 «s fiwB aij littk ca t erat wto 
 B, kdL »*» teaiac. Aad Liny a«d to ' 
 to ae wck dear kocr* ; nj batkett «< 
 for ker. We kad baekcu cMa«k to kair 
 aitked a ko«a vitk batkctt : 
 
 ■a»»b «r c 
 
 abatkett,ta»iakat fcrf t.tfai»iaba.to». • 
 >fe« lenoM leoatdtooa recover tke kaack 
 tkewQck. Iikoakifikeloteetke|daeea«ai 
 is voaU be tkakia< kaadt vitk mj joatk «■ 
 ^tan. Noaa -fco «*■" I«""J lecopiJ* « 
 eoaU be ao« Iniac i^,»«» «^*^J^ " 
 ceoa. tke batket-aaker. aad bit vrfe ; all to a 
 
 ^g^j • »- In-*' aaM ntkered to tkeir I 
 
 tkert. 
 
 trade ».»- • - — .- - - - - . „ »_ 
 
 mt^lf; perkaia tke cottage ittelf ■a* be e« 
 
 iuied.- That.eTerdi.|««ltobetaa«aiaej 
 
 „«boai ckawered oa, SofAy bMeaaac fc^ 
 
 .rTTmrna ♦ ap to kit face. -Aadafaeki 
 ihcovaert p«a« lordt, deter 
 -. it b detcfted tCilL Toaai| 
 
 1^ tiaiirt ■e^rr aad bit wile ; all to a 
 
 mmt be hiaic liace fatkered to «k«r ( 
 
 pcrkasa bo oae earnca oa tke bad 
 
 mam.ltmtr nrif U aad kata it aO 
 
 •0&3 
 
 .Ai si'^ti A r^wJ ur '."'J ot garvKa ^-- 
 
 ♦ — tack (reea 
 
 ,r.r zjkm raaaiag acro at tke W 
 
 'c«r too ! We aill aafce frieads a 
 
 ...^ keepet*, aad we wiB eaU tke r 
 
 - SoiAt; a»dItkallbeaseaia«wkow«a 
 
 iJilAet^ ««l ,« tkaU be Ike eacfcaa 
 
 ^.e coaccaled frtaa afl eril ere*, k 
 
 ,, of peari aader karee "(^mt'^ 
 
 ^rZami (nm the worii <^/^^ 
 
 ; * a. tke boa«kt wkiH*r aad the hi 
 
 l>car ae, here Toa are—wa ihoa^t 
 io- - Mid the baiUrt wife ; "tea u w 
 
 ilU «id there . ^'-^T^'J^IL?!^ 
 uhiw«k; beTlbeproaUaadtladtoki 
 
9f 
 
 WHAT WILL HE IK) WITH IT? 
 
 -n out. bat with 
 
 joo. Sir, and joa too, mr dear ; we bare no | raprant, will not gradge the uriog band 
 ebiidrcn of our own.** 
 It is past elcren. ^ 
 emotions far more pi 
 known, is fust asleep, 
 looking at her. lie 
 
 and soft—-' ' • 
 
 bend-t ovt. 
 
 tear ; lie - 
 
 At t'.. • 
 
 harmle&s child.' 
 
 The letter to Snphr ran tha« : 
 ' me ; I have 
 
 r a few dnv*. 
 
 drar. I shall be «. 
 and not feel an achc 
 
 - Isaac. 
 h. 'Ir. Gooch. 
 
 '^You'll Dul know Lcr an^nuu wLeu vou come not keep up with mc — \<,a Lnv>a \ui. 
 bark." I So think c>\cr the roitac-p and the !• 
 
 W.. I the band of bis grandchild's and ; 
 
 bost. : speak. it i> 
 
 bean. 
 
 . Sir? It 
 . awav at t! 
 liut 1 uuU«.r!>tand you 
 —we men d"n't ; and ronr 
 1. 1 dare sav, wt ■ ' " 
 if she knew, i 
 
 ;' ■ on. And 1 -.i'. <i ii i nv; iiiA.nu mi . 
 
 children dcArlr — so do I. Good- 
 
 Un wer.' 
 
 slowlv — ' 
 
 .rt. lo tliC 
 
 . under ibii 
 Ijj" dj a u bu rest. 
 
 ■il lukllt* ilk i.u.^ii,,^ \ 
 
 «hnll never «t.nnil o; h 
 
 .... i -.- ...,. 1, h 
 fancy I <ic*ert w 
 ! . ^ . quite well ; I i 
 
 • >i you on my k 
 
 The letter ui _• were taken ot« 
 
 •unrise, to Mr. llar^'^'p" vilhs. Mr. Ha ^ 
 «-•• nn earlv man. Siiphv rnvr«lept hei f 
 ■ ■• . •.■ . }, 
 
 - of the »t I 
 
 .r early. 1'. 
 I fri>m the window, s^a il. 
 • ••n*. ami. a.<hamcd uf her 
 ■ ■ ■ ■ letter on i! • i 
 licr ; Uic tr ■ 1 
 
 r 
 
 CHAITKR XXIV. 
 Laa gDK:iorebodia(B of eril, bat trembta after (U7-4reaias f 
 
 w< 
 
 _• . J'liM.(^U UU 
 
 «he 
 
 [laie. It was 
 Mkc up the lctt( 
 ilic hcal. Wh< ■ 
 y, her tears dn ] . 
 t cHort or sob. Sin- l,:i 
 •V, no ^.Ticf in bcinj; k-fi ; 
 
 " 1 trust, dear and honored Sir, that I shall 
 come back safc-ly ; and w hen I do, I mar have 
 found, jicrhaps, a home for her, and some way 
 of life such as yon would not blame. But. in 
 case of accident, I hare left with Mr. G'« 
 sealed up, the money we made at Gate*!- 
 „.-. ... . , ,._, the iiK) ' ' ; . . . . 
 
 mere tri;! 
 
 1 • J support ' ... i 
 
 ly take care of it. I should not feel safe with 
 more money about me, an old man. I might 
 be robbed ; besides, I am careless. I never can 
 keep money ; it slipa out of my hands like an 
 ( ' " en bless you. Sir; your kindness 
 a miracle vouchsafed to me for that 
 c... . -.^ar sake. No oil can chance to her 
 with you ; and if I should fall ill and die, even 
 then you, who would have aided the tricksome 
 
 fice — this it was that .••titluf^cd her v 
 with unutterable yearning.* of tcndcrir 
 tude. pity, veneration. But when she liuJ 
 (iilently for wimf* timf . «he kissed the leitpr 
 ■ 1 to that I! 
 
 j'lt her fir-" 
 
 — she would trj' and get well and stronp. 
 would feci, at the distance, that she was tr 
 his wishes — that she was fitting herself i 
 again his companion; seven days would 
 7)a's. Hope, that can never long fjuit ' 
 of fhildhood, brightened over her ni' 
 
 as the morning sun over a land.sca|>c ; 
 
 bcfurc, had lain sad amidst twilight and i. 
 rains. 
 
lT will he DC) WITH IT ? 
 
 Wheal ^e • .: 
 pleased aiwi sur" 
 npon her face 
 
 af"-"' - 
 
 go* - " 
 
 TcrK .-- - — - — -- — - , 
 
 'cinrr£!iei:^:i-r :'--'-'i-~ — .---inDosea. eneemu. 
 " ■• I X31 ~-^ -;^-i '^ ^^- "-''^ don": pine s&sr 
 Tonr iood grandpapa- as we feared joa wouiiL'' 
 ' -He raid me not id pine.'' aaswered Sophy, 
 smpi^. but -snta. a aui^ermc Up. 
 
 Waea The noon deepened, and k became ido 
 ^-^ - -rr::ise. Sotiiij nmidlv asked if Mzs. 
 ^2_ - •cvcrsteda and kniEiing-needlea. 
 
 an _ romodaied vrixh. zhose impleniHns 
 
 ^-- .. siie -vriiiidrew u) me arbat and 
 
 3^; -_o wQik — soiiraiy and xranqniL 
 
 TTij.: ziaae. perhaiH. die chief scren^th in 
 liui :?ocr child's namre. was iis imense umsifn^- 
 3iess" a 'larr. perhaps, cf its insiincrive appretna- 
 uon of Emm. She Lruited 'J. "Waife — a._^*ie 
 
 ■p., _--, '/- ^ ;ence — in her own ehilaish. 
 
 -, Already, as her siiiihi nn- 
 
 (Tw ■ -sreds. and her graceful laste 
 
 shaaeu m^eir hues inro blended harmonv. hsr 
 mind was weariii;:. not less harmoTiiotisiv_ tae 
 hues in die woof of dreams : the .• _ - -e 
 — die harmless tasks — 'Waife. witn a 
 
 the arm-chair, n-niipr some perch. j-- 
 
 thai one ■wonder — wiyncuP — wi3±Lr:2.r"— ■ >^- 
 
 bine. ^nd life, if Imadde, lifwiffst, U'lii.liriil. net 
 " n i ni r^** dsv. 90 ^ac i£ Ttifmftl ma 
 ho' again, she ahonid not blmiL bbt he he bodi- 
 ed. And if zsi-'- ^-'-^ -"HB SB ^SexBB. as hia 
 crrandfather s:- '' wu(^t cwbbb, as 'siter 
 
 had crosed be ^ — die wui. ^do^n her 
 
 hand, die sweet uus parfiPii. saaBa^ a pacsoEe 
 came beibre her eves — her wT«n<ifiB4n»r T.tonBl, 
 herself ; all three, fi w^niit lai. L_ , —sam. 
 
 ruir as the Thames haaLaeeaaec — tis all 
 
 "r^artifM j m summer — ""•" ■^"•■- - n mai 
 
 boaz they three, acri — — "'sj — 
 
 ■what Tn*"^-^^^ wq^TTv" . . — :i ti ; 
 
 fiaH-ng h^ the boy s m^'jnr- KUIC eves. She 
 started, ^e heard noises — a SH-iigni^ gare — 
 Sjoisie^b. She started — she rtjse — Toice* : ne 
 soance to her. a man's vcdce. then the Mj^ - 5. 
 A third -njice. mr'Z. " ' ""ie -^caL-j^ 
 
 _ _ — impossi- 
 
 .-~e tne looisiEps. Seized 
 
 - -_:ht. she sprang to the 
 
 TTrnTt rTTUT her srlarec two 
 
 She stood — airested — speH- 
 
 hearo. ni mranLy — 
 cmeiiy. Tmser^ '^'"'^ 
 biel year — -•. ..:vr 
 with die impTi-^- 
 
 ■mr mrri of die ^lOOT. 
 
 na-nz baletni eves. 
 
 boraid — as a bird &Lsd ngid by die gaze of a 
 
 sarient. 
 
 -Yes. ^'- ^^ "" --'- ■ "^ ■^■~ "'8 
 
 giri — on; 
 
 Sach a . . -.~ 
 
 lore I" ^a Mis. Crane. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 CHAPTES L 
 
 esi aatttres diere is a ceradn aenalii cness. 
 : Ttnmded. occasions tne same pain. »nd 
 :.a same resennnfint. as mornned. vajuiv 
 
 iziood man bankrupr : 5^0 — n.- -iS 
 
 , ,„,>.. can it be ? Seader. that fat^ . -y 
 
 Vis esacdv diai da-r week, toward die honr who love Josiah Harropp are ever it u-^i..:.. to 
 
 of five in me eVemn- : Mr. Hortopp. alone in die prevent, despite aH dieir vig-„ance. has occnrreO. 
 
 parlor behind his warehouse, is locking up his Joaai Harropp has Deen x^-t- . -:rmen 
 
 books and ledgers preparuEorv ro the i^mrn ro mav be occasionai^v :a^en :n. .. ""^^ 
 
 his villa. Tha^ is a certain -_ _.-,-.. ,^, „ ... ^ 
 
 pression of his countenance - -_ 
 
 snocK. 
 
 Icr 
 
 gnaa. 
 eflWT> 
 
 or ax. ; 
 
 ooold 
 
 Hare 
 
 >.w — . 
 
 ouu a yoa will j;m;;v:c biivjcu. ^c pur- 
 ^i•r_ "aniliams giving orders in dje ware- 
 .r-^bousemen 
 Tiin-vard — 
 
 -i in me 
 wear a 
 
 '<n^h aU 
 
 ;e was never 
 
 <.:. Thus the ~ 
 imrrancadc ox' uie basie acdon un.: 
 ■"^*^ was sc ■'^sll^'n. "^srr^d oti qis '* 
 
 -e;- and 
 
 -rtn carrv vcmr jaze 
 
 gcn«:i"aa. ■ 
 .e occasiLi;. 
 
94 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 and Virtue indeed a name I" Mr. Hartopp felt 
 not only mortified but subjugated — he who had 
 hitherto been the soft subjugator of the hardest. 
 He felt not only subjugated, but indignant at the 
 consciousness of being so. He was too meekly 
 convinced of Heaven's unerring justice not to 
 feel assured that the man who had taken him 
 in would come to a tragic end. He would not 
 have hanged that man with his own hands — he 
 was too mild for vengeance. But if he had seen 
 that man hanging, he would have said, piously, 
 "Fitting retribution!" and passed on his way 
 soothed and comforted. Taken in I — taken in 
 at last ! — he, Josiah Hartopp, taken in by a fel- 
 low with one eye ! 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Mayor is so protected that he can not help himself 
 
 A COMMOTION" without — a kind of howl — a 
 kind of hoot. Mr. Williams — the warehouse- 
 men, the tanners, Mike Callaghan, share be- 
 tween them the howl and the lioot. The May- 
 or started — is it possible ! His door is burst 
 open, and, scattering all who sought to hold him 
 back — scattering them to the right and left from 
 his massive torso, in rushed the man who had 
 taken in the IMayor — the fellow with one eye, 
 and with that fellow, shaggy and travel-soiled, 
 the other dog ! 
 
 "What have you done with the charge I in- 
 trusted to you? My child — my child — where is 
 she ?" 
 
 Waife's face was wild with the agony of his 
 emotions, and his voice was so sharply terrible 
 that it went like a knife into the heart of the 
 men, who, thrust aside for the moment, now fol- 
 lowed him, fearful, into the room. 
 
 " ]\Ir. — Mr. Chapman, Sir," faltered the 
 Mayor, striving hard to recover dignity and 
 self-possession, "I am astonished at your — 
 your — " 
 
 "Audacity!" interposed Mr. Williams. 
 "My child — my Sophy — my child! answer 
 me, man !" 
 
 "Sir," said the Mayor, drawing himself up, 
 "have you not got the note which I left at my 
 bailiff's cottage in case you called there?" 
 
 " Your note — this thing !" said Waife, strik- 
 ing a crumpled paper with his hand, and run- 
 ning his eye over its contents. "You have ren- 
 dered up, you say, the child to her la^^-ful pro- 
 tector? Gracious Heavens ! did 7 trust her to 
 you or not?" 
 
 " Leave the room all of you," said the Mayor, 
 with a sudden return of his usual calm vigor. 
 
 "You' go — you. Sirs; what the deuce do you 
 do here?" growled Williams to the meaner 
 throng. "Out! — I stay; never fear, men, I'll 
 take care of him !" 
 
 The by-standers surlily slinked off, but none 
 returned to their work ; they stood within reach 
 of call by the shut door. AYilliams tucked up 
 his coat-sleeves, clenched his fists, hung his head 
 doggedly on one side, and looked altogether so 
 pugnacious and minatory, that Sir Isaac, who, 
 though in a state of great excitement, had hith- 
 erto retained self-control, peered at him under 
 his curls, stiffened his back, sliowed his teeth 
 and growled formidably. 
 
 " My good Williams, leave us," said the May- 
 or ; "I would be alone with this person." 
 
 " Alone — you ! out of the question. Xow you 
 have been once taken in, and you own it — it is 
 my duty to protect you henceforth ; and I will 
 to the end of my days." 
 
 The IMayor sighed heavily — "Well, Williams, 
 well I — take a chair, and be quiet. Xow, Mr. 
 Chapman, so to call you still ; you have de- 
 ceived me." 
 
 " I— how ?" 
 
 The Mayor was puzzled. "Deceived me," 
 he said at last, " in my knowledge of human 
 nature. I thought you an honest man. Sir. 
 And you are — but no matter." 
 
 Waife (impatiently). " ^ly child, my child ! 
 you have given her up — to — to — " 
 
 Mayor. "Her own father. Sir." 
 
 Waife (echoing the words as he staggers 
 back). " I thought so — I thought it !" 
 
 Mayor. " In so doing I obeyed the law — he 
 had legal power to enforce his demand." The 
 Mayor's voice was almost apologetic in its tone, 
 for he was afl'ected by Waife's anguish, and not 
 able to silence a pang of remorse. After all, he 
 had been trusted ; and he had, excusably per- 
 haps, necessarily perhaps, but still he had failed 
 to fulfill the trust. "But," added the INIayor, 
 as if reassuring himself — " But I refused at "first 
 to give her uj), even to her own father ; at first 
 insisted upon waiting till your return ; and it 
 was only when I was informed what you your- 
 self were that my scruples gave way." 
 
 Waife remained long silent, breathing very 
 hard, and passing his hand several times over 
 his forehead ; at last he said more quietly than 
 he had yet spoken, "Will you tell me where 
 they have gone ?" 
 
 "I do not know, and if I did know I would 
 not tell you ! Are they not right when they say 
 that that innocent child should not be tempted 
 away by — by — a — in short, by you. Sir?" 
 
 ^''They said! Her father— said that! — he 
 said that! Did he — did he say it? Had he 
 the heart?" 
 
 IMayor. " Xo, I don't think he said it. Eh, 
 Mr. Williams ? He spoke little to me !" 
 
 Mr. Williams. " Of course he would not ex- 
 pose that person. But the woman — the lady, I 
 mean." 
 
 Waife. " Woman ! Ah, yes. The bailiff's 
 wife said there was a woman. What woman ? 
 What's her name ?" 
 
 Mayor. " Eeally you must excuse me. I can 
 say no more. I have consented to see you thus, 
 because whatever you might have been, or may 
 be, still it was due to myself to explain how I 
 came to give up the child ; and, besides, you left 
 money with me, and that, at least, I can give to 
 your own hand." 
 
 The iVIayor turned to his desk, unlocked it, 
 and drew forth the bag which Waife had sent 
 to him. 
 
 As he extended it toward the Comedian, his 
 hand trembled and his cheek flushed. For 
 Waife's one bright eye had in it such depths of 
 reproach, that again the Mayor's conscience was 
 sorely troubled, and he would have given ten 
 times the contents of that bag to have been alone 
 with the vagrant, and to have said the soothing 
 things he did not dare to say before Williams, 
 who sate tliere mute and grim, guarding him 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 95 
 
 from being Once more "taken in/' "If you 
 had confided in me at first, Mr. Chapman," he 
 said, pathetically, " or even if now, I could aid 
 vou in an honest way of life I" 
 
 "Aid him — nowl" said Williams, with a 
 snort. " At it again I you're not a man, you're 
 an angel I" 
 
 "But if he is penitent, Williams." 
 "So! so! so!" murmured Waife. "Thank 
 Heaven it was not he who spoke against me — it 
 was but a strange woman. Oh I" he suddenly 
 broke otf with a groan. " Oh— hut that strange 
 woman — who, what car^ she be? and Sophy 
 with her and him. Distraction ! Yes, yes, I 
 take the money. I shall want it all. Sir Isaac, 
 pick up that "bag. Gentlemen, good-day to 
 Tou!" He bowed; such a failure that bow! 
 Kothing ducal in it ! bowed and turned toward 
 the door; then, when he gained the threshold, 
 as if some meeker, holier thought restored to 
 him dignity of bearing, his form rose, though 
 his face softened, and stretching his right hand 
 toward the ^Mayor, he said: "You did but as all 
 perhaps would have done on the evidence before 
 you. Y'ou meant to be kind to her. If you 
 knew all. how you would repent ! I do not blame 
 — I forgive you." 
 
 He was gone ; the Mayor stood transfixed. 
 Even Williams felt a cold, comfortless chill. 
 " He does not look like it," said the foreman. 
 " Cheer up. Sir, no wonder you were taken in — 
 who would not have been?" 
 
 "Hark! that hoot again. Go, Williams, 
 don't let the men insult him. Do, do. I shall 
 be grateful." 
 
 But before Williams got to the door, the crip- 
 ple and his dog had vanished ; vanished down a 
 dark narrow alley on the opposite side of the 
 street. The rude" workmen had followed him to 
 the mouth of the alley, mocking him. Of the 
 exact charge against the Comedian's good name 
 they were "not informed: that knowledge was 
 confined to the Mayor and Mr. Williams. But 
 the latter had drop"ped such harsh expressions, 
 that, bad as the charge might really be, all in 
 Mr. Hartopp's employment probably deemed it 
 worse, if possible, than it really was. And 
 wretch indeed must be the man by whom the 
 ^Mayor had been confessedly taken in, and whom 
 the Mayor had indignantly given up to the re- 
 proaches of his own conscience. But the crip- 
 ple was now out of sight, lost amidst those laby- 
 rinths of squalid homes which, in great towns, are 
 thrust beyond view, branching oft" abruptly behind 
 High Streets and Market-places ; so that stran- 
 gers passing only along the broad thoroughfares, 
 with glittering shops and gas-lit causeways, ex- 
 claim, "^^^le^e do the Poor live?" 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 Ecce iterum Crispinns! 
 
 It was by no calculation, but by involuntary 
 impulse, that Waife, thus escaping from the 
 harsh looks and taunting raurmui-s of the gos- 
 iips round the ^Layor's door, dived into those 
 sordid devious lanes. Vaguely he felt that a 
 ban was upon him; that the covering he had 
 thrown over his brand of outcast was lifted up; 
 that a sentence of expulsion from the High 
 
 Streets and Market-places of decorous life was 
 passed against him. He had been robbed of his 
 child, and Society, si>eaking in the voice of the 
 Mayor of Gatesboro', said, " Rightly ! thou art 
 not fit companion for the innocent I" 
 
 At length he found himself out of the town, 
 beyond its straggling suburbs, and once more on 
 the solitary road. He had already walked far 
 that day. He was thoroughly exhausted. He 
 sate himself down in a dry ditch by the hedge- 
 row, and taking his head between his hands, 
 strove to re-collect his thoughts, and rearrange 
 his plans. 
 
 Waife had returned that day to the bailiffs 
 cottage joyous and elated. He had spent the 
 week in traveling — partly, though not all the 
 way on foot, to the distant village in which he 
 had learned in youth the basket-maker's art! 
 He had found the very cottage wherein he had 
 then lodged, vacant, and to be let. There 
 seemed a ready opening for the humble but 
 pleasant craft to which he had diverted his am- 
 bition. 
 
 The bailiff intrusted with the letting of the 
 cottage and osier-ground, had, it is true, re- 
 quested some reference — not, of course, as to all 
 a tenant's antecedents, but as to the reasonable 
 probability that the tenant would be a quiet, 
 sober man, who would pay his rent, and abstain 
 from poaching. Waife thought he might safely 
 presume that the Mayor of Gatesboro' would 
 not, so far as that went, object to take his past 
 upon trust, and give him a good word toward 
 securing so harmless and obscure a future. 
 Waife had never asked such a favor before of 
 any man ; he shrunk from doing so now ; but 
 for his grandchild's sake he would waive his 
 scruples or humble his pride. 
 
 Thus, then, he had come back, full of Elysian 
 dreams, to his Sophy — his Enchanted Princess. 
 Gone — taken away, and with the flavor's con- 
 sent — the consent of the very man upon whom 
 he had been relying to secure a livelihood and 
 a shelter! Little more had he learned at the 
 cottage, for Mr. and Mrs. Gooch had been cau- 
 tioned to be as brief as possible, and give him 
 no clew to regain his lost treasure, beyond the 
 note which informed him it was with a lawful 
 possessor. And, indeed, the worthy pair were 
 now prejudiced against the vagrant, and were 
 rude to him. But he had not tan-ied to cross- 
 examine and inquire. He had rushed at once 
 to the Mayor. Sophy was with one whose legal 
 ' right to dispose of her he could not question. 
 • But where that person would take her — where 
 ■ he resided — what he would do with her — he had 
 no means to conjecture. Most probably (he 
 thought and guessed) she would be canied 
 abroad — was already out of the countn". But 
 the woman with Losely, he had not heard her 
 described ; his guesses did not turn toward ]\Irs. 
 Crane; the woman was evidently hostile to him 
 — it was the woman who had spoken against 
 him — not Losely ; the woman whose tongue had 
 poisoned Hartopp's mind, and turned into scorn 
 all that admiring respect which had before greet- 
 ed the great Comedian. Why was that woman 
 his enemv? AMio could she be? What had 
 she to do with Sophy ? He was half beside him- 
 self with terror. It was to save her less even 
 from Losely than from such direful women as 
 Losely made his confidants and associates that 
 
96 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Waife had taken Sophy to himself. As for 
 Mrs. Crane, she had never seemed a foe to hun 
 — she liad ceded the child to him willingly — he 
 had no reason to believe, from the way in which 
 she had spoken of Losely when he last saw her, 
 that she could henceforth aid the interests, or 
 share the schemes, of the man whose pei'fidies 
 she then denounced ; and as to Eugge, he had 
 not appeared at Gatesboro'. Mrs. Crane had 
 prudently suggested that his presence would not 
 be propitiatory or discreet, and that all refer- 
 ence to him, or to the contract with him, should 
 be suppressed. Thus Waife was M-holly with- 
 out one guiding evidence — one groundwork for 
 conjecture — that might enable him to track the 
 lost; all he knew was, that she had been given 
 up to a man whose whereabouts it was ditticult 
 to discover — a vagrant, of life darker and more 
 hidden than his own. 
 
 But how had the hunters discovered the place 
 where he had treasured up his Sophy — how 
 dogged that retreat ? Perhaps from the village 
 in which we first saw him. Ay, doubtless, 
 learned from Mrs. Saunders of the dog he had 
 purchased, and the dog would have sened to di- 
 rect them on his path. At that thought he 
 pushed away Sir Isaac, who had been resting 
 his head on the old man's knee — pushed him 
 away angrily ; the poor dog slunk otf in sorrow- 
 ful surprise, and whined. 
 
 "Ungrateful wretch that I am," cried Waife, 
 and he ojiened his arms to the brute, who 
 bounded forgivingly to his breast ! 
 
 "Come, come, we will go back to the village 
 in Surrey. Tramp, tramp!" said the cripple, 
 rousing himself. And at that moment, just as 
 he gained his feet, a friendly hand was laid on 
 his shoulder, and a friendly voice said — 
 
 "I have found you! the crystal said so! 
 Marbellous !" 
 
 "Merle," faltered out the vagrant — " Jlerle, 
 you here I Oh, perhaps you come to tell me 
 good news: you have seen Sophy — you know 
 Avhere she is !" 
 
 The Cobbler shook his head. " Can't see her 
 just at present. Ciystal says nout about her. 
 But I know she was taken from you — and — and 
 — you shake tremenjous! Lean on me, Mr. 
 Waife, and call otf that big animal. He's a 
 suspicating my calves, and circumtittyvating 
 them. Thank ye. Sir. You see I was born 
 with sinister aspects in my Twelfth House, 
 which appertains to big animals and enemies ; 
 and dogs of that size about one's calves are — 
 malefics !" 
 
 As Merle now slowly led the cripple, and Sir 
 Isaac, relinquishing his first suspicions, walked 
 droopingly beside them, the Cobbler began a 
 long story, much encumbered by astrological 
 illustrations and moralizing comments. The 
 substance of his narrative is thus epitomized : 
 Rugge, in pursuing AVaife's track, had naturally 
 called on ^lerle in company with Losely and 
 Mrs. Crane. The Cobbler had no clew to give, 
 and no mind to give it if clew he had pos- 
 sessed. But his curiosity being roused, he had 
 smothered the inclination to dismiss the in- 
 quirers with more speed than good-breeding, 
 and even refreshed his slight acquaintance with 
 Mr. Rugge in so well simulated a courtesy, that 
 that gentleman, when left behind by Losely and 
 Mrs. Crane in their journey to Gatesboro', con- 
 
 descended, for want of other company, to drink 
 tea with Mr Merle ; and tea being succeeded 
 by stronger potations, he fairh' unbosomed him- 
 self of his hopes of recovering Sophy, and his 
 ambition of hiring the York theatre. 
 
 The day afterward, Hugge went away seem- 
 ingly in high spirits, and the Cobbler had no 
 doubt, from some words he let fall in passing 
 Merle's stall toward the railway, that Sophy was 
 recaptured, and that Rugge was summoned to 
 take possession of her. Ascertaining from the 
 manager that Losely and Mrs. Crane had gone 
 to Gatesboro', the Cobbler called to mind that 
 he had a sister living there, married to a green- 
 grocer m a very small way, whom he had not 
 seen for many years ; and finding his business 
 slack just then, he resolved to pay this relative 
 a visit, with the benevolent intention of looking 
 up Waife, \\'hom he expected, from Rugge 's ac- 
 count, to find there, and offering him any con- 
 solation or aid in his power, should Sophy have 
 been taken from him against his will. A con- 
 sultation with his crystal, which showed him the 
 face of ISIr. Waife alone, and much dejected, 
 and a horary scheme which promised success to 
 his journey, decided his movements. He had 
 arrived at Gatesboro' the day before, had heard 
 a confused story about a Sir. Chapman, with his 
 dog and his child, whom the Mayor had first 
 taken up, but who afterward, in some myste- 
 rious manner, iiad taken in the Mayor. Hap- 
 pilj-, the darker gossip in the Higli Street had 
 not penetrated the back lane in which Merles' 
 sister resided. There little more was know^n 
 than the fact that this mysterious stranger had 
 imposed on the wisdom of Gatesboro's learned 
 Institute and enlightened Mayor. Merle, at no 
 loss to identify Waife with Chapman, could only 
 suppose that he had been discovered to be a 
 strolling player in Rugge 's exhibition, after pre- 
 tending to be some much greater man. Such 
 an oftense the Cobbler was not disposed to con- 
 sider heinous. But IMr. Chapman was gone 
 from Gatesboro', none knew whither ; and Merle 
 had not yet ventured to call himself on the chief 
 magistrate of the place, to inquire after a man 
 by whom that august personage had been de- 
 ceived. "Howsomever," quotli Slerle, in con- 
 clusion, "I was just standing at my sister's 
 dooi', with her last babby in my arms, in Scrob 
 Lane, when I saw you pass by like a shot. You 
 were gone while I ran in to give up the babby, 
 who is teething, with malefics in square — gone 
 — clean out of sight. You took one turn, I took 
 another ; but you see we meet at last, as good 
 men always do in this world — or the other, which 
 is the same thing in the long-run." 
 
 Waife, who had listened to his friend with- 
 out other interruption than an occasional nod 
 of the head or iuterjectional expletive, was now 
 restored to much of his constitutional mood of 
 sanguine cheerfulness. He recognized Mrs. Crane 
 in tiie woman described, and if surprised, he was 
 rejoiced. For much as he disliked that gen- 
 tlewoman, he thought Sophy might be in worse 
 female hands. Without much need of sagaci- 
 ty, he divined the gist of the truth. Losely 
 had somehow or other become acquainted with 
 Rugge, and sold Sophy to the manager. Where 
 Rugge was, there would Sophy be. It could not 
 be very difficult to find out the place in which 
 Rugge was now exhibiting ; and then — ah then ! 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 97 
 
 raife whistled to Sir Isaac, tapped his fore- i 
 ead, and smiled triumphantly. Meanwhile the : 
 bbbler had led him back into the suburb, with ; 
 le kind intention of offerin<j him food and j 
 ed for the night at his sister's house. But 
 raife had already formed his plan ; in London, 
 lid in London alone, could he be sure to learn 
 here Kugge was now exhibiting; in London 
 lere were jilaces at which that information 
 3uld be gleaned at once. The last train to the 
 letropolis was not gone. He would slink round j 
 le town to the station ; he and Sir Isaac at that 
 our might secure places unnoticed. 
 When jMcrle found it was in vain to press 
 im to stay over the night, the good-hearted 
 lobbler accompanied him to the train, and, 
 hile Waife shrunk him into a dark corner, 
 ought the tickets for dog and master. As he 
 as paving for these, he overheard two citizens 
 liking" of Mr. Chapman. It was indeed Mr. 
 Villiams explaining to a fellow-burgess just re- 
 iinied to Gatcsboro', after a week's absence, 
 ov,- and by what manner of man Jlr. Hartojip 
 ad been "taken in. At what Williams said, 
 lie Cobbler's cheek paled. When he joined the 
 'omcdian, his manner was greatly altered ; he 
 ;ave the tickets without speaking, but looked 
 iard into Waifc's face, as the latter repaid him 
 he fares. "No," said the Cobbler, suddenly, 
 • I don't believe it." 
 
 "Believe what?" asked Waife, starlled. 
 
 " That you are — " 
 
 The Cobbler paused, bent forward, andwhis- 
 )ered the rest of the sentence close in the va- 
 grant's ear. Waife's head fell on his bosom, but 
 le made no answer. 
 
 " Speak," cried Merle ; " say 'tis a lie." The 
 )oor cripple.'s lip writhed, but he still spoke 
 lot. 
 
 Merle looked aghast at that obstinate silence. 
 \t length, but very slowly, as the warning bell 
 ;ummoned him and Sir Isaac to their several 
 jlaces in the train, AYaife found voice. '"So 
 rou too, you too desert and despise me ! God's 
 .vill be "done!" He moved away — spiritless, 
 imping, hiding his face as well as he could, 
 rhe porter took the dog from him, to thrust it 
 into one of the boxes reserved for such four- 
 footed passengers. 
 
 Waife, thus parted from his last friend — I 
 mean the dog — looked after Sir Isaac wistfully, 
 and crejjt into a third-class carriage, in which 
 luckily there was no one else. Suddenly Merle 
 jumped in, snatched his hand, and pressed it 
 tightly. '■ I don't despise, I don't turn my back 
 on you ; whenever you and the little one want 
 a home and a friend, come to Kit Merle as be- 
 fore, and I'll bite my tongue out if I ask any 
 more questions of you; I'll ask the stars in- 
 stead." 
 
 The Cobbler had but just time to splutter out 
 these comforting words, and redescend the car- 
 riage, when the train put itself into movement, 
 and the lifelike iron miracle, fuming, hissing, 
 and screeching, bore off to London its motley 
 convoy of human beings, each passenger's heart 
 a mystery to the other, all bound the same road, 
 all wedged close within the same whirling mech- 
 anism :"what a separate and distinct world in 
 each! Such is Civilization ! How like we are 
 one to the other in the mass ! how strangely 
 dissimilar in the abstract! 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 " If," says a great thinker (Degeeakpo, Du PcrfccHon- 
 iHcnt Moral, chap, ix., "On the Uifficultits we en- 
 counter in Self Study") — "If one concentrates reflec- 
 tion too much on one's self, one ends by wo longer see- 
 ing any thing, or seeing only what one w ishes. Bv the 
 very act, as it were, of capturing one's self, the person- 
 age we believe we have seized, ercapes, disappears. 
 Nor is it only the complexity of our inner being which 
 obstructs our examination, but its exceeding variability. 
 The investigator's regard should embrace all the sides 
 of the subject, and perseveringly pursue all its phases." 
 
 It is the race-week in Humberston, a county 
 town far from Gatesboro', and in the north of En- 
 gland. The races last three days ; the first day 
 is over ; it has been a brilliant spectacle ; the 
 course crowded with the carnages of jirovincial 
 magnates, with equestrian bettere of note from 
 the metropolis ; blacklegs in great muster ; there 
 have been gaming-booths on the ground, and 
 gipsies telling fortunes ; much Champagne im- 
 bibed by the well-bred, much soda-water and 
 brandy by the vulgar. Thousands and tens 
 of thousands have been lost and won ; some 
 paupers been for the time enriched ; some rich 
 men made poor for life. Horses have won fame; 
 some of their owners lost character. Din and 
 uproar, and coarse oaths, and rude passions — 
 all have had their hour. The amateurs of the 
 higher classes have gone back to dignified coun- 
 try-houses, as courteous hosts or favored guests. 
 The professional speculators of a lower grade 
 have poured back into the county town, and inns 
 and taverns are crowded. Drink is hotly called 
 for at reeking bars ; waiters and chambermaids 
 pass to and fro, with dishes, and tankards, and 
 bottles in their hands. All is noise and bustle, 
 and eating and swilling, and disputation and 
 slang, wild glee and wilder despair among those 
 who come back from the race-course to the inns 
 in the county town. At one of these taverns, 
 neither the best nor the worst, and in a small 
 narrow slice of a room that seemed robbed from 
 the landing-place, sate .Mrs. Crane, in her iron- 
 gray silk gov.n. She was seated close by the 
 open window, as carriages, chaises, flies, carts, 
 vans, and horsemen succeeded each other thick 
 and fast, watching the scene with a soured, 
 scornful lock. For human joy, as for human 
 grief, she had little sympathy. Life had no 
 Satumalian holidays left for her. Some memory 
 in her past had poisoned the well-springs of her 
 social being. Hopes and objects she had still, 
 but out of the wrecks of the natural and health- 
 ful existence of womanhood those objects and 
 hopes stood forth exaggerated, intense, as are 
 the ruling passions in monomania. A bad wo- 
 man is popularly said to be worse than a wicked 
 man. If so, partly because women, being more 
 solitarv-, brood more unceasingly over cherished 
 I ideas, "whether good or evil ; partly also, for the 
 ' same reason that makes a wicked gentleman, 
 who has lost caste and character, more irre- 
 claimable than a wicked clown, low-born and 
 ' low-bred, viz., that in proportion to the loss of 
 shame is the gain in recklessness ; but principal- 
 ly, perhaps, because in extreme wickedness there 
 [ i"s necessarily a distortion of the reasoning facul- 
 ' ty ; and raaii, accustomed from the cradle rather 
 to reason than to feel, has that faculty more firm 
 against abrupt twists and lesions than it is in 
 I woman ; where virtue may have left him, logic 
 may still linger, and he may decline to push 
 
98 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 evil to a point at which it is clear to his nnder- 
 standins that profit vanishes and punishment 
 rests ; wliile woman, once abandoned to ill, finds 
 sufficient charm in its mere excitement; and, 
 recjardless of consequences, where the man asks, 
 " Can I ?" raves out, " I will !" Thus man may 
 be criminal through cupidity, vanity, love, jeal- 
 ousy, fear, ambition, rarely in civilized, that is, 
 reasoning life, through hate and revenge; for 
 hate is a profitless investment, and revenge a 
 ruinous speculation. But when women are 
 thoroughly depraved and hardened, nine times 
 out of^teii it is hatred or revenge that makes 
 them so. Arabella Crane had not, however, 
 attained to that last state of wickedness, which, 
 consistent in evil, is callous to remorse ; she was 
 not yet unsexed. In her nature was still that 
 essence, "varying and mutable," which dis- 
 tinguishes woman while womanhood is left to 
 hen And now, as she sate gazing on the throng 
 below, her haggard mind recoiled perhaps from 
 the conscious shadow of the Evil Principle which, 
 invoked as an ally, remains as a destroyer. Her 
 dark front relaxed ; she moved in her seat un- 
 easily. " Must it be always thus !" she muttered 
 — " always this hell here ! Even now, if in one 
 large pardon I could include the undoer, the 
 earth myself, and again be human — human, 
 even as those slight trifiers or coarse brawlers 
 that pass yonder"! Oh, for something in com- 
 mon with common life !" 
 
 Her lips closed, and her eyes again fell upon 
 the crowded street. At that moment three or 
 four heavy vans or wagons filled with operatives 
 or laborers and their wives, coming back from 
 the race-course, obstructed the way ; two out- 
 riders with satin jackets were expostulating, 
 cracking their whips, and seeking to clear space 
 for an open carriage with four thorough-bred im- 
 patient horses. Toward that carriage every 
 gazer from the windows was directing eager 
 eyes ; each foot-passenger on the pavement lifted 
 his hat — evidently in that carriage some great 
 person! Like all who are at war with the 
 world as it is, Arabella Crane abhorred the 
 great, and despised the small for worshiping the 
 great. But still her own fierce dark eyes me- 
 chanically followed those of the vulgar. The car- 
 riage bore a marquis's coronet on its panels, 
 and was filled with ladies ; two other carriages 
 bearing a similar coronet, and evidently belong- 
 ing to the same party, were in the rear. Mrs. 
 Crane started. In that first carriage, as it now 
 slowly moved under her very window, and 
 paused a minute or more, till the obstructing 
 vehicles in front were marshaled into order — 
 there flashed upon her eyes a face radiant with 
 female beauty in its more glorious prime. Among 
 the crowd al that moment was a blind man, 
 adding to the various discords of the street by 
 a miserable hurdy-gurdy. In the movement of 
 the throng to get nearer to a sight of the ladies 
 in the carriage, this poor creature was thrown 
 forward ; the dog that led him, an ugly brute, 
 on his own account or his master's, took fright, 
 broke from the string, and ran under the horses' 
 hoofs, snarling. The horses became restive; 
 the blind man made a plunge after his dog, and 
 was all but run over. The lady in the first car- 
 riage, alarmed for his safety, rose up from her 
 seat, and made her outriders dismount, lead 
 away the poor blind man, and restore to him his 
 
 dog. Thus engaged, her face shone full upon 
 Arabella Crane ; and with that face rushed a 
 tide of earlier memories. Long, very long 
 since she had seen that face — seen it in those 
 years when she herself, Arabella Crane, was 
 young and handsome. 
 
 The poor man — who seemed not to realize 
 the idea of the danger he had escaped — once 
 more safe, the lady resumed her scat ; and nov/ 
 that the momentary animation of humane fear 
 and womanly compassion passed from lier coun- 
 tenance — its expression altered- — it took the 
 calm, almost the coldness, of a Greek statue. 
 But with the calm there was a listless melan- 
 choly which Greek sculpture never gives to the 
 Parian stone ; stone can not convey that melan- 
 choly — it is the shadow which needs for its sub- 
 stance a living, mortal heart. 
 
 Crack went the whips ; the horses bounded on 
 — the equipage rolled fast down the street, fol- 
 lowed by its satellites. " Well !" said a voice in 
 the street below, "I never saw Lady Montfort in 
 such beauty. Ah, here comes my lord !" 
 
 Mrs. Crane heard and looked forth again. A 
 dozen or more gentlemen on horseback rode 
 slowly up the street ; which of these was Lord 
 Montfort ? — not difficult to distinguish. As the 
 by-standers lifted their hats to the cavalcade, the 
 horsemen generally returned the salutation by 
 simjily touching their own— one horseman un- 
 covered wholly. That one must be the Mar- 
 quis, the greatest man in those parts, with lands 
 stretching away on either side that town for 
 miles and miles ; a territory which, in feudal 
 times, might have alarmed a king. He, the civ- 
 ilcst, must be the greatest. A man still young, 
 decidedly good-looking, wonderfully well-dress- 
 ed, wonderfully well-mounted, the careless ease 
 of high rank in his air and gesture. To the su- 
 perficial gaze, just what the great Lord of JMont- 
 fort should be. Look again ! In that fair face 
 is there not something that puts you in mind of 
 a florid period which contains a feeble jdutitude? 
 — something in its very prettiness that betrays 
 a weak nature, and a sterile mind ? 
 
 The cavalcade passed away — the vans and the 
 wagons again usurped the thoroughfare. Ara- 
 bella Crane left the window, and approached 
 the little looking-glass over the mantle-piece. 
 She gazed upon her own face bitterly — she was 
 comparing it with the features of the dazzling 
 Marchioness. 
 
 The door was flung open, and Jasper Losely 
 sauntered in, whistling a French air, and flap- 
 ping the dust from his boots with his kid glove. 
 
 '' All right," said ho, gayly. "A famous day 
 of it." 
 
 " You have won," said Mrs. Crane, in a tone 
 rather of disappointment than congratulation. 
 
 '•Yes. That £100 of Rugge's has been the 
 making of me. I only wanted a capital just to 
 start with!" Heflunghimself intoachair, open- 
 ed his pocket-book, and scrutinized its contents. 
 "Guess," said he, suddenly, "on whose horse I 
 won these two rouleaux? Lord Montfort's ! Ay, 
 and I saw my lady !" 
 
 "So did I see "her, from this window. She 
 did not look hajipy !" 
 
 "Not happy!— with such an equipage! neat- 
 est turn-out I ever set eyes on ; not happy, in- 
 deed ! I had half a mind to ride up to her car- 
 riage and advance a claim to her gratitude." 
 
WILA.T WILL HE DO ^yITH IT ? 
 
 99 
 
 " Gratitude ! Oh, for vour part in that mis- 
 erable affair of which you told me ?" 
 
 " Not a miserable affair for her, but certainly 
 / never got any good from it — trouble for no- 
 thing! Basta! No use looking back 1" 
 
 "Xo use ; but who can help it I" said Arabel- 
 la Crane, sighing heavily; then, as if eager to 
 change the subject, she added, abruptly, "Mr. 
 Ilugge has been here twice this morning, highly 
 excited — the child will not act. He says you 
 are bound to make her do so I" 
 
 " Nonsense. That is his look-out. /see aft- 
 er children, indeed 1"' 
 
 Mks. Crane (with a risible effort). " Listen 
 to me, Jasper Losely, I have no reason to love 
 that child, as you may suppose. But now that 
 you so desert her, I think I feel compassion for 
 her ; and when, this morning. I raised my hand 
 to strike her for her stubborn spirit, and saw her 
 eyes unflinching, and her pale, pale, but fearless 
 face, my arm fell to my side powerless. She 
 will not take to this life without the old man. 
 She will waste away and die." 
 
 LosELT. " How you bother me ! Are you se- 
 rious ? What am I to do ?" 
 
 Mes. Crake. " You have won money you say; 
 revoke the contract ; pay Kugge back his £100. 
 He is disappointed in his bargain; he will take 
 the money." 
 
 LosELY. I dare say he will, indeed. No — I 
 have won to-day, it is true, but I may lose to- 
 morrow, and, besides, I am in want of so many 
 things ; when one gets a little money, one has an 
 immediate necessity for more — ha I ha I Stiil 
 I would not have the child die; and she may 
 grow up to be of use. I tell you what I will do ; 
 if, when the races are over, I find I have gained 
 enough to afford it, I will see about buying her 
 off. But £100 is too much: Rugge ought to 
 take half the money, or a quarter, because, if 
 she don't act, I suppose she does eat." 
 
 Odious as the man's words were, he said them 
 with a laugh that seemed to render them less re- 
 volting — the laugh of a ven.- handsome mouth, 
 showing teeth still brilliantly white. More 
 comely than usual that day, for he was in great 
 good-humor, it was difficult to conceive that a 
 man with so healthful and fair an exterior was 
 really quite rotten at heart. 
 
 " Your own young laugh I"' said Arabella 
 Crane, almost tenderly. " I know not how it is, 
 but this day I feel as if I were less old — altered 
 though I be in face and mind. I have allowed 
 myself to pity that child ; while I speak, I can 
 pity you. Yes I pity — when I think of what you 
 were. Must you go on thus ? To what I Jas- 
 per Losely," she continued sharjjly, eagerly, 
 clasping her hands — " hear me — I have an in- 
 come not large, it is true, but assured ; you have 
 nothing but what, as you say, you may lose to- 
 morrow ; share my income 1 Fulfill your solemn 
 promises — marry me. I will forget whose daugh- 
 ter that girl is — I will be a mother to her. And 
 for yourself, give me the right to feel for you 
 again as I once did, and I may find a way to raise 
 you yet — higher than you can raise yourself. I 
 have some wit, Jasper, as you know. At the 
 worst you shall have the pastime — I, the toil. 
 In your illness I will nurse you; in your joys I 
 will intrude no share. Whom else can you mar- 
 ry? to whom else could you confide? who else 
 could — " 
 
 ! She stopped short as if an adder had stung 
 1 her, uttering a shriek of rage, of pain ; for Jas- 
 per Losely, who had hitherto listened to her, 
 stupefied, astounded, here burst into a fit of mer- 
 riment, in which there was such undisguised con- 
 tempt, such an enjoyment of the ludicrous, pro- 
 voked by the idea of the marriage pressed upon 
 him, that the insult pierced the woman to her 
 very soul. 
 
 Continuing his laugh, despite that cry of 
 I wrathful agony it had caused. Jasper rose, hold- 
 ' ing his sides, and surveying himself in the glass, 
 I with ver}- different feelings at the sight from 
 ' those that had made his companion's gaze there 
 a few minutes before so mournful. 
 I "My dear good friend," he said, composing 
 himself at last, and wiping his eyes, "excuse me, 
 but really when you said whom else could I mar- 
 ry — ha I ha I — it did seem such a capital joke! 
 Marry you, my fair Crane ! No — put that idea 
 out of your head — we know each other too well 
 , for conjugal felicity. You love me now ; you al- 
 ways did, and always will— that is, while we are 
 not tied to each other. Women who once love 
 ! me, always love me — can't help themselves. I 
 I am sure I don't know why, except that I am 
 I what they call a villain! Ha! the clock strik- 
 : ing seven — I dine with a set of fellows I have 
 i picked up on the race-ground ; they don't know 
 me, nor I them ; we shall be better acquainted 
 after the third bottle. Cheer up. Crane ; go and 
 scold Sophy, and make her act if you can ; if 
 not, scold Rugge into letting her alone. Scold 
 somebody — nothing like it, to keep other folks 
 ^ quiet, and one's self busy. Adieu ! and pray, no 
 more matrimonial solicitations^they frighten 
 me I Gad," added Losely, as he banged the 
 door, " such overtures would frighten Old Nick 
 himself!'' 
 
 Did Arabella Crane hear those last words — or 
 
 had she not heard enough ? If Losely had tum- 
 
 I ed and beheld her face, would it have startled 
 
 ; back his trivial laugh? Possibly; but it would 
 
 ; have caused only a momentary uneasiness. If 
 
 I Alecto herself had reared over him her brow 
 
 j horrent with vipers, Jasper Losely would have 
 
 thought he had only to look handsome, and say 
 
 coaxingly, "Alecto, my dear!" and the Fury 
 
 would have pawned her head-dress to pay his 
 
 washing-bill. 
 
 1 After all, in the face of the prim woman he 
 
 had thus so wantonly incensed there was not so 
 
 much menace as resolve. And that resolve was 
 
 yet more shown in the movement of the hands 
 
 than in the aspect of the countenance ; those 
 
 1 hands — lean, firm, nenous hands — slowly ex- 
 
 ; panded ; then as slowly clenched, as if her own 
 
 I thought had taken substance, and she was lock- 
 
 j ing it in a clasp — tightly, tightly — never to be 
 
 loosened till the pulse was still. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 The most enbmifsive where they love may be the most 
 Btnbbom where they do not love. — Sophy is situbboni 
 to Mr. Ragge. — That injured man summons to his side 
 Mrs. Crane, imiuting the policy of those potentates who 
 would retrieve the failures of force by the successes of 
 diplomacy. 
 
 5tR. RcGGE has obtained his object. Bat now 
 comes the question, " What will he do with it?" 
 
100 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Question with as many heads as the Hydra ; and 
 no sooner does an Author dispose of one head 
 than up springs another. 
 
 Sophy has been bought and paid for — she is 
 now, lejially, Mr. Rugge's property. But there 
 was a wise peer who once bought Punch — Punch 
 became his property, and was brought in triumph 
 to his lordship's house. To my lord's great dis- 
 may Punch would not talk. To Rugge's great 
 dismay Sopliy would not act. 
 
 Rendered up to Jasper Losely and Mrs. Crane, 
 they had not lost an hour in removing her from 
 Gatesboro' and its neighborhood. They did not, 
 however, go back to the village in which they 
 had left Rugge, but returned straight to Lon- 
 don, and wrote to the manager to join them 
 there. 
 
 Sophy, once captured, seemed stupefied ; she 
 evinced no noisy passion — she made no vio- 
 lent resistance. When she was told to love and 
 obey a father in Jasper Losely, she lifted her 
 eyes to his face — then turned them away, and 
 shook her head, mute and incredulous. That 
 man her father! she did not believe it. Indeed, 
 Jasper took no pains to convince her of the re- 
 lationship, or win her attachment. He was not 
 unkindly rough ; he seemed wholly indifferent — 
 probably he was so — for the ruling vice of the 
 man was in his egotism. It was not so much 
 that he had bad principles and bad feelings, as 
 that he had no principles and no feelings at all, 
 except as they began, continued, and ended in 
 that system of centralization, which not more 
 paralyzes healthful action in a state than it does 
 in the individual man. Self-indulgence with 
 him was absolute. He was not without power 
 of keen calculation, not without much cunning. 
 He could conceive a project for some gain far off 
 in the future, and concoct, for its realization, 
 schemes subtly woven, astutely guarded. But 
 he could not secure their success by any long- 
 sustained sacrifices of the caprice of one hour 
 or the indolence of the next. If it had been a 
 great object to him for life to win Sophy's filial 
 affection, he would not have bored himself for 
 five minutes each day to gain that object. Be- 
 sides, he had just enough of shame to render 
 him uneasy at the sight of the child he had de- 
 liberately sold. So, after chucking her under 
 the chin, and telling her to be a good girl and 
 be grateful for all that Mrs. Crane had done for 
 her, and meant still to do, he consigned her 
 almost solely to that lady's care. 
 
 When Rugge arrived, and Sojihy was inform- 
 ed of her intended destination, she broke si- 
 lence ; her color went and came quickly ; she 
 declared, folding her arms upon her breast, 
 that she would never act if separated from her 
 grandfather. Mrs. Crane, struck by her man- 
 ner, suggested to Rugge that it might be as well 
 now that she was legally secured to the manager, 
 to humor her wish, and re-engage Waife. What- 
 ever the tale with which, in order to obtain So- 
 phy from the Mayor, she had turned that worthy 
 magistrate's mind against the Comedian, she 
 had not gratified Mr. Rugge by a similar confi- 
 dence to him. To him she said nothing which 
 might operate against renewing engagements 
 vnih Waife, if he were so disposed. But Rugge 
 had no faith in a child's firmness, and he had a 
 strong spite against Waife, so he obstinately re- 
 fused. He insisted, however, as a peremptory 
 
 condition of the bargain, that Mr. Losely and 
 Mrs. Crane should accompany him to the town 
 to which he had transferred his troop, both in 
 order by their presence to confirm his authority 
 over Sophy, and to sanction his claim to her, 
 should Waife reappear and dispute it. For 
 Rugge's profession being scarcely legitimate, 
 and decidedly equivocal, his right to bring up 
 a female child to the same calling might be 
 called in question before a magistrate, and ne- 
 cessitate the production of her father in order 
 to substantiate the special contract. In return, 
 the manager handsomely offered to Mr. Losely 
 and Mrs. Crane to pay their expenses in the ex- 
 cursion — a liberality "haughtily rejected by l\Irs. 
 Crane for herself, though she agreed at her own 
 charge to accompany Losely, if he decided on 
 complying with the manager's request. Losely 
 at first raised objections, but hearing that there 
 would be races in the neighborhood, and having 
 a peculiar passion for betting and all kinds of 
 gambling, as well as an ardent desire to enjoy 
 his £100 in so fashionable a manner, he con- 
 sented to delay his return to the Continent, and 
 attend Arabella Crane to the provincial Elis. 
 Rugge carried off Sophy to her fellow "or- 
 phans." 
 
 And Sophy •would not act ! 
 
 In vain she was coaxed — in vain she was 
 threatened — in vain she was deprived of food — 
 in vain shut up in a dark hole — in vain was the 
 lash held over her. Rugge, tyrant though he 
 was, did not suffer the lasli to fall. His self-re- 
 straint there might be humanity — miglit be fear 
 of the consequences. For the state of her health 
 began to alarm him; she might die — there 
 might be an inquest. He wished now that he 
 had taken ]\Irs. Crane's suggestion, and re-en- 
 gaged Waife. But where jfrts Waife? Mean- 
 while he had advertised the Young Phenome- 
 non ; placarded the walls with the name of Ju- 
 liet Araminta ; got up the piece of the Remorse- 
 less Baron, with a new rock scene. As WaifG 
 had had nothing to say in that drama, so any 
 one could act his part. 
 
 The first performance was announced for that 
 night : there would be such an audience — the 
 best seats even now pre-engaged — first night of 
 the race week. The clock had struck seven — 
 the performance began at eight. And Sophy 
 
 ATOULD NOT ACT ! 
 
 The child was seated in a space that served 
 for the green-room, behind the scenes. The 
 whole comjiany had been convened to persuade 
 or shame her out of her obstinacy. The king's 
 lieutenant, the seductive personage of the troop, 
 was on one knee to her, like a lover. He was 
 accustomed to lovers' jiarts, both on the stage 
 and oft" it. Ofl' it he had one favored phrase, 
 hackneyed but eft'ective. "You are too pretty 
 to be so cruel." Thrice he now repeated that 
 phrase, with a simper that might have melted a 
 heart of stone between each repetition. Be- 
 hind Sophy's chair, and sticking calico-fiowers 
 into the child's tresses, stood the senior matron 
 of the establishment — not a bad sort of woman 
 — who kept the dresses, nursed the sick, revered 
 Rugge, told fortunes on a pack of cards M-hich 
 she always kept in her pocket, and acted occa- 
 sionally in parts where age was no drawback 
 and ugliness desirable — such as a witch, or du- 
 enna, or whatever in the dialogue was poetic- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 ally called " Hag." Indeed, Hag was the name 
 she usually took from Rugge — that wliich she 
 bore from her defunct husband was Gormerick. 
 This lady, as she braided the garland, was al?o 
 bent on the soothing system, saying, with great 
 sweetness, considering that her mouth was full 
 of pins, "Xow, deai-y — now, dovey — look at 
 ooself in the glass ; we could beat oo. and pinch 
 00, and stick pins into oo, dovey, but we won't. 
 Dovey will be good, I know ;' and a great pat 
 of rouge came on the child's pale cheeks. The 
 clo^vn therewith squatting before her with his 
 hands on his knees, grinned lustily, and shriek- 
 ed out, "My eyes, what a beauty !" 
 
 Rugge, meanwhile, one hand thrust in his 
 bosom, contemplated the diplomatic efforts of 
 his ministers, and saw by Sophy's compressed 
 lips and unwinking eyes, that their cajoleries 
 were unsuccessful. He approached, and hissed 
 into her ear, "Don't madden me! don't I — you 
 Avill act, eh?" 
 
 "No," said Sophy, suddenly rising ; and tear- 
 ing the ■wTcath from her hair, she set her small 
 foot on it with force. "Xo! not if you killed mel" 
 
 "Gods!" faltered Rugge. "And the sum I 
 have paid! I am diddled I Who has gone for 
 Mrs. Crane?" 
 
 "Tom," said the clown. 
 
 The word was scarcely ont of the clown's 
 mouth ere Mrs. Crane herself emerged from a 
 side-scene, and, putting off her bonnet, laid both 
 hands on the child's shoulders, and looked her 
 in the face without speaking. The child as 
 firmly returned the gaze. Give that child a 
 martAT's cause, and in that frail body there 
 • would have been a martyr's soul. Arabella 
 Crane, not inexperienced in children, recognized 
 a power of will, stronger than the power of brute 
 force, in that tranqtiillity of eye — the spark of 
 calm light in its tender bine — blue, pure as the 
 sky ; light, steadfast as the star. 
 
 "Leave her to me, all of yon," said Jlrs. 
 Crane. "I will take her to your private room, 
 Mr. Rugge ;" and she led the child away to a 
 sort of recess, room it could not be rightly called, 
 fenced round with boxes and crates, and con- 
 taining the manager's desk and two stools. 
 
 "Sophy," then said Mrs. Crane, "you say 
 yon will not act unless your grandfather be ■with 
 you. Now, hear me. You know that I have 
 been always stern and hard with you. I never 
 professed to love you — nor do I. But you have 
 not found me untruthful. When I say a thing 
 seriously, as I am speaking now, you may be- 
 lieve me. Act to-night, and I will promise you 
 faithfully that I will either bring your grand- 
 father here, or I will order it so that you shall 
 be restored to him. If you refuse, I make no 
 threat, but I shall leave this place ; and my be- 
 lief is that you will be your grandfather's death." 
 
 "Ills death — his death — 11" 
 
 " By first dying yourself. Oh, you smile ; 
 yon think it would be happiness to die. What 
 matter that the old man you profess to care for 
 is broken-hearted I Brat, leave selfishness to 
 boys — you are a girl ! Suffer !" 
 
 "Selfish I" murmured Sophy, " selfish ! that 
 was said of me before. Selfish! — ah, I under- 
 stand. No, I ought not to wish to die — what 
 would become of him ?" She fell on her knees, 
 and, raising both her clasped hands, prayed inly, 
 silently — an instant, not more. She rose, "if 
 
 101 
 
 I do act, then — it is a promise — you will keep 
 it. I shall see him — he shall know where I am 
 — we shall meet!" 
 
 "A promise — sacred. I will keep it. Oh, 
 girl, how much you will love some day — how 
 your heart will ache ! and when you are my age, 
 look at that heart, then at your' glass — perhaps 
 you may be, within and %\-it'hout, like me." 
 
 Sophy— innocent Sophy — stared, awe-strick- 
 en, but uncomprehending. Mrs. Crane led her 
 back passive. 
 
 "There, she will act. Put on the wreath. 
 
 I Trick her out. Hark ye, Mr. Rugge. This is 
 
 I for one night. I have made conditions with her : 
 either you must take back her grandfather, or — 
 she must return to him." 
 
 I "And my £100?" 
 
 i " In the latter case ought to be repaid vou." 
 
 I "Am I never to have the Royal York theatre? 
 Ambition of my life, Ma'am !* Dreamed of it 
 
 I tbrice ! Ha! but she will act, and succeed. 
 
 I But to take back the old vagabond — a bitter 
 pill ! He shall halve it with me ! Ma'am, I'm 
 your grateful — " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Threadbare is the simile which compares the werld to a 
 stage. Schiller, less complimentary than Shakspeare, 
 lowers the illustration from a stage to a puppet-show. 
 Bat ever between realities and shows there is a secret 
 communication, an undetected interchange — some- 
 times a stem reality in the heart of the ostensible ac- 
 tor, a fantastic stage-play in the brain of the unnoticed 
 spectator. The Bandit's Child on the proscenium is 
 still poor little Sophy, in spite of garlands and rouge. 
 But that honest rough-looking fellow to whom, in re- 
 spect for services to Sovereign and Country, the ap- 
 prentice yields way — maybe not be — the crafty Come- 
 dian? 
 
 Takak-taraxtaea — rub-a-dub-dub — play up 
 horn — roll drtim — a quarter to eight ; and' the 
 crowd already thick before Rugge's Grand Ex- 
 hibition — "Remorseless Baron and Bandit's 
 1 Child ! Young Phenomenon — Juliet Araminta 
 j — Patronized by the Nobility in general, and 
 expecting daily to be summoned to perform be- 
 fore the Queen — Vivat RcginaT — Rub-a-dub- 
 I dub. The company issue from the curtain — 
 range in front of the proscenium. Splendid 
 dresses. The Phenomenon ! — 'tis she I 
 
 " My eyes, there's a beauty !" cries the clown. 
 
 The days have already grown somewhat short- 
 er; but it is not yet dusk. How charminglv 
 pretty she still is, despite that horrid paint ; but 
 how wasted those poor bare sno^^y arms ! 
 
 A most doleful lugubrious dirge mingles with 
 the drum and horn. A man has forced his war 
 close by the stage — a man with a confounded 
 cracked hurdy-gurdy. Whine — whine — creaks 
 the hurdy-gurdy, " Stop that — stop that mu- 
 zeek," cries a delicate apprentice, clapping his 
 hands to his ears. 
 
 "Pity a poor blind — " answers the man with 
 a hurdy-gurdy. 
 
 "Oh you are blind, are you? but we are not 
 deaf. There's a penny not to play. '\\Tiat black 
 thing have you got there by a string?" 
 
 "My dog. Sir!" 
 
 "Devilish ugly one — not like a dog — more 
 like a bear — with horns !" 
 
 "I say, master," cries the clown, "Here's a 
 blind man come to see the Phenomenon !" 
 
102 
 
 WHAT ^VILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 The crowd laugh ; they make way for the 
 blind man's black dog. They suspect, from the 
 clown's address, that the blind man has some- 
 thing to do with the company. 
 
 You never saw two uglier specimens of their 
 several species than the blind man and his black 
 dog. He had rough red hair and a red beard, 
 his face had a sort of twist that made every feat- 
 ure seem crooked. His eyes were not bandaged, 
 but the lids were closed, and he lifted them up 
 piteously as if seeking for light. He did not 
 seem, however, like a common beggar; had 
 rather the appearance of a reduced sailor. Yes, 
 you would have bet ten to one he had been a 
 sailor ; not that his dress belonged to that noble 
 calling, but his build, the roll of his walk, the 
 tie of his cravat, a blue anchor tattooed on that 
 great brown hand — certainly a sailor — a British 
 tar ! poor man. 
 
 The dog was hideous enough to have been ex- 
 hibited as a lusits natures. — evidently very agefl 
 — for its face and ears were gray, the rest of it 
 a rusty reddish black. It had immensely long 
 ears, pricked up like horns. It was a dog that 
 must have been brought from foreign parts ; it 
 might have come from Acheron, sire by Cerbe- 
 rus, so portentous and (if not irreverent the epi- 
 thet) so infernal was its aspect, with that gray 
 face, those antlered ears, and its ineilably weird 
 demeanor altogether. A big dog, too, and evi- 
 dently a strong one. All prudent folks would 
 have made way for a man led by that dog. 
 Whine creaked the hurdy-gurdy, and bow-wow, 
 all of a sudden, barked the dog. iSophy stifled 
 a cry, pressed her hand to her breast, and such 
 a ray of joy flashed over her face that it would 
 have warmed your heart for a month to have 
 seen it. 
 
 But do you mean to say, Mr. Author, that 
 that British Tar (gallant, no doubt, but hideous) 
 is Gentleman Waife, or that Stygiau animal the 
 snof^y-curled Sir Isaac ? 
 
 Upon my word, when I look at them myself, 
 I, the Historian, am puzzled. If it had not 
 been for that bow-wow, I am sure Sophy would 
 not have suspected. " Tara-taran-tara. Walk 
 in, ladies and gentlemen, walk in, the perform- 
 ance is about to commence!" Sophy lingers 
 last. 
 
 " Yes, Sir," said the blind man who had been 
 talking to the apprentice. "Yes, Sir," said he, 
 loud and emphatically, as if his word had been 
 questioned. "The child was snowed up, but 
 luckily the window of the hut was left open : 
 Exactly at two o'clock in the morning that dog 
 came to the window, set up a howl, and — " 
 
 Sophy could hear no more — led away behind 
 the curtain by the King's Lieutenant. But she 
 had heard enough to stir her heart with an emo- 
 tion that set all the dimples round her lip into 
 undulating play. 
 
 fastidious one than that in the Surrey village, 
 was amazed, enthusiastic. 
 
 "I shall live to see my dream come true ! I 
 shall have the great York Theatre !" said Rugge, 
 as he took oft' his wig and laid his head on his 
 pillow. "Eestore her for the £100! not for 
 thousands !" 
 
 Alas, my sweet Sophy, alas ! Has not the joy 
 that made thee jierform so well, undone thee ? 
 Ah ! hadst thou but had the wit to act horribly, 
 and be hissed ! 
 
 " Uprose the sun, and uprose Baron Kugge." 
 
 Not that ordinarily he was a very early man ; 
 but his excitement broke his slumbers. He had 
 taken up his quarters on the ground floor of a 
 small lodging-house close to his Exhibition ; in 
 the same house lodged his senior Matron, and 
 Sophy herself. Mrs. Gormerick being ordered 
 to watch the child, and never lose sight of her, 
 slept in the same room with Sophy, in the upper 
 story of the house. The old woman served 
 Rugge for housekeeper, made his tea, grilled 
 his chop, and ft)r company's sake shared his 
 meals. Excitement as often sharpens the ap- 
 petite as it takes it away. Rugge had supped 
 on hope, and he felt a craving for a more sub- 
 stantial breakfast. Accordingly, when he had 
 dressed, he thrust his head into the passage, and 
 seeing there the maid-of-all-work unbarring the 
 street door, bade her go up stairs and wake the 
 Hag, that is, Mrs. Gormerick. Saying this, he 
 extended a key ; for he ever took the precaution, 
 before retiring to rest, to lock the door of the 
 room to which Sophy was consigned, on the out- 
 side, and guard the key till the next morning. 
 
 The maid nodded, and ascended the stairs. 4 
 Less time than he expected jiassed away before 
 Mrs. Gormerick made her ajipearance, her gray 
 hair streaming under her nightcap, her fonn 
 endued in a loose wrapper — her very face a 
 tragedy. 
 
 "Powers above! What has happened?" ex- 
 claimed Rugge, prophetically. 
 
 " She is gone!" sobbed Mrs. Gormerick ; and 
 seeing the lifted arm and clenched fist of the 
 manager, prudently fainted away. 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 
 A Sham carries off the Reality. 
 And she did act, and how charmingly ! with 
 what glee and what gusto! Rugge was beside 
 himself with pride and rapture. He could 
 hardly perform his own Baronial part for ad- 
 miration. The audience, a far choicer and more 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 Corollaries from the problem suggested in Chapters VI. 
 and VII. 
 
 Broad daylight, nearly nine o'clock indeed, 
 and Jasper Losely is walking back to his inn 
 from the place at which he had dined the even- 
 ing before. He has spent the night drinking, 
 gambling, and though he looks heated, there is 
 no sign of fatigue. Nature in wasting on this 
 man many of her most glorious elements of 
 happiness, had not forgotten a Herculean con- 
 stitution — always restless and never tired, al- 
 ways drinking and never drunk. Certainly it 
 is some consolation to delicate individuals, that 
 it seldom happens that the sickly are very wick- 
 ed. Criminals are generally athletic— constitu- 
 tion and conscience equally tough ; large backs 
 to their heads — strong suspensorial muscles — 
 digestions that save them from the over-fine 
 nerves of the virtuous. The native animal must 
 be vigorous in the human being, when the moral 
 safeguards are daringly overleaped. Jasper was 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 103 
 
 not alone, but with an acquaintance he had 
 made at the dinner, and whom he invited to his 
 inn to breakfast ; they were walking familiarly 
 arm in arm. Ver}- unhke the brilliant Losely — 
 a young man under thirty, who seemed to have 
 washed out all the colors of youth in dirty wa- 
 ter. His eyes dull, their whites yellow ; his com- 
 plexion sodden. His form was thick-set and 
 heavy ; his features pug, with a cross of the bull- 
 dog. In dress, a specimen of the flash style of 
 sporting man, as exhibited on the turf, or more 
 often, perhaps, in the King; Belcher neckcloth, 
 with an immense pin representing a jockey at 
 full gallop; cut away coat, corduroy breeches, 
 and boots with tops of a chalky white. Yet, 
 v>'itha], not the air and walk of a genuine born 
 and bred sporting man, even of the vulgar or- 
 der. Somethingabout him which reveals the 
 pretender. A would-be hawk with a pigeon's 
 liver — a would-be sportsman with a cockney's 
 nurture. 
 
 Samuel Adolphus Poole is an orphan of re- 
 spectable connections. His future expectations 
 chiefly rest on an uncle from whom, as godfa- 
 ther, he takes the loathed name of Samuel. 
 Ple'prefers to sign himself Adolphus; he is pop- 
 ularly styled Dolly. For his present existence 
 he relies" ostensibly on his salary as an assistant 
 in the house of a London tradesman in a fash- 
 ionable way of business. Mr. Latham, his em- 
 ployer, has made a considerable fortune, less by 
 his "shop than by discounting the bills of his cus- 
 tomers, or of other borrowers whom the loan 
 draws into the net of the custom. Mr. Latham 
 connives at the sporting tastes of Dolly Poole. 
 Dolly has often thus been enabled to pick up 
 useful pieces of information as to the names 
 and repute of such denizens of the sporting 
 world as might apply to Mr. Latham for tempo- 
 rary accommodation. Dolly Poole has many 
 sporting friends ; he has also many debts. He 
 has been a dupe, he is now a rogue ; but he 
 wants decision of character to put into practice 
 many valuable ideas that his experience of dupe 
 and his development into rogue suggest to his 
 ambition. Still, however, now and then, when- 
 ever a shabby trick can be safely done he is 
 what he calls "" lucky." He has conceived a pro- 
 digious admiration for Jasper Losely, one cause 
 for which will be explained in the dialogue 
 about to be recorded ; another cause for which is 
 analogous to that loving submission with which 
 some ill-conditioned brute acknowledges a mas- 
 ter in the hand that has thrashed it. For at 
 Losely's first appearance at the convivial meet- 
 ing just concluded, being nettled at the impe- 
 rious airs of superiority which that roysterer as- 
 sumed, mistaking for effeminacy Jasper's elab- 
 orate dandyism, and not recognizing in the bra- 
 vo's elegant ijrojjortions the tiger-like strength 
 of which, in truth, that tiger - like suppleness 
 should have warned him, Dolly Poole provoked 
 a quarrel, and being himself a stout fellow, nor 
 unaccustomed to athletic exercises, began to 
 spar ; the next moment he was at the other end 
 of the room, full sprawl on the floor; and, two 
 minutes afterward, the quarrel made up by con- 
 ciliating banqueters, with every bone in his skin 
 seeming still to rattle, he was generously blub- 
 bering out that he never bore malice, and shak- 
 ing hands with Jasper Losely as if he had found 
 a benefactor. But now to the dialogue. 
 
 Jasper. "Yes, Poole, my hearty, as you say, 
 that fellow trumping my best club lost me the 
 last rubber. There's no certainty in whist, if one 
 has a spoon for a partner." 
 
 Poole. "No certainty in every rubber, but 
 next to certainty in the long run, when a man 
 plays as well as you do, Mr. Losely. Your win- 
 nings to-night must have been pretty large, 
 though you had a bad partner almost every 
 hand ; — pretty large — eh ?" 
 
 Jasper (carelessly). "Nothing to talk of — a 
 few ponies I" 
 
 Poole. " More than a few ; I should know." 
 Jasper. "Why? You did not play after the 
 first rubber." 
 
 Poole. " No, when I saw your play on that 
 first rubber, I cut out, and bet on you ; and very 
 grateful to you I am. Still you would win more 
 with a partner who understood your game." 
 
 The shrewd Dolly paused a moment, and 
 leaning significantly on Jasper's arm, added, in 
 a half whisper, " I do ; it is a French one." 
 
 Jasper did not change color, but a quick rise 
 of the eyebrow, and a slight jerk of the neck, 
 betrayed some little surprise or uneasiness ; how- 
 ever, he rejoined without hesitation — "French, 
 ay ! In France there is more dash in playing 
 out trumps than there is with English players." 
 "And with a player like you," said Poole, 
 still in a half whisper, "more trumps to play 
 out." 
 
 Jasper turned round sharp and short ; the 
 hard, cruel expression of his mouth, little seen 
 of late, came back to it. Poole recoiled, and 
 his bones began again to ache. "I did not 
 mean to off'end you, Mr. Losely, but to caution." 
 "Caution!" 
 
 "There were two knowing coves, who, if they 
 had not been so drunk, would not have lest their 
 money without a row, and they would have seen 
 how they lost it ; they are sharpers — you served 
 ' them right — don't be angry with me. You want 
 \ a partner — so do I ; you play better than I do, 
 but I play well ; you shall have two-thirds of our 
 winnings, and when you come to town I'll in- 
 troduce you to a pleasant set of young fellows — 
 , green." ' 
 
 j Jasper mused a moment. " Y'ou know a thing 
 ! or two, I see. Master Poole, and we'll discuss 
 the whole subject after breakfast. Arn't you 
 hungry ? — No !— I am ! Hillo ! who's that ?" 
 j His arm was seized by Mr. Rugge. " She's 
 ! gone — fled 1" gasjied the manager, breathless. 
 "Out of the lattice — fifteen feet high — not 
 ■ dashed to pieces — vanished !" 
 I " Go on and order breakfast," said Losely to 
 ;Mr. Poole, who was listening too inquisitively, 
 i He drew the manager away. " Can't you keep 
 your tongue in your head before strangers ? the 
 girl is gone !" 
 
 ! " Out of the lattice, and fifteen feet high !'' 
 " Any sheets left hanging out of the lattice ?" 
 " Sheets ! No." 
 
 " Then she did not go without help — some- 
 I body must have thrown up to her a rope-ladder 
 — nothing so easy — done it myself scores of 
 j times for tlic descent of • maids who love the 
 moon,' Mr. Kugge. But at her age there is not 
 ' a moon — at least there is not a man in the 
 I moon ; one must dismiss, then, the idea of a 
 ' rope-ladder — too precocious. But are you quite 
 I sure she is gone? not hiding in some cupboard? 
 
104 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Sacre .' — very odd. Have you seen Mrs. Crane 
 about it?" 
 
 "Yes, just come from her; she thinks that 
 villain Waife must have stolen her. But I want 
 you, Sir, to come with me to a magistrate." 
 
 "Magistrate! I — why? — nonsense — set the 
 police to work." 
 
 "Your deposition that she is your lawful 
 child, lawfully made over to me, is necessary 
 for the Inquisition — I mean Police." 
 
 " Hang it, what a bother ! I hate magistrates, 
 and all belonging to them. Well, I must break- 
 fast ; I'll see to it afterward. Oblige me by not 
 calling Mr. Waife a villain — good old fellow in 
 his way." 
 
 "Good ! Powers above !" 
 
 "But if he took her off how did he get at her? 
 It must have been preconcerted." 
 
 "Ha! true. But she has not been suffered 
 to speak to a soul not in the company — Mrs. 
 Crane excepted." 
 
 " Perhaps at the performance last night some 
 signal was given?" 
 
 " But if Waife had been there I should have 
 seen him ; my troop would have known him ; 
 such a remarkable face — one eye, too." 
 
 "Well, well, do what you think best. I'll 
 call on you after breakfast; let me go now. 
 Basta! basta!" 
 
 Losely wrenched himself from the manager, 
 and strode otf to the inn ; then, ere joining 
 Poole, he sought Mrs. Crane. 
 
 "This going before a magistrate," said Lose- 
 ly, "to depose that I have made over my child 
 to that blackguard showman — in this town, too 
 — after such luck as I have had, and where 
 bright prospects are opening on me, is most 
 disagreeable. And supposing, when we have 
 traced Sophy, she should be really with the old 
 man — awkward ! In short, my dear friend, my 
 dear Bella" (Losely could be very coaxing wlien 
 it was worth his while), "you just manage this 
 for me. I have a fellow in the next room wait- 
 ing to breakfast ; as soon as breakfast is over I 
 shall be oft' to tlie race-ground, and so shirk that 
 ranting old bore; you'll call on him instead, and 
 settle it somehow." He was out of the room 
 before she could answer. 
 
 Mrs. Crane found it no easy matter to soothe 
 the infuriate manager, when he heard Losely 
 was gone to amuse himself at the race-course. 
 Nor did she give herself much trouble to pacify 
 Mr. Rugge's anger, or assist his investigations. 
 Her interest in the whole affair seemed over. 
 Left thus to his own devices, Ilugge, however, 
 began to institute a sharp, and what promised 
 to be an effective investigation. He ascertained 
 that the fugitive certainly had not left by the 
 railway, or by any of the public conveyances ; 
 he sent scouts over all the neighborhood ; he 
 enlisted the sympathy of the police, who confi- 
 dently assured him that they had 'a net-work 
 over the three kingdoms ;' no doubt they have, 
 and we pay for it ; but the meshes are so large 
 that any thing less than a whale must be silly 
 indeed if it consent to be caught. Rugge's sus- 
 picions were directed to Waife — he could col- 
 lect, however, no evidence to confirm them. No 
 person answering to Waife's description had 
 been seen in the town. Once, indeed, Rugge 
 was close on the right scent ; for, insisting upon 
 Waife's one eye and his possession of a white 
 
 dog, he was told by several witnesses that a man 
 blind of two eyes, and led by a black dog, had 
 been close before the stage, just previous to t*lie 
 performance. But then the clown had spoken 
 to that very man ; all the Thespian company 
 had observed him ; all of them had known Waife 
 familiarly for years ; and all deposed that any 
 creature more unlike to Waife than tlie blind 
 man could not be turned out of Nature's work- 
 shop. But where was that blind man? Tliey 
 found out the wayside inn in which he had taken 
 a lodging for the night ; and there it was ascer- 
 tained that he had paid for his room before- 
 hand, stating that he should start for the race- 
 course early in the morning. Rngge himself 
 set out to the race-course to kill two birds with 
 one stone — catch Mr. Losely — examine the 
 blind man himself. 
 
 He did catch Mr. Losely, and very nearly 
 caught something else — for that gentleman was 
 in a ring of noisy horsemen, mounted on a hired 
 hack, and loud as the noisiest. When Ilugge 
 came up to his stirrup, and began his harangue, 
 Losely turned his hack round with so sudden an 
 appliance of bit and spur that the aniimal lash- 
 ed out, and its heel went within an inch of the 
 manager's cheek-bone. Before Rugge could re- 
 cover Losely was in a hand gallop. But the 
 blind man ! Of course Rugge did not find him ? 
 You are mistaken ; he did. The blind man was 
 there, dog and all. The manager spoke to him, 
 and did not know him from Adam. 
 
 Nor have you or I, my venerated readers, any 
 riglit whatsoever to doubt whether Mr. Rugge 
 could be so stolidly obtuse. Granting that blind 
 sailor to be the veritable William Waife — Will- 
 iam Waife was a man of genius, taking pains 
 to appear an ordinary mortal. And the anec- 
 dotes of Munden, or of Bamfylde Moore Carew, 
 suffice to tell us how Protean is the power of 
 transformation in a man whose genius is mimet- 
 ic. But how often does it ha[)pen to us, vener- 
 ated readers, not to recognize a man of genius, 
 even when he takes no particular pains to es- 
 cape detection ! A man of genius may be for 
 ten years our next-door neighbor — he may dine 
 in company with us twice a week — his face may 
 be as familiar to our eyes as our arm-chair — his 
 voice to our ears as the click of our parlor-clock 
 — yet we are never more astonished than when 
 all of a sudden, some bright day, it is discovered 
 that our next-door neighbor is — a man of genius. 
 Did you ever hear tell of the life of a man of 
 genius, but what there were numerous witnesses 
 who deposed to the fact, that until, perfidious 
 dissembler, he flared up and set the Thames on 
 fire, they had never seen any thing in him — an 
 odd creature, perhaps a good creature — probably 
 a poor Creature — But a Man of Genius ! They 
 would as soon have suspected him of being the 
 Cham of Tartary ! Nay, candid readers, arc 
 there not some of you who refuse to the last to 
 recognize the man of genius, till he has paid his 
 penny to Charon, and his passport to immortal- 
 ity has been duly examined by the custom-house 
 officers of Styx ! When one "half the world drag 
 forth that same next-door neighbor, place him 
 on a pedestal, and have him cried, "O yez! O 
 yez ! Found a man of genius ! Public property 
 — open to inspection !" does not the other half the 
 world put on its spectacles, turn up its nose, and 
 cry, " That a man of genius, indeed ! Pelt him! 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 105 
 
 — pelt him !" Then of course there is a clatter, 
 what the vulgar call " a shindy," round the ped- 
 estal. Squeezed by his believers, shied at by 
 his scoffers, the poor man gets horribly mauled 
 about, and drops from the perch in the midst 
 of the row. Then they shovel him over, clap a 
 great stone on his relics, wipe their forelicads, 
 shake hands, compromise the dispute, the one 
 half the world admitting that though he was a 
 genius, he was still an ordinary man ; the oth- 
 er half allowing that though he was an ordinary 
 man, he was still a genius. And so on to the 
 next jjcdestal with its " Ilic stet," and the next 
 great stone with its "Hie jacet." 
 
 The manager of the Grand Theatrical Exhi- 
 bition gazed on the blind sailor, and did not 
 know him from Adam ! 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The aboriginal Man-cater, or Pocket-Cannibal, is sus- 
 ceptible of the reiining influences of Civilization. He 
 decorates his lair with the skins of his victims ; lie 
 adcrns his person with the spoils of tliose whom lie de- 
 vours. Mr. Losely introduced to Mr. Poole's friends 
 — dresses for dinner; and, combining elegance witli 
 appetite, eats them up. 
 
 Elatkd with the success which had rewarded 
 his talents for pecuniary speculation, and dis- 
 missing from his mind all thouglits of tlie fugi- 
 tive Sophy and the spoliated Kugge, Jasper Lose- 
 ly returned to London in company with his new 
 t'riend, Mr. Poole. He left Arabella Crane to 
 perform the same journey, unattended; but that 
 grim lady, carefully concealing any resentment 
 at such want of gallantry, felt assured that she 
 should not be long in London without being hon- 
 ored by his visits. 
 
 In renewing their old acquaintance, Sirs. 
 Crane had contrived to establish over Jasper 
 that kind of influence which a vain man, full of 
 schemes that are not to be told to all the world, 
 but which it is convenient to discuss with some 
 confidential friend who admires himself too higli- 
 ly not to respect his secrets, mechanically yields 
 to a woman whose wits are superior to his own. 
 It is true that Jasper, on his return to the 
 metropolis, was not magnetically attracted to- 
 ward Podden Place ; nay, days and even weeks 
 elapsed, and Mrs. Crane was not gladdened by 
 his presence. But she knew that her influence 
 was only suspended — not extinct. The body at- 
 tracted was for the moment kept from the body 
 attracting by the abnormal weights that had 
 dropped into its pockets. Restore the body 
 thus temporarily counterpoised to its former 
 lightness, and it would turn to Podden Place as 
 the needle to the Pole. Meanwhile, oblivious 
 of all such natural laws, the disloyal Jasper had 
 fixed himself as far from the rca'h of the mag- 
 net as from Bloomsbury's remotest verge is St. 
 James's animated centre. The apartment he 
 engaged was showy and commodious. He add- 
 ed largely to his wardrobe — his dressing-case — 
 his trinket-box. iS^or, be it here observed, was 
 Mr. Losely one of those beauish brigands who 
 wear tawdry scarfs over soiled linen, and paste 
 rings u))on unwashed digitals. To do him jus- 
 tice, the man, so stony-hearted to others, loved 
 and cherished his own person with exquisite 
 tenderness, lavished upon it delicate attentions. 
 
 and gave to it the very best he could afford. He 
 was no coarse debauchee, smelling of bad cigars , 
 and ardent s])irits. Cigars, indeed, were not 
 among his vices (at worst the rare peccadillo of 
 a cigarette) — spirit-drinking was ; but the mon- 
 ster's digestion was still so strong, that he could 
 have drunk out a gin palace, and you would only 
 havcsniffedthe jasmin or heliotrope on the dainty 
 cambric that wiped the last droj) from his lips. 
 Had his soul been a tenth part as clean as the 
 form that belied it, Jasper Losely had been a 
 saint ! His apartments secured, his appearance 
 thus revised and embellished, Jasjicr's next care 
 was an equipage in keeping ; he hired a smart 
 cabriolet with a high-stepping horse, and, to go 
 behind it, a groom whose size had been stunted 
 in infancy by provident parents designing him to 
 earn his bread in the stables as a light-weight, 
 and therefore mingling his mother's milk with 
 heavy liquors. In short, Jasper Losely set up 
 to be a buck about town ; in that capacity Uolly 
 Poole introduced him to several young gentle- 
 men who combined commercial vocations with 
 sporting tastes ; they could not but participate 
 in Poole's admiring and somewhat envious re- 
 spect for Jasper Losely. There was indeed about 
 the vigorous miscreant a great deal of false brill- 
 iancy. Deteriorated from earlier youth though 
 the beauty of his countenance might be, it was 
 still undeniably handsome; and as force of mus- 
 cle is beauty in itself in the eyes of young s]jort- 
 ing men, so Jasper dazzled many a gracilis pver, 
 who had the ambition to become an athlete, with 
 the rare personal strength which, as if in the ex- 
 uberance of animal spirits, he would sometimes 
 condescend to dis]ilay, by feats that astonished 
 the curious and frightened the timid — such as 
 bending a poker or horse-shoe, between hands 
 elegantly white nor unadorned with rings — or 
 lifting the weight of Samuel Dolly by the waist- 
 band, and holding him at arm's-length, with a 
 playful bet of ten to one that he could stand by 
 the fire-place and pitch the said Samuel Dolly 
 out of the open window. To know so strong a 
 man, so fine an animal, was something to boast 
 of! Then, too, if Jasper had a false brilliancy, 
 he had also a false bonliommie ; it was true that 
 he was somewhat imperious, swaggering, bully- 
 ing — but he was also oft-hand and jocund ; and 
 as you knew him, that sidelong look, that defy- 
 ing gait (look and gait of the man whom^ the 
 world cuts), wore away. In fact, he had got 
 into a world which did not cut him, and his ex- 
 terior was improved by the atmosphere. 
 
 Mr. Losely professed to dislike general soci- 
 ety. Drawing-rooms were insipid ; clubs full of 
 old fogies. " I am for life, my boys," said Mr. 
 Losely : 
 
 " 'Can sorrow from the goblet f^ow, 
 Or pain from Beauty's eye '(' " 
 
 ]\Ir. Losely, therefore, liis hat on one side, 
 lounged into the saloons of theatres, accompa- 
 nied by a cohort of juvenile admirers, their hats 
 on one side also, and returned to the plea.sant- 
 est little suppers in his own apartment. There 
 " the goblet" flowed — and after the goblet, cigars 
 for some, and a rubber for all. 
 
 • So puissant Losely's vitality, and so blessed 
 by the stars his lack, that his form seemed to 
 wax stronger and his purse fuller by this "life." 
 No wonder he was all for a life of that kind ; 
 but the slight beings who tried to keep up with 
 
106 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 him grew thinner and thinner, and poorer and 
 poorer ; a few weeks made their cheeks spectral 
 and their pockets a dismal void. Then as some 
 dropped off from sheer inanition, others whom 
 they had decoyed by their praises of " Life" and 
 its hero, came into the magic circle to fade and 
 vanish in their turn. 
 
 In a space of time incredibly brief not a 
 whist-player was left upon the field ; the victo- 
 rious Losely had trumped out the last ! Some 
 few, whom Nature had endowed more liberally 
 than Fortune, still retained strength enougli to 
 sup — if asked ; 
 
 " But none wlio came to sup remained to play." 
 
 "Plague on it," said Losely to Poole, as one 
 afternoon they were dividing the final spoils. 
 " Your friends are mightily soon cleaned out ; 
 could not even get up double dummy, last night ; 
 and we must hit on some new plan for replen- 
 ishing the coffers ! You have rich relations ; 
 can't I help you to make them more useful ?" 
 
 Said Dolly Poole, who was looking exceed- 
 ingly bilious, and had become a martyr to 
 chronic headache, "My relations are prigs! 
 Some of them give me the cold shoulder, oth- 
 ers — a great deal of jaw. But as for tin, I 
 might as well scrape a flint for it. My uncle 
 Sam is more anxious about my sins than the 
 other codgers, because he is my godfather, and 
 responsible for my sins, I suppose ; and he says 
 he will put me in the way of being respectable. 
 My head's splitting — " 
 
 " Wood does split till it is seasoned," answer- 
 ed Losely. "Good fellow, uncle Sam! He'll 
 put you in tlie way of tin ; nothing else makes 
 a man respectable." 
 
 "Yes — so he says; a girl with money — " 
 
 " A wife — tin canister ! Ititroduce me to her, 
 and she shall be tied to you." 
 
 Samuel Dolly did not appear to relish the 
 idea of such an introduction. " I have not been 
 introduced to her myself," said he. "But if 
 you advise me to be spliced, why don't you get 
 spliced yourself? a handsome fellow like you 
 can be at no loss for an heiress." 
 
 "Heiresses are the most horrid cheats in the 
 world," said Losely : " there is always some fa- 
 ther, or uncle, or fusty Lord Chancellor whose 
 consent is essential, and not to be had. Heir- 
 esses in scores have been over head and ears in 
 love with me. Before I left Paris, I sold their 
 locks of hair to a wig-maker — three great trunks- 
 ful. Honor bright. But there ^ycre only two 
 whom I could have safely allowed to run away 
 with me ; and they were so closely watchccl, 
 poor things, that I was forced to leave them to 
 their fate — early graves ! Don't talk to me of 
 heiresses, Dolly, I have been the victim of heir- 
 esses. But a rich widow is an estimable creat- 
 ure.' Against widows, if rich, I have not a word 
 to say ; and to tell you the truth, there is a widow 
 whom I suspect I have fascinated, and whose 
 connection I have a particular private reason for 
 deeming desirable ! She has a whelp of a son, 
 who is a spoke in my wheel — were I his father- 
 in-law, would not I be a spoke in his ? I'd teach 
 the boy ' /;/e,' Dolly." Here all trace of beauty 
 vanished from Jasper's face, and Poole, staring 
 at him, pushed away his chair. " But" — con- 
 tinued Losely, regaining his more usual expres- 
 sion of levity and boldness — " But I am not yet 
 quite sure what the widow has, besides her son, 
 
 in her own possession ; we shall see. Mean- 
 while, is there — no chance of a rubber to-night?" 
 
 " None ; unless you will let Brown and Smith 
 play upon tick." 
 
 "Pooh ! but there's Robinson, he has an aunt 
 he can borrow from ?" 
 
 " Robinson ! spitting blood, with an attack of 
 delirium tremens! — you have done for him." 
 
 "Can sorrow from the goblet flow?" said Lose- 
 ly. " Well, I suppose it can — when a man has 
 no coats to his stomach ; but you and I, Dolly 
 Poole, have stomachs thick as pea-jackets, and 
 proof as gutta percha." 
 
 Poole forced a ghastly smile, while Losely, 
 gayly springing up, swept his share of booty into 
 his pockets, slapped his comrade on the back, 
 and said — "Then, if the mountain will not come 
 to Mohammed, Mohammed must go to the mount- 
 ain! Hang whist, and up with ?w/^e-e/-«ow-.' I 
 have an infallible method of winning — only, it 
 requires capital. You will club your cash with 
 mine, and I'll play for both. Sup here to-night, 
 and we'll go to the hell afterward." 
 
 Samuel Dolly had the most perfect confidence 
 in his friend's science in the art of gambling, 
 and he did not, therefore, dissent from the pro- 
 posal made, jasper gave a fresh touch to his 
 toilet, and stepped into his cabriolet. Poole 
 cast on him a look of envy, and crawled to his 
 lodging — too ill for his desk, and with a strong 
 desire to take to his bed. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ' la there a heart that Dever loved 
 Nor felt soft woman's sigh 1" 
 
 If there be such a heart, it is not in the breast of a Pock- 
 et-Cannibal. Your true Man-eater is usually of an 
 amorous temperament: he can be indeed sufficiently 
 fond of a lady to eat her up. Jlr. Losely makes the ac- 
 quaintance of a widow. For farther jiarticulars inquire 
 within. 
 
 The dignified serenity of Gloucester Place, 
 Portman Square, is agitated by the intrusion of 
 a new inhabitant. A house in that faA'ored lo- 
 cality, which had for several months maintained 
 "the solemn stillness and the dread rejjose" 
 which appertaiir to dwellings that are to be let 
 upon lease, unfurnished, suddenly started into 
 that exuberant and aggressive life which irri- 
 tates the nerves of its peaceful neighbors. The 
 bills have been removed from the windows — the 
 walls have been cleaned down and pointed — the 
 street-door repainted a lively green — workmen 
 have gone in and out. The observant ladies 
 (single ones) in the house opposite, discover, by 
 the help of a telescope, that the drawing-rooms 
 have been new papered, canary-colored grotind 
 — festoon borders, and that the mouldings of the 
 shutters have been gilt. Gilt shutters ! that looks 
 ominous of an ostentatious and party-giving ten- 
 ant. !l 
 
 Then carts full of furniture have stopped at 
 the door — carjicts, tables, chairs, beds, wardrobes 
 • — all seemingly new, and in no inelegant taste, 
 have been disgorged into the hall. It has been 
 noticed, too, that every day a lady of slight fig- 
 ure and genteel habiliments has come, seeming- 
 ly to inspect progress — evidently the new ten- 
 ant. Sometimes she comes alone ; sometimes 
 with a dark-eyed handsome lad, probably her 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 107 
 
 son. Who can she be ? what is she ? what is her 
 name ? her history ? has she a right to settle in 
 Gloncester Place," Portman Square ? The de- 
 tective police of London is not peculiarly vigi- 
 lant ; but its defects are supplied by the volun- 
 tary efforts of unmarried ladies. The new- 
 coiiier was a widow ; her husband had been in 
 
 suddenly blushes and draws in her head. Too 
 late I the cabriolet has stopped — a gentleman 
 leans fonvard, takes oft" his hat, bows respectful- 
 ly. "Dear, dear!" murmurs Mrs. Haughton, 
 " I do think he is going to call ; some people are 
 born to be tempted — my temptations have been 
 immense I He is getting out — he knocks — I 
 
 the armv ; of good family ; but a mauvais svjet ; can't say, now, that I am not at home — very 
 she had been left in straitened circumstances ! awkward I I wish Lionel were here I What 
 with an only son. It was supposed that she { does he mean — neglecting his own mother, and 
 had unexpectedly come into a fortune — on the ; leaving her a prey to tempters?" 
 strength of which she had removed from Pim- While the footman is responding to the smart 
 lico into Gloucester Place. At length — the knock of the visitor, we will explain how Mrs. 
 preparations completed — one Monday afternoon Haughton had incuiTcd that gentleman's ac- 
 the widow, accompanied by her son, came to quaintance. Inoneofherwalkstoher newhouse 
 settle. The next day a footman in genteel liv- ' while it was in the hands of the decorators, her 
 ery (brown and orange) appeared at the door, j mind being much absorbed in the consideration 
 Then, for the rest of the week, the baker and . whether her drawing-room curtains should be 
 butcher called regularly. On the following Sun- chintz or tabouret — ^just as she was crossing the 
 day the ladv and her son appeared at church. street, she was all but run over by a gentleman's 
 No reader will be at a loss to discover in the ' cabriolet. The horse was hard-mouthed, going 
 new tenant of Xo. — Gloucester Place, the wid- } at full speed. The driver pulled up just in time ; 
 owed mother of Lionel Haughton. The letter j but the wheel grazed her dress, and though she 
 for that lady which Darrell had intrusted to his ran back instinctively, yet, when she was safe 
 voung cousin, had, in complimentary and cor- I on the pavement, the fright overpowered her 
 dial language, claimed the right to provide for I nenes, and she clung to the street-post almost 
 her comfortable and honorable subsistence ; and , fainting. Two or three passers-by humanely 
 
 announced that, henceforth, £800 a year would 
 be placed quarterly to her account at Mr. Dar- 
 rell's banker, and that an additional sum of 
 £1200 was already there deposited in her name, 
 in order to enable her to furnish any residence 
 to which she might be inclined to remove. 
 
 gathered round her; and the driver, looking 
 back, and muttering to himself — "Not bad look- 
 ing — neatly dressed — lady-like — French shawl 
 — mav have tin — worth while, perhaps I" gal- 
 lantly descended and hastened to offer ajjolo- 
 gies, with a respectful hope that she was not in- 
 Mrs. Haughton, therewith, had removed to Ijured. 
 
 GloucesterPlace. j Mrs. Haughton answered somewhat tartly, but 
 
 She is seated by the window in her front being one of those good-hearted women who, 
 drawing-room — sur^'eying with proud though j apt to be rude, are extremely sorry for it the 
 grateful heart the elegancies by which she is i moment afterward, she wished to repair any 
 surrounded. A very winning "countenance — i hurt to his feelings occasioned by her first im- 
 lively eves, that in 'themselves may be over- { pulse ; and, when, renemng his excuses, he of- 
 quick and petulant, but their expression is j fered his arm over the crossing, she did not like 
 chastened by a gentle kindly mouth ; and over to refuse. On gaining the side of the way on 
 the whole face, the attitude', the air, even the which her house was situated, she had recover- 
 dress itself, is diffused the unmistakable sim- ed suflaciently to blush for having accepted such 
 plicitv of a sincere, natural character. No | familiar assistance from a perfect stranger, and 
 doubt Mrs. Haughton has her tempers, and her i somewhat to falter in returning thanks for his 
 vanities, and her little harmless feminine weak- | pohtenes 
 
 nesses; but you could not help feeling in her 
 presence that you were with an affectionate, 
 warm-hearted, honest, good woman. She might 
 not have the refinements of tone and manner 
 which stamp the high-bred gentlewoman of con 
 
 Our gentleman, whose estimate of his attrac- 
 tions was not humble, ascribed the blushing 
 cheek and faltering voice to the natural effect 
 produced by his appearance ; and he himself 
 admiring verv much a handsome bracelet on her 
 
 vention ; she might e^•ince the deficiencies of wrist, which he deemed a favorable prognostic 
 an imperfect third-rate education; but she was of "tin," he watched her to her door, and sent 
 saved from vulgarity by a certain undefinable i his groom in the course of the evening to make 
 grace of person and' music of voice — even when discreet inquiries in the neighborhood. The re- 
 she said or did things that well-bred people do suit of the inquiries induced him to resolve upon 
 not say or do; and there was an engaging in- prosecuting the acquaintance thus begun. He 
 telligence in those quick hazel eyes that made contrived to learn the hours at which ilrs. 
 
 you sure that she was sensible, even when she 
 uttered what was silly. 
 
 Mrs. Haughton turned from the interior of 
 
 Haughton usually visited the house, and to pass 
 bv Gloucester Place at the verj- nick of time, 
 liis bow was recognizing, respectful, interroga- 
 
 the room to the open window. She is on the ' tive — a bow that asked "how much farther?" 
 look-out for her son, who has gone to call on | But Mrs. Haughton 's bow respondent seemed 
 Colonel Morley, and who ought to be returned to declare " not at all !" The stranger did not 
 by this time. She begins to get a little fidgety adventure more that day ; but a day or nvo after- 
 — somewhat cross. While thus standing and i ward he came again into Gloucester Place on 
 thus watchful, there comes thundering down the i foot. On that occasion Mrs. Haughton was 
 street a high-stepping horse — bay, with white i with her son, and the gentleman would not seem 
 legs — it whirls on a cabriolet — blue, with ver- to perceive her. The next day he returned, she 
 mTlion wheels — two hands, in yellow kid gloves, was then alone, and just as she gained her door 
 are just seen under the hood.' Mrs. Haughton 1 he advanced — '•! beg you ten thousand par- 
 
108 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 dons, madam ; but if I am rightly informed, I 
 have the honor to address ili-s. Charles Haugh- 
 ton !" 
 
 The lady bowed in surprise. 
 "Ah, madam, your lamented husband was 
 one of my most particular friends." 
 
 "You don't say sol" cried Mrs. Haughton, 
 and looking more attentively at the stranger. 
 There was in his dress and appearance some- 
 thing that she thought very stylish — a particular 
 friend of Charles Haiighton's was sure to be 
 stylish — to be a man of the first water. And 
 she loved the poor Captain's memorv- — her heart 
 warmed to any " particular friend of his." 
 
 "Yes," resumed the gentleman, noting the 
 advantage he had gained, "though I was con- 
 siderably his junior, we were great cronies — ex- 
 cuse that familiar expression — in the Hussars 
 together — " 
 
 ''The Captain was not in the Hussars, Sir; 
 he was in the Guards." 
 
 '• Of course he was ; but I was saying in the 
 Hussars, together with the Guards, there were 
 some very fine fellows — very fine — he was one 
 of them. I could not resist paying my respects 
 to the widowed lady of so fine a fellow. I know 
 it is a liberty, ma'am, but 'tis my way. People 
 who know me well — and I have a large acquaint- 
 ance — are kind enough to excuse my way. And 
 to think that villainous horse, which I had just 
 bought out of Lord Bolton's stud — (200 guineas, 
 ma'am, and cheap) — should have nearly taken 
 the life of Charles Haughton's lovely relict. If 
 any body else had been driving that brute, I 
 shudder to think what might have been the con- 
 sequences ; but I have a wrist of iron. Strength 
 is a vulgar qualification — very ^Tilgar — but when 
 it saves a lady from perishing, how can one be 
 ashamed of it ? But I am detaining you. Your 
 own house, ^Irs. Haughton?" 
 
 "Yes, Sir, I have just taken it, but the work- 
 men have not finished. I am not yet settled 
 here." 
 
 " Charming situation ! ^My friend left a son, 
 I believe ? In the army already ?" 
 
 "No, Sir; but he wishes it very much." 
 
 " Mr. Darrell, I think, could gratify that wish." 
 
 "What ! you know Mr. Danell, that most ex- 
 cellent, generous man ? All we have we owe to ' 
 him." i 
 
 The gentleman abruptly turned aside — wisely ' 
 — for his expression of face at that praise might 
 have startled Mrs. Haughton. ' 
 
 " Yes, I knew him once. He has had many ' 
 a fee out of my family. Goodish lawyer — clev- 
 erish man — and rich as a Jew. I should like to ' 
 see my old friend's son, ma'am. He must be 
 monstrous handsome with such parents I" I 
 
 "Oh, Sir, very like his father. I shall be' 
 proud to present him to you." i 
 
 '•Ma'am, I thank you. I will have the honor ; 
 to call — " I 
 
 And thus is explained how Jasper Losely has I 
 knocked at Mrs. Haughton's door — has walked ; 
 up her stairs — has seated himself in her draw- ' 
 ing-room, and is now edging his chair some- ' 
 what nearer to her, and throwing into his voice ' 
 and looks a degree of admiration, which has ! 
 been sincerely kindled by the aspect of her ele- 
 gant apartments. 
 
 Jessica Haughton was not one of tliose wo- 
 men, if such there be, who do not know when a 
 
 gentleman is making up to them. She knew 
 perfectly well, that, with a very little encourage- 
 j ment, her visitor would declare himself a suitor. 
 I Nor, to speak truth, was she quite insensible to 
 , his handsome person, nor quite unmoved by his 
 I flatteries. She had her weak points, and vanity 
 ' was one of them. Nor conceived she, poor lady, 
 ' the slightest suspicion that Jasper Losely was not 
 j a personage whose attentions might flatter any 
 j woman. Though he had not even announced 
 a name, but, pushing aside the footman, had 
 sauntered in with as familiar an ease as if he 
 i had been a first cousin : though he had not ut- 
 tered a syllable that could define his station, or 
 I attest his boasted friendship with the dear de- 
 j funct, still Mrs. Haughton implicitly believed 
 j that she was with one of those gay Chiefs of Ton 
 ■ who had glittered round her Charlie in the ear- 
 lier morning of his life, ere he had sold out of 
 ! the Guards, and brought himself out of jail ; a 
 I lord, or an honorable at least, and was even (I 
 i shudder to say) revolving in her mind whether 
 j it might not be an excellent thing for her dear 
 I Lionel if she could prevail on herself to procure 
 I for him the prop and guidance of a distinguish- 
 : ed and brilliant father-in-law — ricli, noble, evi- 
 I dently good-natured, sensible, attractive. Oh I 
 ' but the temptation was growing more and more 
 ' IMMENSE ! when suddenly the door opened, and 
 ^ in sprang Lionel, ciying out, " Mother, dear, the 
 t Colonel has come with me on pui-pose to — " 
 
 He stopped short, staring hard at Jasper Lose- 
 ly. That gentleman advanced a few steps, ex- 
 tending his hand, but came to an abrupt halt on 
 I seeing Colonel Morley's figure now filling up the 
 door-way. Not that he feared recognition — the 
 I Colonel did not know him by sight, but he knew 
 by sight the Colonel. In his own younger day, 
 when lolling over the r^ils of Eotten Row, he had 
 enviously noted the leaders of fashion pass bv, 
 and Colonel Morley had not escaped his ob- 
 servation. Colonel ilorley, indeed, was one of 
 those men who by name and repute are sure to 
 be known to all who, like Jasper Losely in his 
 youth, would fain know something about that 
 gaudy, babbling, and remorseless world which, 
 like the sun, either vivifies or corrupts, accord- 
 ing to the properties of the object on which it 
 shines. Strange to say, it was the mere sight 
 of the real fine gentleman that made the mock 
 fine gentleman shrink and collapse. Though 
 Jasper Losely knew himself to be still called a 
 magnificent man — one of royal Nature's Life- 
 guardsmen — though confident that from top to 
 toe his habiliments could defy the criticism of 
 the strictest martinet in polite costume, no soon- 
 er did that figure — by no means handsome, and 
 clad in garments innocent of buckram, but guil- 
 ty of wTinkles — appear on the threshold than 
 Jasper Losely felt small and shabby, as if he 
 had been suddenly reduced to five feet two, and 
 had bought his coat out of an old clothesman's 
 bag. 
 
 Without appearing even to see Mr. Losely, 
 the Colonel, in his turn, as he glided past him 
 toward Mrs. Haughton, had, with what is pro- 
 verbially called the corner of the eye, taken the 
 whole of that impostor's superb personnel into 
 calm survey, had read him through and through, 
 and decided on these two points without the 
 slightest hesitation — '• a lady-killer and a sharp- 
 er." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 109 
 
 Quick as breathing had been the effect thus j 
 severally produced on Mrs. Haughton's visitors, 
 which it has cost so many words to describe, so 
 quick that the Colonel, "without anv apparent 
 pause of dialogue, has already taken up the sen- 
 tence Lionel Icfi uncompleted, and says, as he 
 bows over Mrs. Haughton's hand, " Come on pur- 
 pose to claim acquaintance with an old friend's 
 widow, a young friend's mother." 
 
 Mks. IIacghton. " I am sure, Colonel Mor- 
 ley, I am very much flattered. And you, too, 
 knew the poor dear Captain ; 'tis so pleasant to 
 think that his old friends come round us now. 
 This sentleman, also, was a particular friend of 
 dear Charles's." 
 
 The Colonel had somewhat small eyes, which 
 moved with habitual slowness. He lifted those 
 eyes, let them drop upon Jasper (who still stood 
 in the middle of the room, with one hand still 
 half-extended toward Lionel), and letting the 
 eyes rest there while he spoke, repeated, 
 ' -'Particular friend of Charles Haughton's — 
 the onlv one of his particular friends whom I 
 never had the honor to see before." 
 
 Jasper who, whatever his deficiency in other 
 virtues, certainly did not lack courage, made a 
 strong effort at self-possession, and without re- 
 plving to the Colonel, whose remark had not 
 been directly addiessed to himself, said, in his 
 most rollicking tone — " Yes, Mrs. Haughton, 
 Charles was my particular friend, but" — lifting 
 his eve-glass — "bufthis gentleman was," drop- 
 ping the eye-glass negligently, '• not in our set, 
 I supjiose." Then advancing to Lionel, and 
 seizini: his hand, '"I must introduce myself — the 
 image of your father, I declare ! I was saying to 
 Mrs^ Haughton how much I should like to see 
 vou — proposing to her, just as you came in, that 
 we should go to the play together. Oh, ma'am, 
 Tou may trust him to me safely. Young men 
 should see life." Here Jasper tipped Lionel 
 one of those knowing winks with which he was 
 accustomed to delight and insnare the young 
 
 ""What, Lionel?" asked the Colonel, blandly 
 — "was what?" 
 " Snobbish, Sir." 
 
 '•Lionel, how dare you!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Haughton. '• What vulgar words boys do juck 
 up at school. Colonel Morleyl" 
 
 "We must be careful that they do not pick up 
 worse than words when they leave school, my 
 dear madam. You will forgive me, but Mr. 
 Darrell has so expressly — of course, with your 
 permission — commended this young gentleman 
 to my responsible care and guidance — so openly 
 confided to me his views and intentions, that 
 perhaps you would do me the verj- great favor 
 not to force upon him, against his own wishes, 
 the acquaintance of — that veiy good-looking 
 person." 
 
 ilrs. Haughton pouted, but kept down her ris- 
 ing temper. The Colonel began to awe her. 
 
 " By-the-by," continued the man of the world, 
 " may I inquire the name of my old friend's par- 
 ticular friend?" 
 
 "His name — upon my word I really don't 
 know it. Perhaps he left his card — ring the 
 bell, Lionel." 
 
 "You don't know his name, yet you know 
 ?tiin, ma'am, and would allow your son to see 
 LIFE under his auspices I I beg you ten thou- 
 sand pardons ; but even ladies the most cau- 
 tious, mothers the most watchful, are exposed 
 to — " 
 
 " Immense temptations — that is — to — to — " 
 
 " I understand perfectly, my dear Mrs. Haugh- 
 ton." 
 
 The footman appeared. "Did that gentle- 
 man leave a card?" 
 
 "No, ma'am." 
 
 "Did not vou ask his name when he enter- 
 ed?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, but he said he would announce 
 himself." 
 
 When the footman had withdrawn, Mrs. 
 Haughton exclaimed, piteously, " I have been 
 
 friends of Mr. Poole, and hurried on : " But in to blame, Colonel — I see it. But Lionel will 
 
 an innocent way, ma'am, such as mothers would 
 approve. We'll fix an evening for it, when I 
 have the honor to call again. Good-morning, 
 Mrs. Haughton. Your hand again, Sir (to Li- 
 onel). — Ah, we shall be great friends, I guess ! 
 You must let me take you out in my cab — teach 
 you to handle the ribbons, eh? 'Gad my old 
 friend Charles tf as a whip, Hal hal Good- 
 day, good-day I" 
 
 Not a muscle had moved in the Colonel's face 
 during Mr. Losely's jovial monologue. But when 
 Jasper had bowed himself out, Mrs. Haughton 
 courtesving and ringing the bell for the footman 
 
 to open the street-door, the man of the world my passport to your confidence, Mrs. Haughton. 
 (and, as man of the world. Colonel Morley was Charles was my old school-fellow — a little boy 
 consummate) again raised those small, slow eyes when I and Darrell were in the sixth form : and 
 —this time toward her face— and dropped the pardon me if I add that if that gentleman were 
 ^■oj-ds ever Charles Haughton's particular frieud. he 
 
 " My old friend's particular friend is — not could scarcely have been a ven,- wise one. For, 
 bad-iooking, Mrs. Haughton!" unless his appearance greatly belie his yera-s, he 
 
 "And so livelv and pleasant," returned Mrs. must have been little more than a bov when 
 Haughton. with a slight rise of color, but no oth- ; Charles Haughton left Lionel fatherless." 
 
 tell you how I came to know the gentleman — 
 the gentleman who nearly run over me. Lionel, 
 and then spoke so kindly about your dear fa- 
 ther." 
 
 "Oh, that is the person! I supposed so," 
 cried Lionel, kissing his mother, who was in- 
 clined to burst into tears. " I can explain it 
 all now. Colonel ^lorley. Any one who says a 
 kind word about my father warms my mother's 
 heart to him at once. Is it not so, mother 
 dear ?" 
 
 "And long be it so," said Colonel Morley, 
 with graceful earnestness; "and may such be 
 
 Here, in the delic.icy of tact, seeing that Mrs. 
 Haughton looked ashamed of the subject, and 
 seemed aware of her imprudence, the Colonel 
 
 er sign of embarrassment. "It may be a nice 
 acquaintance for Lionel." 
 
 "Mother!" cried that ungrateful boy, "you 
 
 are not speaking seriouslv. I think the man is rose, with a request — cheerfully granted — that 
 odious. If he were not my father's friend, I Lionel might be allowed to come to breakfast 
 should sav he was — " ' i with him the next morning. 
 
110 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A man of the world, having accepted a troublesome 
 charge, considers " what he will do with it;"" and hav- 
 ing promptlj- decided, is sure, first, that he could not 
 have done better; and, secondly, that much may be 
 said to prove that he could not have done worse. 
 
 Reserving to a later occasion anj more de- 
 tailed description of Colonel Morley, it suffices 
 for the present to say that he was a man of a 
 very fine understanding, as applied to the spe- 
 cial world in which he lived. Thongh no one 
 had a more numerous circle of friends, and 
 though with many of those friends he was on 
 that footing of familiar intimacy which Dar- 
 rell's active career once, and his rigid seclusion 
 of late, could not have established with anv 
 idle denizen of that brilliant society in which 
 Colonel Morley moved and had his being, yet 
 to Alban Morley's heart (a heart not easily 
 reached) no friend was so dear as Guy Darrell. 
 They had entered 'Eton on the same day — 
 left it the same daj" — lodged while there in the 
 same house ; and thongh of very different char- 
 acters, formed one of those strong, imperish- 
 able, brotherly affections which the Fates weave 
 into the ver'v woof of existence. 
 
 Dan'ell's recommendation would have secured 
 to any young protege Colonel Morley's gracious 
 welcome and invaluable advice. But both as 
 Darrell's acknowledged kinsman and as Charles 
 Haughton's son, Lionel called forth his kindli- 
 est sentiments, and obtained his most sagacious 
 deliberations. He had already seen the boy sev- 
 eral times before waiting on Mrs. Haughton, 
 deeming it would please her to defer his visit 
 until she could receive him in all the glories 
 of Gloucester Place ; and he had taken Lionel 
 into high favor, and deemed him worthy of a 
 conspicuous place in the world. Though Dar- 
 rell, in his letter to Colonel ilorley, had em- 
 phatically distinguished the position of Lionel, 
 as a favored kinsman, from that of a presump- 
 tive or even a probable heir, yet the rich man 
 had also added — '"But I wish him to take rank 
 as the representative to the Haughtons ; and, 
 whatever I may do with tlie bulk of my fortune, 
 I shall insure to him a liberal independence. 
 The completion of his education, the adequate 
 allowance to him, the choice of a profession, 
 are matters in which I entreat you to act for 
 yourself, as if you were his guardian. I am 
 leaving England — I may be abroad for years." 
 Colonel Morley, in accepting the responsibilities 
 thus pressed on him, brought to bear upon his 
 charge subtle discrimination as well as consci- 
 entious anxiety. 
 
 He saw that Lionel's heart was set upon the 
 military profession, and that his power of appli- 
 cation seemed lukewarm and desultory when 
 not cheered and concentred by enthusiasm, and 
 would, therefore, fail him if directed to studies 
 which had no immediate reference to the ob- 
 jects of his ambition. The Colonel according- 
 ly dismissed tlie idea of sending him for three 
 years to a University. Alban Jlorley summed 
 up his theories on the collegiate ordeal in these 
 succinct aphorisms: '"Nothing so good as a 
 University education, nor worse than a Uni- 
 versity without its education. Better throw a 
 youth at once into the wider sphere of a capital, 
 provided you there secure to his social life the 
 ordinary checks of good company, the restraints 
 
 imposed by the presence of decorous women, 
 and men of grave years and dignified repute, 
 than confine him to the exclusive society of 
 youths of his own age — tlic age of wild spirits 
 and unreflecting imitation — unless he cling to 
 the safeguard which is found in hard reading, 
 less by the book-knowledge it bestows than by 
 the serious and preoccupied mind which it ab- 
 stracts from tlie coarser temptations." 
 
 But Lionel, younger in character than in 
 years, was too boyish as yet to be safely con- 
 signed to those trials of tact and temper which 
 await the neophyte who enters on life through 
 the doors of a mess-room. His pride was too 
 morbid — too much on the alert for oftense ; his 
 frankness too crude, his spirit too untamed by 
 the insensible diseipHne of social commerce. 
 
 Qitoth the observant ;Man of the World : 
 "Place his honor in" his own keeping, and he 
 will carry it about with him on full cock, to 
 blow off a friend's head or his own before the 
 end of the first month. Huffy — decidedly huffy. 
 And of all causes that disturb regiments, and 
 induce court-martials, the commonest cause is 
 a huffy lad! Pity! for that youngster has in 
 him the right metal — spirit and talent that 
 should make him a first-rate soldier. It would 
 be time well spent, that should join professional 
 studies with that degree of polite culture which 
 gives dignity and cures hurjiacss. I must get 
 him out of London, out of England — cut him 
 off from his mother's aprori-strings, and the par- 
 ticular friends of his poor father who prowl un- 
 announced into the widow's drawing-room. He 
 shall go to Paris — no better place to learn mili- 
 tary theories, and be civilized out of hufly dis- 
 positions. No doubt my old friend, the cheva- 
 lier, who has the art strategic at his finger-ends, 
 might be induced to take him en pension, direct 
 his studies, and keep him out of harm's way. I 
 can secure to him the entree into the circles of 
 the rigid old Faubourg St. Germain, where man- 
 ners are best bred, and household ties most re- 
 spected. Besides, as I am so often at Paris my- 
 self, I shall have him under my eye ; and a few 
 years there spent in completing him as man may 
 bring him nearer to that marshal's baton which 
 every recniit should have in his eye, than if I 
 started him at once, a raw boy, unable to take 
 care of himself as an ensign, and unfitted, save 
 by mechanical routine, to take care of others, 
 should he live to buy the grade of a colonel." 
 
 The plans thus promptly formed Alban J[or- 
 ley briefly explained to Lionel, when the boy 
 came to breakfast in Curzon Street, requesting 
 him to obtain Jlrs. Haughton's acquiescence in 
 that exercise of the discretionary powers with 
 which he had been invested by Mr. Darrell. To 
 Lionel the proposition that commended the 
 very studies to which his tastes directed his am- 
 bition, and placed his initiation into responsible 
 manhood among scenes bright to his fancy, be- 
 cause new to his experience, seemed, of course, 
 the perfection of wisdom. 
 
 Less readily pleased was poor Mrs. Haugh- 
 ton when her son returned to communicate the 
 arrangement, backing a polite and well-worded 
 letter from the Colonel with his own more ai-t- 
 less eloquence. Instantly she flew ofl' on the 
 wing of her "little tempers." "What! her 
 only son taken from her — sent to that horrid 
 Continent, just when she was so respectably set- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Ill 
 
 tied ! TMiat was the good of money if she was 
 to be parted from her boy? Mr. Darrell mijiht 
 take the money back if he pleased — she would 
 write and tell him so. Colonel Morley had no 
 feeljn.ir; and she was shocked to think Lionel 
 was in such unnatural hands. She saw ver}- 
 plainly that he no longer cared for her — a ser- 
 pent's tooth, etc., etc." But as soon as the 
 burst was over the sky cleared, and Mrs. Ilaugh- 
 ton became penitent and sensible. Then her 
 grief for Lionel's loss was diverted by prepara- 
 tions for his departure. There was his ward- 
 robe to see to — a patent portmanteau to pur- 
 chase and to fill. And, all done, the last even- 
 ing mother and son spent together, though pain- 
 ful at the moment, it would be happiness for 
 both herea/ter to recall I Their hands clasped 
 in each other — her head leaning on his young 
 shoulder — her tears kissed so soothingly away. 
 And soft words of kindly, motherly counsel — 
 sweet promises of filial performance. Happy, 
 thrice happy, as an after remembrance, be the 
 final parting between hopeful son and fearful 
 parent, at the foot of that mystic bridge which 
 starts from the threshold of Home — lost in the 
 dimness of the far-opposing shore I — bridge over 
 ■which goes the boy who will never return but as 
 the man. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 The Pocket-Cannibal baits his woman's trap with love- 
 letters — And a widow allured steals timidly toward it 
 from under the weeds. 
 
 Jasper Loselt is beginning to be hard up I 
 The infallible calculation at ronge-et-noir has 
 carried oft all that cajjital which had accumu- 
 lated from the savings of the young gentlemen 
 whom Dolly Poole had contributed to his ex- 
 chequer. Poole himself is beset by duns, and 
 pathetically observes "that he has lost three 
 stone in weight, and that he believes the calves 
 to his legs are gone to enlarge his liver." 
 
 Jasper is compelled to put down his cabriolet 
 — to discharge his groom — to retire from his 
 fashionable lodgings ; and just when the pros- 
 pect even of a dinner becomes dim, he bethinks 
 himself of Arabella Crane, and remembers that 
 she promised him £5, nay, £10, which are still 
 due from her. He calls — he is received like the 
 prodigal son. Xay, to his own surprise, he finds 
 Mrs. Crane has made her house much more in- 
 viting — the drawing-rooms are cleaned up ; the 
 addition of a few easy anicles of furniture gives 
 them quite a comfortable air. She herself has 
 improved in costume — though her favorite color 
 sfill remains iron-gray. She informs Jasper that 
 she fully expected him — that these preparations 
 are in his honor — that she has engaged a very 
 good cook — that she hopes he will dine with her 
 when not better engaged ; in short, let him feel 
 himself at home in Podden Place. 
 
 Jasper at first suspected a sinister design, un- 
 der civilities that his conscience told him were 
 unmerited — a design to entrap him into that 
 matrimonial alliance which he had so ungal- 
 lantly scouted, and from which he still recoiled 
 with an abhorrence which man is not justified 
 in feeling for any connubial partner less preter- 
 naturally terrific than the Witch of Endor or 
 the Bleeding Nun ! 
 
 But Mrs. Crane quickly and candidly hastened 
 to dispel his ungenerous apprehensions. " She 
 had given up,'" she said, "all ideas so preposter- 
 ous — love and wedlock were equally out of her 
 mind. But ill as he had behaved to her, she 
 could not but feel a sincere regard for him— a 
 deep interest in his fate, lie oiight still to make 
 a brilliant marriage — did that idea not occur to 
 him ? She might help him there with her wo- 
 man's wit. In short,' said Mrs. Crane, pinch- 
 ing her lips, " in short, Jasper, I feel for you as 
 a viotlier. Look on me as such I" 
 
 That pure and aftectionate notion \\onder- 
 fuUy tickled, and egregiously delighted Jasper 
 Losely, '"Look on you as a mother! I will," 
 said he, with emphasis. '"Best of creatures I" 
 And though in his own mind he had not a doubt 
 that she still adored him (not as a mother), he 
 believed it was a disinterested, devoted adora- 
 tion, such as the beautiful brute really had in- 
 spired more than once in his abominable life. 
 Accordingly, he moved into the neighborhood 
 of Podden Place, contenting himself with a sec- 
 ond-floor bedroom in a house recommended to 
 him by Mrs. Crane, and taking his meals at his 
 adopted mother's with filial famiharity. She 
 expressed a desire to make Mr. Poole's ac- 
 quaintance — Jasper hastened to present that 
 worthy. Mrs. Crane invited Samuel Dolly to 
 dine one day, to sup the next; she lent him £3 
 to redeem his dress-coat from pawn, and she 
 gave him medicaments for the relief of his head- 
 ache. 
 
 Samuel Dolly venerated her as a most supe- 
 rior woman — envied Jasper such a '"mother." 
 Thus easily did Arabella Crane possess herself 
 of the existence of Jasper Losely. Lightly her 
 fingers closed over it — lightly asthe fisherman's 
 over the captivated trout. And whatever her 
 generosity, it was not carried to imprudence. 
 She just gave to Jasjer enough to bring him 
 within her power — she had no idea of ruining 
 herself by larger sujiplies — she concealed from 
 him the extent of her income (which was in 
 chief part derived from house rents), the amount 
 of her savings, even the name of her banker. 
 And if he carried oflf to the ronge-et-noir table 
 the coins he obtained from her, and came for 
 more, Mrs. Crane put on the look of a mother 
 incensed — mild but awful — and scolded as mo- 
 thers sometimes can scold. Jasper Losely began 
 to be frightened at Mrs. Crane's scoldings. And 
 he had not that pjower over her, which, though 
 arrogated by a lover, is denied to an adopted 
 son. His mind, relieved from the habitual dis- 
 traction of the gambling-table — for which the 
 resource was wanting — settled with redoubled 
 ardor on the image of Mrs. Haughton. He had 
 called at her house several times since the fatal 
 day on which he had met there Colonel Morley, 
 but Mrs. Haughton was never at home. And 
 as, when the answer was given to him In' the 
 footman, he had more than once, on crossing 
 the street, seen herself through the window, it 
 was clear that his acquaintance was not court- 
 ed. Jas])er Losely, by habit, was the reverse 
 of a pertinacious aud troublesome suitor — not, 
 Heaven knows, from want of audacity, but from 
 excess of self-love. "\Miere a lovelace so su- 
 perb condescended to make overtures, a Cla- 
 rissa so tasteless as to decline them deserved and 
 experienced his contempt. Besides, steadfast 
 
112 
 
 WHAT WELL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 and prolonged pursuit of any object, however 
 important and atti-active, was alien to the lev- 
 ity and fickleness of his temper. But in this 
 instance he had other motives than those on the 
 surface for unusual perseverance. 
 
 A man like Jasper Losely never reposes im- 
 plicit confidence in any one. He is garrulous, 
 indiscreet — lets out much that Machiavel would 
 have advised him not to disclose ; but he inva- 
 riably has nooks and corners in his mind which 
 he keeps to himself. Jasper did not confide to 
 his adoj)ted mother his designs upon his intend- 
 ed bride. But she knew them through Poole, to 
 whom he was more frank; and when she saw 
 him looking over her select and severe libraiy — 
 taking therefrom the Polite Letter- Writer and 
 the Elegant Extracts, Mrs. Crane divined at once 
 that Jasper Losely was meditating the eflect of 
 epistolary seduction upon the widou- of Glouces- 
 ter Place. 
 
 Jasper did not write a bad love-letter in the 
 florid style. He had at his command, in espe- 
 cial, certain poetical quotations, the efl^ect of 
 which repeated experience had assured him to 
 be as potent upon the female breast as the in- 
 cantations or Carmina of the ancient sorcery. 
 The following in particular : 
 
 "Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 
 I ne'er could injure you." 
 
 Another — generally to be applied when confess- 
 ing that his career had been interestingly wild, 
 and would, if pity were denied him, be pathet- 
 ically short: 
 
 "When he who adores thee has left but the uame 
 Of his faults and his follies behind." 
 
 Armed with these quotations — many a sen- 
 tence from the Polite Letter- Writer or the Ele- 
 gant ExtracAs — and a quire of rose-edged paj>er, 
 Losely sat down to Ovidian composition. But 
 as he approached the close of Epistle the First, 
 it occurred to him that a signature and address 
 were necessary. The address not difficult. He 
 could give Boole's (hence his confidence to that 
 gentleman J — Poole had a lodging in Bury Street, 
 yt. James, a fashionable locality for single men. 
 But the name required more consideratipn. 
 There were insuperable objections against sign- 
 ing his own to any person who might be in com- 
 munication with Mr. Dan-ell — a pity, for there 
 was a good old family of the name of Lose- 
 ly. A name of aristocratic sound might indeed 
 be readily borrowed from any lordly proprietor 
 thereof without asking a formal consent. But 
 this loan was exposed to danger. Mrs. Haugh- 
 ton might very naturally mention such name, as 
 borne by her husband's friend, to Colonel Mor- 
 ley, and Colonel Morley would most probably 
 know enough of the connections and relations 
 of any jieer so honored to say, "There is no 
 such Greville, Cavendish, or Talbot." But Jas- 
 per Losely was not without fertility of invention 
 and readiness of resource. A grand idea, wor- 
 thy of a master, and proving that, if the man 
 had not been a rogue in grain, he could have 
 been reared into a very clever politician, flashed 
 across him. He would sign himself " Smith." 
 Nobody could say there is no such Smith ; no- 
 body could say that a Smith might not be a 
 most respectable, fashionable, highly connected 
 man. There are Smiths who are millionaires 
 — Smiths who are large-acred squires — substan- 
 tial baronets — peers of England, and pillars of 
 
 the State — members even of the British Cabi- 
 net. You can no more question a man's right 
 to be a Smith than his right to be a Briton; 
 and wide as the diversity of rank, lineage, vir- 
 tue, and genius in Britons, is the diversity in 
 Smiths. But still a name so generic often af- 
 fects a definitive precursor. Jasper signed him- 
 self "J. COLRTEXAT SmITH." 
 
 He called, and left Epistle the First with his 
 own kid-gloved hand, inquiring first if Mrs. 
 Haughton were at home, and, responded to in 
 the negative, this time, he asked for her son. 
 " Her son was gone abroad with Colonel Mor- 
 ley." Jasper, though sorrj- to lose present hold 
 over the boy, was consoled at learning that the 
 Colonel was oil' the ground. More sanguine of 
 success, he glanced up at the window, and, sure 
 that ilrs. Haughton was there, though he saw 
 her not, lifted his hat Mith as melancholy an 
 expression of reproach as he could throw into 
 his face. 
 
 The villain could not have found a moment 
 in ^Irs. Haughton's widowed life so propitious 
 to his chance of success. In her lodging-house 
 at Pimlico, the good lady had been too inces- 
 santly occupied for that idle train of reverie in 
 which, the poets assure us, that Cupid finds 
 leisure to whet his arrows, and take his aim. 
 Had Lionel still been by her side — had even 
 Colonel ^lorley been in town — her affection for 
 the one, her awe of the other, would have been 
 her safeguards. But alone in that fine new 
 house — no friends, no acquaintances as yet — no 
 dear visiting circle on which to expend the de- 
 sire of talk and the zest for innocent excitement 
 that are natural to ladies of an active mind and 
 a nervous temperament, the sudden obtrusion of 
 a suitor so respectfully ardent — oh, it is not to 
 be denied that the temptation was immense ! 
 
 And when that note, so neatly folded — so 
 
 elegantly sealed — lay in her in-esolute hand, the 
 
 widow could not but feel that she was still 
 
 young, still pretty ; and her heart flew back to 
 
 the day when the linen-draper's fair daughter 
 
 had been the cynosure of the provincial High 
 
 Street — when young officers had lounged to and 
 
 fro the pavement, looking in at her window — 
 
 when ogles and notes had alike beset her, and 
 
 j the dark eyes of the irresistible Chr.rlie Haugh- 
 
 j ton had first taught her pulse to tremble. And 
 
 in her hand lies the letter of Charlie Haughton's 
 
 \ particular friend. She breaks the seal. She 
 
 ' reads — a declaration ! 
 
 Five letters in five days did Jasper T\Tite. In 
 ! the course of those letters, he explains av,-ay the 
 I causes for suspicion which Colonel Morley had 
 so ungenerously suggested. He is no longer 
 anonymous — he is J. Courtenay Smith. He 
 I alludes incidentally to the precocious age in 
 which he had become "lord of himself, that 
 heritage of M'oe." This accounts for his friend- 
 ship with a man so much his senior as the late 
 Charlie. He confesses that, in the vortex of 
 I dissipation, his hereditary estates have disap- 
 ! peared ; but he has still a genteel independence ; 
 and with the woman of his heart, etc., etc. He 
 had never before known what real love was, etc. 
 " Pleasure had fired his maddening soul ;" " but 
 the heart — the heart been lonely still." He en- 
 treated only a personal inteniew, even though 
 to be rejected — scorned. Still, when "he who 
 adored her had left but the name," etc., etc. 
 
•WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 113 
 
 Alas I alas I as Mrs. Haughton put do^Yn Epistle 
 the Fifth, she hesitated; and the woman who 
 hesitates in such a case, is sure, at least — to 
 ^^Tite a civil answer. 
 
 Mi-s. Haughton wrote but three lines — still 
 thev were civil — and conceded an interview for 
 the' next day, though implying that it was but 
 for the purjjose of assuring Mr. J. Courtenay 
 Smith in person, of her unalterable fidelity to 
 the shade of his lamented friend. 
 
 In liigh glee Jasper s-howed Mrs. Haughton's 
 answer to Dolly Poole, and began seriously to 
 speculate on the probable amount of the wid- 
 ow's income, and the value of her movables in 
 Gloucester Place. Thence he repaired to Mrs. 
 Crane; and. emboldened by the hope forever to 
 escape from maternal tutelage, braved her scold- 
 ings, and asked for a couple of sovereigns. He 
 was sure that he should be in luck that night. 
 She gave to him the sum and spared the scold- 
 ings. But as soon as he was gone, conject- 
 uring, from the bravado of his manner, what 
 had really occurred, Mrs. Crane put c*i her bon- 
 net and went out. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 fnhappy is the man who puts his trust in — a -n-oman. 
 
 Late that evening a lady, in a black vail, 
 knocked at Xo. — Gloucester Place, and asked 
 to see Mrs. Haughton on urgent business. She 
 was admitted. She remained but five minutes. 
 
 The next day, when "gay as a bridegroom 
 prancing to his bride," Jasper Losely presented 
 himself at the widow's door, the servant placed 
 in his hand a packet, and informed him bluff- 
 ly that Mrs. Haughton had gone out of town, 
 jasper with difficulty suppressed his rage, open- 
 ed the packet — his own letters returned, with 
 these words — " Sir, your name is not Courtenay 
 Smith. If you trouble me again I shall apply 
 to the police." Never from female hand had 
 Jasper Loscly's pride received such a slap on its 
 face. He was literally stunned. Mechanically 
 he hastened to Arabella Crane ; and having no 
 longer any object in concealment, but, on the 
 contrary, a most urgent craving for sympathy, 
 he poured forth his indignation and wrongs. 
 No mother could be more consolatory than Mrs. 
 Crane. She soothed, she flattered, she gave him 
 an excellent dinner ; after which she made him 
 so comfortable — what with an easy-cliair and 
 complimentary converse, that, when Jasper rose 
 late to return to his lodging, he said: "After 
 all, if I had been ugly and stupid, and of a 
 weakly constitution, I should have been of a 
 verj- domestic turn of mind." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 No Author ever drew a character, consistent to human 
 nature, but what he was forced to ascribe to it many 
 inconsistencies. 
 
 WnETiiER moved by that pathetic speech of 
 Jasper's, or by some other impulse not less 
 feminine, Arabella Crane seemed suddenly to 
 conceive the laudable and arduous design of re- 
 forming that portentous sinner. She had some 
 distant relations in London, whom she very 
 rarely troubled with a visit, and who, had she 
 H 
 
 wanted any thing from them, would have shut 
 their doors in her face ; but as, on the contrary, 
 she was well otl", single, and might leave her 
 money to whom she jdeased, the distant rela- 
 tions were always warm in manner, and prodigal 
 in their ofters of senice. The next day she re- 
 paired to one of these kinsfolk — a person in a 
 large way of business — and returned home with 
 two great books in white sheepskin. And when 
 Losely looked in to dine, she said, in the suavest 
 tones a tender mother can address to an amiable 
 truant, "Jasper, you have great abilities — at the 
 gaming-table abilities are evidently useless — 
 your forte is calculation — you were always very 
 quick at that. I have been fortunate enough to 
 procure you an easy piece of taskwork, for w hicli 
 you will be liberally remunerated. A friend of 
 minp wishes to submit these books to a regular 
 accountant ; he suspects that a clerk has cheated 
 him, but he can not tell how or where. You 
 know accounts thoroughly — no one better — and 
 the pay will be ten guineas." 
 
 Jasper, though his early life had rendered 
 familiar and facile to him the science of book- 
 keeping and double-entry, made a grimace at 
 the revolting idea of any honest labor, however 
 light and well paid. But ten guineas were an 
 immense temptation, and in the evening Jlrs. 
 Crane coaxed him into the task. 
 
 Neglecting no feminine art to make the law- 
 less nomad feel at home under her roof, she had 
 provided for his ease and comfort morocco slip- 
 pers and a superb dressing-robe, in material 
 i-ich, in color becoming. Men, single or mari- 
 tal, are accustomed to connect the idea of home 
 with dressing-gown and slippers, especially if, 
 after dinner, they apply (as Jasper Losely now- 
 applied) to occupations, in which the brain is 
 active, the form in repose. "What achievement, 
 literaiy or scientific, was ever accomplished by 
 a student strapped to unyielding boots, and 
 "cabined, cribbed, confined," in a coat that 
 fits him like wax? As robed in the cozy gar- 
 ment which is consecrated to the sacred familiar 
 Lares, the relaxing, handsome ruffian sate iu 
 the quiet room, bending his still regular jirofile 
 over the sheepskin books — the harmless pen in 
 that strong well-shajied hand, Mrs. Crane watch- 
 ed him with a softening countenance. To liear 
 him company, she had actively taken herself to 
 work — the gold thimble dragged from its long 
 repose — marking and hemming, with nimble 
 artistic fingei-s, new cravats for the adopted son ! 
 Strange creature is Woman! Ungrateful and 
 perfidious as that sleek tiger before her had oft- 
 en proved himself — though no man could less 
 deserve one kindly sentiment in a female heart 
 — though she knew that he cared nothing for 
 her, still it was pleasing to know that he cared 
 for nobody else — that he was sitting in the same 
 room — and Arabella Crane felt that if that ex- 
 istence could continue she could forget the past, 
 and look contented toward the future. Again I 
 say, strange creature is Woman! — and, in this 
 instance, creature more strange, because so 
 grim ! But as her eyes soften, and her fingers 
 work, and her mind revolves schemes for mak- 
 ing that lawless wild beast an innocuous, tame 
 animal, who can help feeling for and with grim 
 Arabella Crane ? 
 
 Poor woman ! And will not the experiment 
 succeed? Three evenings does Jasper Losely 
 
114 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 devote to this sinless life and its peaceful occu- 
 pation. He completes his task — he receives the 
 ten guineas. (How much of that fee came out 
 of Mrs. Crane's privy purse?) He detects three 
 mistakes, which justify suspicion of the book- 
 keeper's integrity. Set a thief to catch a thief! 
 He is praised for acuteness, and promised a still 
 lighter employment, to be still better paid. He 
 departs, declaring that he will come the next 
 day, earlier than usual — he volunteers an eulo- 
 giura upon work in general — he vows that even- 
 ings so happy he has not spent for years ; he 
 leaves Mrs. Crane so much impressed by the 
 hope of his improvement, that if a good clergy- 
 man had found her just at that moment, she 
 might almost have been induced to pray. But — 
 
 " lieu quoties fidem 
 Mutatosque deos flebit!" 
 
 Jasper Losely returns not, neither to Podden 
 Place nor to his lodging in the neighborhood. 
 Days elapse ; still he comes not ; even Poole 
 does not know where he has gone ; even Poole 
 has not seen him! But that latter worthy is 
 now laid up with a serious rheumatic fever — 
 confined to his i-oom and water-gruel. And Jas- 
 per Losely is not the man to intrude himself on 
 the privacy of a sick chamber. Mrs. Crane, 
 more benevolent, visits Poole — cheers him up — 
 gets him a nurse — writes to Uncle Sam. Poole 
 blesses her. He hopes that Uncle Sam, moved 
 by the spectacle of his sick bed, will say, "Don't 
 let your debts fret you — I will pay them !" What- 
 ever her disappointment or resentment at Jas- 
 per's thankless and mysterious evasion, Arabel- 
 la Crane is calmly confident of his return. To 
 her servant, Bridgett Greggs, who was perhaps 
 the sole person in the world who entertained 
 affection for tlie lone, gaunt woman, and who 
 held Jasper Losely in profound detestation, she 
 said, with tranquil sternness, " That man has 
 crossed my life, and darkened it. He passed 
 away, and left Night behind him. He has dared 
 to return. He shall never escape me again till 
 the grave yawn for one of us." 
 
 "But, Lor' love you, miss, you would not put 
 yourself in the power of such a black-hearted 
 vilHng ?" 
 
 " In Ids power ! No, Bridgett ; fear not, he 
 must be in mine — sooner or later in mine — 
 hand and foot. Patience !" 
 
 As she was thus speaking — a knock at the 
 door — " It is he — I told you so — quick!" 
 
 But it was not Jasper Losely. It was Mr. 
 Ruggc. 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 ""When God ivUls, all winds bring rain." — Ancient Pro- 
 verb. 
 
 The manager had not submitted to the loss 
 of his property in Sophy and £100, without tak- 
 ing much vain trouble to recover the one or the 
 other. He liad visited Jasper while that gentle- 
 man lodged in St. James's, but the moment he 
 hinted at the return of the £100, Mr. Losely 
 opened both door and window, and requested 
 the manager to make his iininediate choice of 
 the two. Taking the more usual mode of exit. 
 Ml-. Rugge vented his just indignation in a law- 
 yer's letter, threatening Mr. Losely with an ac- 
 tion for conspiracy and fraud. He had also 
 
 more than once visited Mrs. Crane, who some- 
 what soothed him by allowing that he had been 
 very badly used, that he ought at least to be re- 
 paid his money, and promising to do her best to 
 persuade Mr. Losely to "behave like a gentle- 
 man." With regard to So])hy herself, Mrs. 
 Crane appeared to feel a profound indifference. 
 In fact, the hatred which Mrs. Crane had un- 
 questionably conceived for Sophy while under 
 her charge, was much diminished by Losely's 
 unnatural conduct toward the child. To her it 
 was probably a matter of no interest whether 
 Sophy was in Rugge's hands or Waife's ; enough 
 for her that the daughter of a woman against 
 whose memory her fiercest passions were enlist- 
 ed was, in either case, so far below herself in 
 the grades of the social ladder. 
 
 Perhaps of the two protectors for Sophy — 
 Rugge and Waife — her spite alone would have 
 given the preference to Waife. He was on a 
 still lower step of the ladder than the itinerant 
 manager. Nor, though she had so mortally in- 
 jured the forlorn cripple in the eyes of Mr. Har- 
 topp, had she any deliberate purpose of revenge 
 to gratify against /dm! On the contrary, if she 
 viewed him with contempt, it was a contempt 
 not unmixed with pity. It was necessary to 
 make to the mayor the communications she had 
 made, or that worthy magistrate would not have 
 surrendered the child intrusted to him, at least 
 until Waife's return. And really it was a kind- 
 ness to the old man to save him both from an 
 agonizing scene with Jasper, and from tlic moi'c 
 public opprobrium which any resistance on his 
 part to Jasper's authority, or any altercation be- 
 tween the two, Mould occasion. And as her 
 main object then was to secure Losely's allegi- 
 ance to her, by proving her power to be useful 
 to him, so Waifes, and Sophys, and Mayors, and 
 Managers, were to her but as pawns to be moved 
 and sacrificed, according to the leading strategy 
 of her game. 
 
 Rugge came now, agitated and breathless, to 
 inform Jlrs. Crane that Waife had been seen in 
 London. Sir. Rugge's clown had seen him, not 
 far from the Tower ; but the cripple had disap- 
 peared before the clown, M"ho was on t!ie top of 
 an omnibus, had time to descend. "And even 
 if he had actually caught hold of Mr. AVaife," 
 observed JNIrs. Crane, "what then? You have 
 no claim on Mr. Waife." 
 
 *^ But the Phenomenon must be with that rav- 
 ishing marauder,'"' said Rugge. "However, I 
 have set a minister of justice, that is, ma'am, a 
 detective police, at work ; and what I now ask 
 of you is simply this — should it be necessary 
 for JVIr. Losely to appear with me before the 
 senate, that is to say, ma'am, a metropolitan 
 police court, iu order to prove my legal ])roperty 
 in my own bouglit and paid-for Phenomenon, 
 will you induce that bold, bad man, not again 
 to return the jjoisoned chalice to my lips?" 
 
 " I do not even know where Mr. Losely is — 
 perhaps not in London." 
 
 "Ma'am, I saw him last night at the theatre — 
 Princess's. I was in the shilling gallery. He who 
 owes me £100, ma'am — lie in a private box!" 
 
 " Ah ! you arc sure ; by himself?" 
 
 " Vrith a lady, ma'am — a lady in a shawl from 
 Ingee. I know them sliawls. My father taught 
 me to know them in early childliood, for he v,-a3 
 an ornament to British commerce — a broker, 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 115 
 
 ma'am — pawn! And," continued Rugge, with 
 a withering smile, " that man in a private box, 
 which at the Princess's costs two pounds two, 
 and with the spoils of Ingee by his side, lifted 
 his eye-glass and beheld me ; me in the shilling 
 gallery, and his conscience did not say ' should 
 we not change places if I paid that gentleman 
 i;iOO?' Can such things be, and overcome us, 
 ma'am, like a summer-cloud, without our spe- 
 cial — I put it to you, ma'am — wonder?" 
 
 ♦'Oh, with a lady, was he!" exclaimed Ara- 
 bella Crane ; her wrath, which, while the man- 
 ager spoke, gathered fast and full, bursting now 
 into words — "His ladies shall know the man 
 who sells his own child for a show ; only find 
 out wlierc the girl is, then come here again be- 
 fore you stir further. Oh, with a lady I Go to 
 your detective policeman, or, rather, send him to 
 me ; we will first discover Mr. Losely's address. 
 I will pay all the expenses. Eely on my zeal, 
 Mr. Rugge." 
 
 Much comforted, the manager went his way. 
 He had not been long gone before Jasper him- 
 self appeared. The traitor entered with a more 
 than customary bravado of manner, as if he ap- 
 prehended a scolding, and was prepared to face 
 it ; but ^Irs. Crane neither reproached him for 
 his prolonged absence, nor expressed surprise at 
 his return. With true feminine duplicity she re- 
 ceived him as if nothing had happened. Jasper, 
 thus relieved, became of his own accord apo- 
 logetic and explanatory; evidently he wanted 
 something of Mrs. Crane. " The fact is, my dear 
 friend," said he, sinking into a chair, " that the 
 day after I last saw you, I happened to go to the 
 General Post-office to see if there were any let- 
 ters for me — you smile, you don't believe me. 
 Honor bright — here they are, " and Jasper took 
 from the side-pocket of his coat a pocket-book — 
 a new pocket-book — a brilliant pocket-book — 
 fragrant Russian leather — delicately embossed 
 — golden clasps — silken linings — jeweled pencil- 
 case — malachite penknife — an ai-senal of nick- 
 nacks stored in neat recesses ; such a pocket- 
 book as no man ever gives to himself. Sarda- 
 napalus would not have given that pocket-book 
 to himself! Such a pocket-book never comes to 
 you, oh, enviable Lotharios, save as tributary 
 keepsakes from the charmers who adore you ! 
 Grimly the Adopted ^Mother eyed that pocket- 
 book. Never had she seen it before. Grimly 
 she pinched her lips. Out of this dainty volume 
 — which would have been of cumbrous size to a 
 slim thread-paper exquisite, but scarcely bulged 
 into rip{)lc the Atlantic expanse of Jasjjcr Lose- 
 ly's magnificent chest — the monster drew forth 
 two letters on French paper — foreign post- 
 marks. He replaced them quickly, only suffer- 
 ing her eye to glance at the address, and con- 
 tinued: "Fancy! that purse-proud Grand Turk 
 of an infidel, though he would not believe me, 
 has been to France — yes, actually to * * * * * — 
 making inquiries evidently with reference to 
 Sophy. The woman who ought to have thor- 
 oughly converted him took flight, however, and 
 missed seeing him. Confound her! I ought 
 to have been there. So I have no doubt for the 
 present the Pagan remains stubborn. Gone on 
 intoltaly, I hear; doing me, violating thclaws 
 of nature, and roving about the world with his 
 own solitarv" hands in his bottomless pockets, like 
 the Wandering Jew! But, as some slight set- 
 
 off in my run of ill-luck, I find at the Post-office 
 a plcasanter letter than the one which brings 
 me this news : A rich elderly lady, who has no 
 family, wants to adojit a nice child, will fake 
 Sophy; make it wortli my while to let her have 
 Sophy. 'Tis convenient in a thousand ways to 
 settle one's child comfortably in a rich house — 
 establishes rights, subject, of course, to cheques 
 which would not affront nie — a Father ! But the 
 first thing requisite is to catch Sophy; 'tis in 
 that I ask j-our help — you are so clever. Best 
 of creatures ! what could I do without you ? As 
 you say, whenever I want a friend I come to 
 you — Bella !" 
 
 i\Irs. Crane suiTeyed Jasper'^s face deliberate- 
 ly. It is strange how much more readily women 
 read the thoughts of men than men detect those 
 of women. "You know where the child is," 
 said she, slowly. 
 
 " Well, I take it for granted she is with the 
 old man ; and I have seen him — seen him yes- 
 terday." 
 
 " Go on ; you saw him — where?" 
 
 "Near London Bridge." 
 
 "What business could yoti possibly have in 
 that direction? Ah! I guess, the railway-sta- 
 tion — to Dover — you are going abroad?" 
 
 "Xo such thing — you are so horridly suspi- 
 cious. But it is true I had been to the station 
 inquiring after some luggage or parcels which a 
 friend of mine had ordered to be left there — 
 now, don't interrupt me. At the foot of the 
 bi'idge I caught a sudden glimpse of the old man 
 — changed — altered — aged — one eye lost. You 
 had said I should not know him again, but I did ; 
 I should never have recognized his face. I knew 
 him by the build of the shoulder, a certain turn 
 of the arms — I don't know what ; one knows a 
 man familiar to one from birth without seeing 
 his face. Uh, Bella ! I declare that I felt as 
 soft — as soft as the silliest muff who ever — " 
 Jasper did not complete his comparison, but 
 paused a moment, breathing hard, and then 
 broke into another sentence. " He was selling 
 something in a basket — matches, boot-straps, 
 deuce knows what. He ! a clever man, too ! I 
 should have liked to drop into that d — d basket 
 all the money I had about me." 
 
 "\Miy did not you ?" 
 
 "Why? How could I? He would have rec- 
 ognized me. There would have been a scene — 
 a row — a flare up — a mob round us, I dare say. 
 I had no idea it would so upset me ; to see him 
 selling matches, too; glad we did not meet at 
 Gatesboro'. Kot even for that £100 do I think 
 I could have faced him. No — as he said when 
 we last parted, ' The world is wide enough for 
 both.' Give me some brandy — thank you." 
 
 " You did not speak to the old man — he did 
 not see you — but you wanted to get back the 
 child ; you felt sure she must be with him ; you 
 followed him home ?" 
 
 "1? No; I should have had to wait for 
 hours. A man like me, loitering about London 
 , Bridge ! — I should have been too consj'icuous — 
 ! he would have soon caught sight of me, though 
 \ I kept on his blind side. I cm]tloyed a ragged 
 j boy to watch and follow him, and here is the 
 address. Now, will you get Sophy back for me 
 ! without any trouble to me, without my appear- 
 ing? I would rather charge a regiment of 
 ; Horse Guards than buUv that old man." 
 
116 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 " Yet you would rob him of that child — his 1 
 sole comfort?" 
 
 "Bother!" cried Losely, impatiently: "the 
 child can be onl}' a burden to him ; well out of 
 his way ; 'tis for the sake of that child he is sell- 
 ing matches ! It would be the greatest charity 
 w'e could do him to set him free from that child 
 sponging on him, dragging him down ; without 
 her he'd find a way to shift for himself. Why, 
 he's even cleverer than I am ! And there — 
 there — give him this money, but don't say it 
 came from me." 
 
 He thrust, without counting, several sover- 
 eigns — at least twelve or fourteen — into Mrs. 
 Crane's palm ; and so powerful a charm has 
 goodness the very least, even in natures the most 
 evil, that that unusual, eccentric, inconsistent 
 gleam of human pity in Jasper Losely's benight- 
 ed soul, shed its relenting influence over the an- 
 gry, wrathful, and vindictive feelings with which 
 Mrs. Crane the moment befoi-e regarded the per- 
 fidious miscreant ; and she gazed at him with a 
 sort of melancholy wonder. What ! though so 
 little sympathizing with aft'ection that he could 
 not comprehend that he was about to rob the old 
 man of a comfort which no gold could rejiay — 
 what ! though so contemptuously callous to his 
 own child — yet there in her hand lay the unmis- 
 takable token that a something of. humanity, 
 compunction, compassion, still lingered in the 
 breast of the greedy cynic ; and at that thought 
 all that was softest in her own human nature 
 moved toward him — indulgent — gentle. But in 
 the rapid changes of the heart-feminine, the 
 very sentiment that touched upon love brought 
 back the jealousy that bordered upon hate. 
 How came he by so much money ? more than 
 days ago, he, the insatiate spendthrift, had re- 
 ceived for his taskwork? And that Pocket- 
 book ! 
 
 " You have suddenly grown rich, Jasper?" 
 For a moment he looked confused, but re- 
 plied, as he re-helped himself to the brandy, 
 " Yes, roufje-et-noir- — luck. Kow do go and see 
 after this affair, that's a dear, good woman. Get 
 the child to-day, if you can. I will call here in 
 the evening." 
 
 " Should you take her, then, abroad at once 
 to this worthy lady who will adopt her ? If so, 
 we shall meet, I suppose, no more ; and I am 
 assisting you to forget that I live still." 
 
 " Abroad — that crotchet of yours again. You 
 are quite mistaken — in fact, the lady is in Lon- 
 don. It was for her effects that I went to the 
 station. Oh, don't be jealous — quite elderly." 
 " Jealous, my dear Jasper ; you forget. I am 
 as your mother. One of your letters, then, an- 
 nounced this lady's intended arrival. You were 
 in correspondence with this — elderly lady?" 
 
 '" Why, not exactly in correspondence. But 
 when I left Paris I gave the General Post-office 
 as my address to a few friends in France. And 
 this lady, who took an interest in my affairs 
 (ladies, whether old or young, who have once 
 known me, always do), was aware that I had 
 expectations with respect to the child. So, some 
 days ago, when I was so badly oft', I wrote a line 
 to tell her that Sophy had been no go, and that 
 but for a dear friend (that is you) I might be on 
 the pave. In her answer, she said she should 
 be in London as soon as I received her letter ; 
 and gave me an address here at which to learn 
 
 ■where to find her when amved— ;a good old 
 soul, but strange to London. I have been very 
 busy, helping her to find a house, recommend- 
 ing tradesmen, and so forth. She likes style, 
 and can afford it. A pleasant house enough ; 
 but our quiet evenings here spoil me for any 
 thing else. Now get on your bonnet, and let 
 me see you oft"." 
 
 "On one condition, my dear Jasper; that 
 you stay here till I return." 
 
 Jasper made a wry face. But, as it was near 
 dinner-time, and he never wanted for appetite, 
 he at length agreed to employ the iuterval of 
 her absence in discussing a meal, which experi- 
 ence had told him Mrs. Crane's new cook would, 
 not uuskillfully, though hastily, prepare. Mrs. 
 Crane left him to order the dinner, and put on 
 her shawl and boimet. But, gaining her own 
 room, she rung for Bridgett Greggs ; and when 
 that confidential servant appeared, she said: 
 "In the side-pocket of I\Ii\ Losely's coat there 
 is a Pocket-book; in it there are some letters 
 which I must see. I shall appear to go out, 
 leave the street-door ajar, that I may slip in 
 again unobserved. Y'^ou will ser\'e dinner as 
 soon as possible. And when Jlr. Losely, as 
 usual, exchanges his coat for the dressing-gown, 
 contrive to take out that pocket-book unobsenxd 
 by him. Bring it to me here, in this room : you 
 can as easily replace it afterward. A niomeut 
 will suthce to my purpose." 
 
 Bridgett nodded, and understood. Jasper, 
 standing by the window, saw Mrs. Crane leave 
 the house, walking briskly. He then threw him- 
 self on the sofa, and began to doze: the doze 
 deepened, and became sleep. Bridgett, enter- 
 ing to lay the cloth, so found him. She ap- 
 proached on tiptoe — sniffed the perfume of the 
 pocket-book — saw its gilded corners peep forth 
 from its lair. She hesitated — she trembled — 
 she was in mortal fear of that truculent slum- 
 berer; but sleep lessens the awe thieves feel, or 
 heroes inspire. She has taken the pocket-book 
 — she has fled with the booty — she is in Mrs. 
 Crane's apartment, not five minutes after Mrs. 
 Crane has regained its threshold. 
 
 Rapidly the jealous woman ransacked the pock- 
 et-book — started to see, elegantly worked with 
 gold threads, in the lining, the words, " Sou- 
 viExs-Toi DE TA Gabrielle" — BO Other letters, 
 save the two, of which Jasper had vouchsafed 
 to her but the glimpse. Over these she huri'ied 
 her glittering eyes ; and when she restored them 
 to their place, and gave back the book to Brid- 
 gett, who stood by, breathless and listening, lest 
 Jasper should awake, her face was colorless, and 
 a kind of shudder seemed to come over her. 
 Left alone, she rested her face on her hand, her 
 lips moving as if in self-commune. Then noise- 
 lessly she glided down the stairs, regained the 
 street, and hurried fast upon her way. 
 
 Bridgett was not in time to rest^orc the book 
 to Jasper's pocket, for when she re-entered he 
 was turning round and stretching himself be- 
 tween sleep and waking. But she dropped the 
 book skillfully on the" floor, close beside the 
 sofa ; it would seem to him, on waking, to have 
 fallen out of the pocket in the natural move- 
 ments of sleep. 
 
 xVnd in fact, when he rose, dinner now on the 
 table, he picked up the pocket-book without sus- 
 picion. But it was lucky that Bridgett had not 
 
WHAT VTLLL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 117 
 
 waited for the opportnnitv suggested bv her mis- 
 tress. For when Jasper put on tlie dressing- 
 gown, he observed that his coat wanted brush- 
 inf ; and, in giving it to the servant for that 
 purpose, he used the precaution of taking out 
 the pocket-book, and placing it in some other 
 receptacle of his dress. 
 
 Mrs. Crane returned in less than two hours 
 — returned with a disappointed look, which at 
 once prepared Jasper for the intelligence that 
 the birds to be entrapped had flown. 
 
 "They went away this afternoon," said Mi-s. 
 Crane, tossing Jasper's sovereigns on the table, 
 as if they burned her fingers. ''But leave the 
 fugitives to me. I will find them." 
 
 Jasper relieved his angrj- mind by a series 
 of guilty but meaningless ex])letives ; and then, 
 seeing no farther use to which ilrs. Crane's wits 
 could be applied at present, finished the remain- 
 der of her brandy, and wished her good-night, 
 with a promise to call again, but without any 
 intimation of his ovm address. As soon as he 
 was gone, !Mrs. Crane once more summoned 
 Bridget t. 
 
 " You told me last week that your brother- 
 in-law, Simpson, wished to go to America, that 
 he had the offer of employment there, but that 
 he could not afford the fare of the voyage. I 
 promised I would help him if it was a senice 
 to you." 
 
 " You are a liangel, iliss !" exclaimed Brid- 
 gett, dropping a low courtesy — so low that it 
 seemed as if she was going on her knees. " And 
 may you have your deserts in the next blessed 
 world, where there are no black-hearted vil- 
 lings." 
 
 "Enough, enough," said Mrs. Crane, recoil- 
 ing, perhaps, from that grateful benediction. 
 "You have been faithful to me, as none else 
 have ever been; but this time I do not sene 
 you in return so much as I meant to do. The 
 service is reciprocal, if your brother-in-law will 
 do me a favor. He takes with him his daugh- 
 ter, a mere child. Bridgett, let them enter tlieir 
 names on the steam-vessel as "William and So- 
 phy Waife ; they can, of course, resume their 
 own name when the voyage is over. There is 
 the fare for them, and something more. Pooh, 
 no thanks. I can spare the money. See your 
 brother-in-law the first thing in the morning; 
 and remember they go by the next vessel, which 
 sails from Liverpool on Thursday." 
 
 CIIAPTER XVJ. 
 
 Those poor Pocket Cannibals, how society does persecute 
 them ! Even a menial servant would give warning if 
 disturbed at his meals. But your Man-eater is the 
 meekest of creatures ; he will never give warning, and 
 — nt t often take it 
 
 Whatever the source that had supplied Jas- 
 per Losely with the money, from which he had 
 so generously extracted the sovereigns intended 
 to console Waife for the loss of Sophy, that 
 source either dried up, or became wholly inade- 
 quate to his wants. For elasticity was the feli- 
 citous peculiarity of Mr. Losely's wants. They 
 accommodated themselves to the state of his 
 finances with mathematical precision, alwayJ 
 requiring exactly five times the amount of the 
 means placed at his disposal.- From a shilling 
 
 to a million, multiply his wants by five times 
 the total of his means, and you arrived at a just 
 conclusion. Jasper called upon Poole, who was 
 slowly recovering, but unable to leave his room ; 
 and finding that gentleman in a more melan- 
 choly state of mind than usual, occasioned by Un- 
 cle Sam's brutal declaration, that " if responsible 
 for his godson's sins, he was not responsible for 
 his debts ;" and that he really thought " the best 
 thing Samuel Dolly could do was to go to pris- 
 on for a short time, and get whitewaslied;" Jas- 
 per began to lament his own hard fate : " And 
 just when one of the finest women in Paris has 
 come here on purpose to see me," said the lady- 
 killer ; " a lady who keeps her carriage, Dolly ! 
 Would have introduced you if you had been well 
 enough to go out. One can't be always borrow- 
 ing of her. I wish one could. There's Jlother 
 Crane would sell her gown off her back for me, 
 but, 'Gad, Sir, she snubs, and positively fright- 
 ens me. Besides, she lays traps to demean me 
 — set me to work like a clerk (not that I would 
 hurt your feelings, Dolly. If you are a clerk, 
 or something of that sort, you are a gentleman 
 at heart). Well, then, we are both done up and 
 cleaned out ; and my decided opinion is, that 
 nothing is left but a bold stroke." 
 
 "I have no objection to bold strokes, but I 
 don't see any; and Uncle Sam's bold stroke of 
 the Fleet Prison is not at all to mv taste." 
 
 " Fleet Prison ! Fleet fiddlestic'k ! No. You 
 have never been in Russia ? Why should we 
 not go there both? ^ly Paris friend, Madame 
 Caumartin, was going to Italy, but her plans are 
 changed, and she is now all for St. Petersburg. 
 She will wait a few days for you to get Mell. 
 We will all go together and enjoy ourselves. 
 The Russians doat upon whist. AVe shall get 
 into their swell sets, and live like princes." 
 Therewith Jasper launched forth on the text of 
 Russian existence, in such glowing terms, thr.t 
 Dolly Poole shut his aching eyes, and fancied 
 himself sledging down the Neva, covered with 
 furs — a countess waiting for him at dinner, and 
 counts in dozens ready to offer bets, to a fab- 
 ulous amount, that Jasper Losely lost the 
 mbber. 
 
 Having lifted his friend into this region of 
 aerial castles, Jasper then, descending into the 
 practical world, wound up with the mournful 
 fact that one could not get to Petersburg, nor, 
 vv-hen there, into swell sets, without having some 
 little capital on hand. 
 
 "I tell you what we will do. iladame Cau- 
 martin lives in prime style. Get old Latham, 
 your employer, to discount her bill at three 
 months' date, for £500, and we will all be off 
 in a crack." Poole shook his head. "Old La- 
 tham is too knowing a file for that — a foreigner I 
 He'd want security." 
 
 " I'll be security." 
 
 Dolly shook his head a second time, still more 
 emphatically than the first. 
 
 "But you say he does discount paper — gets 
 rich on it ?" 
 
 " Yes, gets rich on it, which he might not do 
 if he discounted the paper you propose. No of- 
 fense." 
 
 " Oh, no offense among friends ! You have 
 taken him bills which he has discounted ?" 
 
 " Yes, good paper." 
 
 " Any paj'cr signed by good names is good 
 
118 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 paper. We can sign good names if we know 
 their handwritings." 
 
 Dolly started and turned white. Knave he 
 was — cheat at cards, blackleg on the turf — but 
 forgery ! that crime was new to him. The very 
 notion of it brought on a return of fever. And 
 while Jasper was increasing his malady by ar- 
 guing with his apprehensions, luckily for Poole, 
 Uncle Sam came in. Uncle Sam, a sagacious 
 old tradesman, no sooner clapped eyes on the 
 brilliant Losely than he conceived for him a 
 distrustful repugnance, similar to that with 
 which an experienced gander may regard a fox 
 in colloquy with its gosling. He had already 
 learned enough of his godson's ways and chosen 
 society to be assured that Samuel Dolly had in- 
 dulged in very anti-commercial tastes, and been 
 sadly contaminated by very anti-commercial 
 friends. He felt persuaded that Dolly's sole 
 chance of redemption was in working on his 
 mind while his body was still suffering, so that 
 Poole might, on recovery, break with all former 
 associations. On seeing Jasper in the dress of 
 an exquisite, with the thews of a prize-fighter. 
 Uncle Sam saw the stalwart incarnation of 
 all the sins which a godfather had vowed that 
 a godson should renounce. Accordingly, he 
 made himself so disagreeable, that Losely, in 
 great disgust, took a hasty departure. And 
 Uncle Sam, as he helped the nurse to plunge 
 Dolly into his bed, had the brutality to tell his 
 nephew, in very plain terms, that if ever he 
 found that Brummagem gent in Poole's rooms 
 again, Poole would never again see the color of 
 Uncle Sam's money. Dolly beginning to blub- 
 ber, the good man, relenting, patted him on the 
 back, and said, " But as soon as you are well, 
 I'll carry you with me to my country box, and 
 keep you out of harm's way till I find you a 
 wife, who will comb your head for you !" — at 
 which cheering prospect Poole blubbered more 
 dolefully than before. On retiring to his own 
 lodging in the Gloucester cofit'ee-house. Uncle 
 Sam, to make all sure, gave positive orders to 
 Poole's landlady, who respected in Uncle Sam 
 the man who might pay what Poole owed to 
 her, on no account to let in any of Dolly's prof- 
 ligate friends, but especially the chap he had 
 found there ; adding, " 'Tis as much as my 
 nephew's life is worth, and, what is more to the 
 purpose, as much as your bill is." According- 
 ly, when Jasper presented himself at Poole's 
 door again that very evening, the landlady ap- 
 j)rised him of her orders ; and, proof to his in- 
 sinuating remonstrances, closed the door in his 
 face. But a French chronicler has recorded 
 that, when Henry IV. was besieging Paris, 
 though not a loaf of bread could enter the 
 walls, love-letters passed between city and camp 
 as- easily as if there had been no siege at 
 all. And does not JMercury preside over money 
 as well as love ? Jasper, spurred on by Ma- 
 dame Caumartin, who was exceedingly anxious 
 to exchange London for Petersburg as soon as 
 possible, maintained a close and frequent cor- 
 respondence with Poole by the agency of the 
 nurse, who luckily was not above being bribed 
 by shillings. Poole continued to reject the vil- 
 lainy proposed by Jasper; but, in the course of 
 the correspondence, he threw out, rather inco- 
 herently — for his mind began somewhat to wan- 
 der — a scheme equally flagitious, which Jasper, 
 
 aided perhaps by Madame Caumartin's yet keen- 
 er wit, caught up, and quickly reduced to delib- 
 erate method. Old Mr. Latham, among tlie bills 
 he discounted, kejit those of such more bashful 
 customers as stipulated that their resort to tem- 
 porary accommodation should be maintained a 
 profound secret in his own safe. Among these 
 bills Poole knew that there was one for £1000, 
 given by a young nobleman of immense estates, 
 but so entailed that he could neither sell nor 
 mortgage, and therefore often in need of a few 
 hundreds for pocket-money. The nobleman's 
 name stood high. His fortune was universally 
 known ; his honor unimpeachable. A bill of 
 his any one would cash at sight. Could Poole 
 but obtain that bill ! It had, he believed, only a 
 few weeks yet to run. Jasper or Madame Cau- 
 martin might get it discounted even by Lord 
 
 's own banker ; and if that were too bold, 
 
 by any professional bill-broker; and all three 
 be off before a suspicion could arise. But to 
 get at that safe a false key might be necessary. 
 Poole suggested a waxen impression of the lock. 
 Jasper sent him a readier contrivance — a queer- 
 looking tool that looked an instrument of tor- 
 ture. All now necessary was for Poole to re- 
 cover sufficiently to return to business, and to 
 get rid of Uncle Sam by a promise to run down 
 to the country the moment Poole had conscien- 
 tiously cleared some necessary arrears of work. 
 While this correspondence went on, Jasper 
 Losely shunned Mrs. Crane, and took his jncals 
 and spent his leisure hours with Madame Cau- 
 martin. He needed no dressing-gown and slip- 
 pers to feel himself at home there. Madame 
 Caumartin had really taken a showy house in a 
 genteel street. Her own apjiearance was emi- 
 nently what the French call distinr/uee. Dress- 
 ed to perfection, from head to foot ; neat and 
 finished as an epigram. Her face, in shape like 
 a thorough-bred cobra capella — low, smooth 
 frontal, widening at the summit ; chin tapering, 
 but jaw strong; teeth marvelously white, small, 
 and with points sharp as those in the maw of the 
 fish called the " Sea Devil ;" eyes like dark em- 
 eralds, of which the pupils, when she was angry 
 or when she was scheming, retreated upward to- 
 ward the temples, emitting a luminous green 
 ray that shot through space like the gleam that 
 escapes from a dark lantern ; complexion su- 
 perlatively feminine — call it not pale, but white, 
 as if she lived on blanched almonds, peach- 
 stones, and arsenic ; hands so fine and so blood- 
 less, with fingers so pointedly taper there seem- 
 ed stings at their tips ; manners of one who had 
 ranged all ranks of society, from highest to low- 
 est, and dujjcd the most wary in each of them. 
 Did she please it, a crown prince might have 
 thought her youth must have passed in the 
 chambers of porphyry ! Did she i)lease it, an 
 old soldier would have sworn the creature had 
 been a vivandicre. In age, perhaps bordering on 
 forty. Slie looked younger ; but had she been 
 a hundred and twenty she could not have been 
 more wicked. Ah ! happy, indeed, for Sophy, 
 if it were to save her youth from ever being fos- 
 tered in elegant boudoirs by those bloodless 
 hands, that the crippled vagabond had borne 
 her away from Arabella's less cruel unkindness ; 
 better fiir even Rugge's village stage ; better far 
 stealthy by-lanes, feigned names, and the eru- 
 dite tricks of Sir Isaac ' 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 119 
 
 But Jtill it is due even to Jasper to state here 
 that in Losely's recent desifjn to transfer Soiihy 
 from Waife's care to that of iNIadame Caumar- 
 tin, the 8har{)er harbored no idea of a villainy 
 so execrable as the character of the Parisienne 
 led the jealous Arabella to suspect. But his 
 real object in getting the child, at that time, 
 once more into his power was (whatever its na- 
 ture) harmless compared with the mildest of 
 Arabella's dark doubts. But still, if Sophy had 
 been regained, and the object on regaining her 
 foiled (as it probably would have been), what 
 then might have become of her ? — lost, perhaps, 
 forever to Waife — in a foreign land, and under 
 such guardianship ? Grave question, which Jas 
 
 he's very anxious to get me out of Lunnon ; and 
 when I threw in a word about Mr. Losely (slvly, 
 my good lady — ^just to see its effect), he grew as 
 white as that paper ; and then he began strut- 
 ting and swelling, and saying that Mr. Losely 
 would be a great man, and that he should be a 
 great man, and that he did not care for my 
 mone\- — he could get as much money as he 
 lilced. That looks guilty, my dear ladv. And, 
 oh," cried Uncle Sam, 'clasping his hands, '-J 
 do fear that he's thinking of something worse 
 than he has ever done before, and his brain 
 can't stand it. And, ma'am, he has a great re- 
 spect for you ; and you've a friendship for Mr. 
 Loselv. Now just suppose that ]Mr. Losely 
 
 per Losely, who exercised so little foresight in should have been thinking of what vour flash 
 
 sporting gents call a harmless spree, and my 
 sister's son should, being cracky, construe it into 
 something criminal. Oh, ilrs. Crane, do go and 
 see Mr. Losely, and tell him that Samuel Dolly 
 is not safe — is not safe!" 
 
 " Much better that I should go to your neph- 
 ew," said Mrs. Crane; "and with your leave I 
 will do so at once. Let me see him alone. 
 
 the paramount question, viz., what, some day or 
 other, will become of himself, was not likely to 
 rack his brains by conjecturing I 
 
 Meanwhile Jlrs. Crane was vigilant. The de- 
 tective police-officer, sent to her by I\Ir. Rugge, 
 could not give her the information which Eugge 
 desired, and which she did not longer need. 
 She gave the detective some information re- 
 specting Madame Caumartin. One day, toward I Where shall I find you aftenvard ?' 
 the evening, she was surprised by a visit from | "At the Gloucester Coffee-house. Oh^ my 
 L'ncle Sam. He called ostensibly to thank her dear lady, how can I thank you enon"-h. The 
 for her kindness to his godson and nephew; and , boy can be nothing to you; but to me, he's my 
 to beg her not to be oftejided if he had been | sister's son — the blackguardT' 
 rude to Mr. Losely, who, he understood from 
 Dolly, was a particular friend of hers. " You 
 see, ma'am, Samuel Dolly is a weak young man, 
 and easily led astray ; but, luckily for himself, 
 lie has no money and no stomach. So he may 
 repent in time ; and if I could find a wife to 
 manage him, he has not a bad head for the 
 main chance, and may become a fjractical man. 
 Repeatedly I have told him he should go to 
 prison, but that was only to frighten him — fact 
 is, I want to get him safe down into the coun- 
 try, and he don't take to that. So I am forced 
 to say, Oly box, home-brewed and south-down, 
 Samuel Dolly, or a Lunnon jail, and debtors' 
 allowance.' iMust give a young man his choice, 
 my dear ladv." 
 
 CHAPTER XYIL 
 
 Dices laborantes in uno 
 
 I'enelopen vitreamque Circen. — IIoeat. 
 
 Mbs. Crane found Poole in his little sitting- 
 room, hung round with prints of opera-dancers, 
 prize-fighters, race-horses, and the dog Billy. 
 Samuel Dolly was in full dress. His cheeks, 
 usually so pale, seemed much flushed. He was 
 evidently in a state of high excitement, bowed 
 extremely low to Mrs. Crane, called her Count- 
 ess, asked if she had been lately on the Conti- 
 
 nent, and if she knew Madame Caumartin ; and 
 
 3Irs. Crane, obsening that what he said was \ Avhether the nobility at St. Petersburg were jol- 
 
 extremely sensible, Uncle Sam warmed in his '. ly, or stuck-up fellows, who gave themselves airs 
 
 confidence. ] — not waiting for her answer. In fact his mind 
 
 " And I thought I»had him, till I found ]\Ir. \ was unquestionably disordered. 
 
 Losely in his sick-room ; but ever since that 
 day, I don't know how it is, the lad has had 
 something on his mind, which I don't half like 
 
 Arabella Crane abruptly laid her hand on his 
 shoulder. " You are going to the gallows," she 
 said, suddenly. " Down on vour knees and tell 
 
 — cracky, I think, my dear lady — cracky. I ; me all, and I will keep your secret, and save 
 suspect that old nurse passes letters. I taxed | you ; lie — and you are lost!" 
 
 her with it, and she immediately wanted to take 
 her Bible-oath, and smelt of gin — two things 
 which, taken together, look guilty." 
 
 "But," said Mrs. Crane, growing much in- 
 terested, " if ;Mr. Losely iind Mr. Poole do cor- 
 respond, what then ?" 
 
 " That's what I want to know, ma'am. Ex- 
 cuse me ; I don't wish to disparage Mr. Losely 
 — a dashing gent, and nothing worse, I dare say. 
 But certain sure I am that lie has put into Sam- 
 uel Dolly's head something which has cracked it ! 
 There is the lad now up and dressed, when he 
 ought to be in bed, and swearing he'll go to old 
 Latham's to-moiTow, and that long arrears of 
 work are on his conscience ! Never heard him 
 talk of conscience before — that looks guilty ! 
 And it does not frighten him any longer wheii I 
 say he shall go to prison for his debts ; and 
 
 Poole bui-st into tears, and dropped on his 
 knees as he was told. 
 
 In ten minutes Mrs. Crane knew all that she 
 cared to know, possessed herself of Losely's let- 
 ters, and, leaving Poole less light-headed and 
 more light-hearted, she hastened to Uncle Sam 
 at the Gloucester Coft'ee-house. "Take your 
 nephew out of town this evening, and do not 
 let him from your sight for the next six months. 
 Hark you, he will never be a good man ; but 
 you may save him from the hulks. Do so. 
 Take my advice." She was gone before Uncle 
 Sam could answer. 
 
 She next proceeded to the private house of 
 the detective with whom she had before con- 
 ferred — this time less to give than to receive 
 information. Not half an hour after her in- 
 teniew with him, Arabella Crane stood in the 
 
120 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 street wherein was placed the: showy house of 
 Madame Caumartin. The lamps in the street 
 were now lighted — the street, even at day, a qui- 
 et one, was comparatively deserted. All the 
 windows in the French woman's house were 
 closed with shutters and curtains, except on the 
 drawing-room floor. From those the lights 
 Mitlrin streamed over a balcony filled with gay 
 plants — one of the casements was partially open. 
 And now and then, where the watcher stood, she 
 could just catch the glimpse of a passing form 
 behind the muslin draperies, or Iiear the sound of 
 some louder laugh. In her dark-gray dress, and 
 still darker mantle, Arabella Crane stood mo- 
 tionless, her eyes fixed on those windows. The 
 rare foot-passenger who bnislied by her turned 
 involuntarily to glance at the countenance of 
 one so still, and then as involuntarily to survey 
 the house to which that countenance was lifted. 
 No such observer so incurious as not to hazard 
 conjecture what evil to that liouse was boded by 
 the dark lurid eyes that watched it with so fix- 
 ed a menace. Thus she remained, sometimes, 
 indeed, moving from her post, as a sentry moves 
 from his, slowly pacing a few steps to and fro, 
 returning to the same place, and again motion- 
 less; thus she remained for hours. Evening 
 deepened into night — night grew near to dawn ; 
 she was still there in that street, and still her 
 eyes were on that house. At length the door 
 opened noiselessly — a tall man tripped forth 
 with a light step, and humming the tune of a 
 gay French chanson. As lie came straight to- 
 v.'ard the spot where Arabella Crane was at 
 watch, from her dark mantle stretched forth her 
 long arm and lean hand, and seized him. He 
 started, and recognized her. 
 
 "You here !" he exclaimed — "you ! — at such 
 an hour! — ^j'ou!" 
 
 "I, Jasper Losely, here to warn you. To- 
 morrow the officers of justice will be in that ac- 
 cursed house. To-morrow that woman — not for 
 her worst crimes, they elude the law, but for 
 her least, by which tlie law hunts her down- 
 will be a prisoner. No — you shall not ];ieturn 
 to warn her as I warn you" (for Jasper here 
 broke away, and retreated some steps toward 
 the house) ; "or, if you do, share her fate. I 
 cast you off." 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Jasper, halt- 
 ing, till with slow steps she regained his side. 
 "iSpeak more plainly: if poor ^Madame Cau- 
 martin has got into a scrape, which I don't think 
 likely, what have I to do with it ?" 
 
 "The woman you call Caumartin fled from 
 Paris to escape its tribunals. She has been 
 tracked ; the French Government have claimed 
 her. Ho ! you smile. This does not touch you." 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 "But there are charges against her from En- 
 glish tradesmen, and if it be proved that you 
 knew her in her proper name — the infamous Ga- 
 brielle Desmarets — if it be proved that you have 
 passed oft' the French billets dc banqne that she 
 stole — if you were her accomplice in obtaining 
 goods under her false name — if you, enriched 
 by her robberies, were aiding and abetting her 
 as a swindler here, though you may be safe from 
 the French law, will you be safe from the En- 
 glisli ? You may be innocent, Jasjier Losely ; 
 if so, fear nothing. Y'ou may be guilty ; if so, 
 hide, or follow me 1" 
 
 Jasper paused. Ilis first impulse was to trust 
 implicitly to jNIrs. Crane, and lose not a moment 
 in profiting by such counsels of concealment or 
 flight as an intelligence so superior to his own 
 could suggest. But suddenly rememberiug that 
 Poole had undertaken to get the bill for £1000 
 by the next day — that if flight were necessary, 
 there was yet a chance of flight with booty — his 
 constitutional hardihood, and the grasping cu- 
 pidity by which it was accompanied, made him 
 resolve at least to hazard the delay of a few 
 hours. And after all, miglit not Mrs. Crane ex- 
 aggerate ? Was not this the counsel of a jeal- 
 ous woman ? " Pray," said he, moving on, and 
 fixing quick keen eyes on her as she walked by 
 his side, " pray, how did you learn all these par- 
 ticulars ?" 
 
 "From a detective policeman employed to 
 discover Sophy. In confeiTing with him, the 
 name of Jasper Losely as her legal protector 
 was of course stated : that name was already 
 coupled with the name cf the false Caumartin. 
 Thus, indirectly, the child you would have con- 
 signed to that woman, saves you from sharing 
 that woman's ignominy and doom." 
 
 " Stutt"!" said Jasper, stubbornly, though he 
 winced at her words; "I don't, on reflection, 
 see that any thing can be proved against me. I 
 am not bound to know why a lady changes her 
 name, nor how she comes by her money. And 
 as to her credit with tradesmen — nothing to 
 speak of; most of what she has got is paid for — 
 what is not paid for her, is less than tlie worth 
 of her goods. Pooh ! I am not so easily fright- 
 ened — much obliged to you all the same. Go 
 home now; 'tis horridly late. Good-night, or 
 rather good-morning." 
 
 "Jasper, mark me! if you see that woman 
 again — if you attempt to save or screen her — I 
 shall know, and you lose in me your last friend 
 — last hope — last plank in a devouring sea!" 
 
 These words were so solemnly uttered that 
 they thrilled the hard heart of the reckless man. 
 " I have no wish to screen or save her," he said, 
 with selfish sincerity. "And after what you 
 have said, I would as soon enter a fire-ship as 
 that house. But let me have some hours to 
 consider what is best to be done." 
 
 "Yes, consider — I shall* expect you to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 He went his way tip the twilight streets to- 
 ward a new lodging he had hired not far from 
 the showy house. She drew her mantle closer 
 round her gaunt figm-e, and, taking the opposite 
 direction, threaded thoroughfares yet lonelier, 
 till she gained her door, and was welcomed back 
 bv the faithful Bridgett. 
 
 CHxiPTER XVm. 
 
 Hope tells a flattering tale to Mr. Paigge. He is iinde- 
 Ci-ived by a Solicitor, and left to mourn ; but in turn, 
 though unconsciously, Mr. Rugge deceives the Solicit, 
 or, and the Solicitor deceives his client, which is 6s. Si. 
 iu the Solicitor's pocket. 
 
 The next morning Arabella Crane was scarce- 
 ly dressed before Mr. Rugge knocked at her door. 
 On the preWous day the Detective had informed 
 him that William and Sophy Waifs were dis- 
 covered to have sailed for America. Frantic, 
 the unhappy manager rushed to the steam-pack- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 121 
 
 et office, and was favored by an inspection of 
 the books, whicli confirmed the hateful tidinjis. 
 As if in mockery of his bereaved and defrauded 
 state, on returning home he found a polite note 
 from Mr. Gotobcd, requestinc; him to call at the 
 office of that eminent solicitor, with reference 
 to a younp; actress named trophy Waife, and 
 hinting " that the visit might jirove to his ad- 
 vantage !" Dreaming for a wild moment that 
 Mr. Losely, conscience-stricken, might through 
 tliis solicitor pay back his £100, he rushed incon- 
 tinent to ^Ir. Gotobed's othce, and was at once 
 admitted into the presence of that stately prac- 
 titioner. 
 
 "I i)cg your pardon, Sir," said Mr. Gotobcd, 
 with formal politeness, "but I heard a day or 
 two ago accidentally from my head-clerk, who 
 had learned it also accidentally from a sporting 
 friend, that you were exhibiting at Humberston, 
 during the race-week, a young actress named on 
 the play-bills (here is one) 'Juliet xVraminta,' 
 and whom, as I am informed, yon had previous- 
 ly exhibited in Surrey and elsewhere; but she 
 was supposed to have relinquished that earlier 
 engagement, and left your stage with her grand- 
 father, William Waife. I am instructed by a 
 distinguished client, who is wealthy, and who, 
 from motives of mere benevolence, interests 
 himself in the said William and Sophy Waife, 
 to discover their residence. I'leasc, therefore, 
 to render np the child to my charge, apprising 
 me also of the address of her grandfather, if he 
 be not with you ; and without waiting for fur- 
 ther instructions from my client, who is abroad, 
 I will venture to say that any sacrifice in the 
 loss of your juvenile actress will be most liberal- 
 ly compensated." 
 
 " Sir," cried the miserable and imprudent 
 Rugge, "I paid £100 for that fiendish child— 
 a three years' engagement — and I have been 
 robbed. Restore me the £100, and I will tell 
 you wliere she is, and her vile grandfather also." 
 At hearing so bad a character lavished upon 
 objects recommended to his client's disinterest- 
 ed charity, the wary solicitor drew in his pecu- 
 niary horns. 
 
 "Mr. Kugge,'' said he, "I understand from 
 your words that you can not place the child So- 
 phy, alitis Juliet Araminta, in my hands. You 
 ask £100 to inform me where she is. Have you 
 a lawful claim on her?" 
 
 " Certainly, Sir ; she is my property." 
 " Then it is quite clear that though you may 
 know where she is, you can not get at her your- 
 self, and can not, therefore, place her in my 
 hands. Perhaps she is — in heaven!" 
 
 " Confound her, Sir! no — in America ! or on 
 the seas to it." 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 *' I have just come from the steam-packet of- 
 fice, and seen the names in their book. Will- 
 iam and So])hy Waife sailed from Liverpool 
 last Thursday week." 
 
 " And they formed an engagement with you 
 — received your money ; broke the one, abscond- 
 ed with the other. Bad characters indeed !" 
 
 " Bad ! you may well say that — a set of swin- 
 dling scoundrels, "the whole kit and kin. And 
 the ingratitude!" continued Rugge: "I was 
 more than a fatlier to that child" (he began to 
 whimiicr) : " I had a babe of my own once — 
 died of convulsions in teething. I thought that 
 
 child would have supplied its place, and I dream- 
 ed of the York Tlieatre; but" — here his voice 
 was lost in the fiilds of a marvelously dirty red 
 pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 Mr. Gotobcd having now, however, learned 
 all that he cared to learn, and not being a soft- 
 hearted man (first-rate solicitors rarely are), 
 here pulled out his watch and said, 
 
 "Sir, you have been very ill-treated, I per- 
 ceive, i must wish you good-day ; I have an 
 engagement in the City. I can "not help you 
 back to your £100, but accc]it this triHe (a £5 
 note) for your loss of time in calling" (ringing 
 the bell violently). "Door — show out this gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 That evening Mr. Gotobed wrote at length to 
 Guy Darrell, informing him that, after great 
 jtains and prolonged research, he had been so 
 fortunate as to ascertain that the strolling play- 
 er and little girl whom Mr. Darrell had so be- 
 nevolently requested him to look up, were very 
 bad characters, and had left the coinitry for the 
 United States, as, happily for England, bad char- 
 acters were wont to do. 
 
 That letter reached Guy Darrell when he was 
 far away, amidst the forlorn pomp of some old 
 Italian city, and Lionel's tale of the little girl not 
 very fresh in his gloomy thoughts. Naturally, he 
 supposed that the boy had been duped by a pret- 
 ty face and his own inexperienced kindly heart. 
 And so and so — why, so end half the efforts of 
 men who intrust to others the troublesome exe- 
 cution of humane intentions I The scales of 
 earthly justice are poised in their quivering equi- 
 librium, not by huge hundred-weights, but by 
 infinitesimal grains, needing the most wary cau- 
 tion — the most considerate patience — the most 
 delicate touch, to arrange or readjust. Few of 
 our errors, national or individual, come from the 
 design to be unjust — most of them from sloth, 
 or incapacit}^ to grapple with the difficulties of 
 being just. Sins of commission may not, per- 
 haps, shock the retrospect of conscience. Large 
 and obtrusive to view, we have confessed, mourn- 
 ed, repented, possibly atoned them. Sins of 
 omission, so vailed amidst our hourly emotions 
 — blent, confused, unseen, in the conventional 
 routine of existence — Alas! could these sud- 
 denly emerge from their shadow, group togeth- 
 er in serried mass and accusing order — alas, 
 alas ! would not the best of us then start in dis- 
 may, and would not the proudest humble him- 
 self at the Throne of Jlercy ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Joy, nevertheless, doeB return to Mr. Euggc ; and Tlope 
 riow inflicts herself on Mrs. C'niiie. A very fine-look- 
 injj Hope, too — six feet one — strong as Arliilles. aud 
 us lleet of lout! 
 
 But we have left !Mr. Rugge at IMrs. Crane's 
 door ; admit him. He bursts into her drawing- 
 room, wiping his brows. 
 
 " Ma'am, they are off to America — !" 
 
 " So I have heard. You are fairly entitled to 
 the return of your money — " 
 
 "Entitled, of course ; but — " 
 
 " There it is ; restore to me the contract for 
 the child's services." 
 
 Rugge gazed on a roll of bank-notes, and could 
 
122 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 scarcely believe his eyes. He darted forth his 
 hand, the notes receded like the dagger in Mac- 
 beth, "First the contract," said Mrs. Crane. 
 Rugge drew out his greasy pocket-book, and ex- 
 tracted the worthless engagement. 
 
 "Henceforth, then," said Mrs. Crane, "you 
 have no right to complain; and whether or not 
 the girl ever again fall in your way, your claim 
 over her ceases." 
 
 " The gods be praised, it does, ma'am ; I have 
 had quite enough of her. But you are every 
 inch a lady, and allow me to add that I put you 
 on my free list for life." 
 
 Rugge gone ; Arabella Crane summoned 
 Bridgett to her presence. 
 
 " Lor, miss," cried Bridgett, impulsively, 
 " who'd think you'd been up all night raking ! 
 I have not seen you look so well this many a 
 year." 
 
 "Ah," said Arabella Crane, "I will tell you 
 why. I have done what for many a year I nev- 
 er thought I sliould do again — a good action. 
 That child — that SojDhy — you remember how 
 cruelly I used her ?" 
 
 "Oh, miss, don't go for to blame yourself; 
 you fed her, you clothed her, when her own fa- 
 ther, the villing, sent her away from hisself to 
 you— you of all people — you. How could you be 
 caressing and fawning on his child — their chikl?" 
 
 Mrs. Crane hung her head gloomilv. " What 
 is past is past. I have lived to save that child, 
 and a curse seems lifted from my soul. Now 
 listen : I shall leave London — England, proba- 
 bly this evening. You will keep this house; it 
 will be ready for me any moment I return. The 
 agent who collects my house-rents Avill give you 
 money as you want it. Stint not yourself, Brid- 
 gett. I have been saving, and saving, and sav- 
 ing, for dreary years — nothing else to interest 
 me — ^and I am richer than I seem." 
 
 " But where are you going, miss ?" said Brid- 
 gett, slowly recovering from the stupefaction oc- 
 casioned by her mistress's announcement. 
 
 "I don't know — I don't care." 
 
 "Oh, gracious stars! is it with that dreadful 
 Jasper Losely? — it is, it is. You are crazed, 
 you are bewitched, miss !" 
 
 "Possibly I am crazed — possibly bewitched; 
 but I take tliat man's life to mine as a penance 
 for all the evil mine has ever known ; and a day 
 or two since I should have said, with rage and 
 shame, ' I can not help it ; I loathe myself that 
 I can care what becomes of him.' Now, with- 
 out rage, without shame, I say, ' The man whom 
 I once so loved shall not die on a gibbet if I can 
 help it ; and, please Heaven, help it I will.' " 
 
 The grim woman folded her arms on her 
 breast, and raising her head to its full height, 
 there was in her face and air a stern gloomy 
 grandeur, which could not have been seen with- 
 out a mixed sensation of compassion and awe. 
 
 " Go, now, Bridgett ; I have said all. He will 
 be here soon ; he will come — he must come — 
 he has no choice; and then — and then — " slie 
 closed her eyes, bowed her head, and shivered. 
 
 Arabella Crane was, as usual, right iu her pre- 
 
 dictions. Before noon Jasper came — came, not 
 with his jocund swagger, but with that sideling 
 sinister look — look of the man whom the world 
 cuts — triumphantly restored to its former place 
 in his visage. Madame Caumartin had been 
 arrested; Poole had gone into the country with 
 Uncle Sam ; Jasper had seen a police-officer at 
 the door of his own lodgings. He slunk away 
 from the fashionable thoroughfares — slunk to 
 the recesses of Podden Place — slunk into Ara- 
 bella Crane's prim drawing-room, and said, sul- 
 lenlv, " All is up ; here I am !" 
 
 Three days afterward, in a quiet street in a 
 quiet town of Belgium, wherein a sharjjer, striv- 
 ing to live by his profession, would soon become 
 a skeleton, in a commodious airy apartment, 
 looking upon a magnificent street, the reverse 
 of noisy, Jasper Losely sat secure, innocuous, 
 and profoundly miserable. In another house, 
 the windows of which, facing those of Jasper's 
 sitting-room, from an upper story, commanded 
 so good a view therein that it placed him un- 
 der a surveillance akin to that designed by Mr. 
 Bentham's reformatory Panopticon, sat Arabella 
 Crane. Whatever her real feelings toward Jas- 
 per Losely (and what those feelings were no 
 virile pen can presume authoritatively to define 
 — for lived there ever a man who thoroughl}' — 
 thoroughly understood a woman ?), or whatever 
 in earlier life might have been their recijirocated 
 vows of eternal love, not only from tlic day that 
 Jasper, on his return to his native shores, pre- 
 sented himself in Podden Place, had their inti- 
 macy been restricted to the austerest bounds of 
 friendship ; but after Jasper had so rudely de- 
 clined the hand which now fed him, Arabella 
 Crane had probably perceived that her sole 
 chance of retaining intellectual power over his 
 lawless being, necessitated the utter relinquish- 
 ment of every hope or project that could expose 
 her again to his contempt. Suiting appear- 
 ances to reality, the decorum of a separate house 
 was essential to the maintenance of that author- 
 ity with which the rigid nature of their inter- 
 course invested her. The additional cost strain- 
 ed her pecuniary resources, but she saved in her 
 own accommodation in order to leave Jasper no 
 cause to complain of any stinting in his. There, 
 then, she sate by her window, herself imseen, 
 eying him in his opposite solitude, accepting 
 for her own life a barren saci-ifice, but a jealous 
 sentinel on his. Meditating as she sate, and as 
 slie eyed him — meditating what employment 
 she could invent, with the bribe of emoluments 
 to be paid furtively by her — for those strong 
 hands that could have felled an ox, but were 
 nerveless in turning an honest penny — and for 
 that restless mind, hungering for occupation, 
 with the digestion of an osti'ich for dice and de- 
 bauch, riot and fraud, but queasy as an ex- 
 hausted dyspeptic at the reception of one inno- 
 cent amusement, one honorable toil. But while 
 that woman still schemes how to rescue from 
 hulks or halter that execrable man, who shall 
 say that he is without a chance ? A chance he 
 
 has — WHAT WILL HE DO AVITH IT ? 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 123 
 
 BOOK Y 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Envy \r\\\ be a science when it learns the use of the mi- 
 croscope. 
 
 WiiF.N leaves fall and flowers fade, great peo- 
 ple are found in their country seals. Look ! — 
 that is Montfort Court ! A place of regal mag- 
 nificence, so far as extent of i)ilc and amplitude 
 of domain could satisfy the pride of ownership, 
 or ins]iire the visitor with the respect due to 
 wealth and ]X)wer. An artist could have made 
 nothing of it. The Sumptuous every where — 
 the Picturesque nowhere. The House was built j 
 in the reign of George I., when first commenced ! 
 that horror of the Beautiful, as something in bad 
 taste, which, agreeably to our natural love of 
 progress, progressively advanced through the 
 reigns of succeeding Georges. An enormous 
 facade — in dull brown brick — two wings and a 
 ceiitre, with double flights of steps to the hall 
 door from the carriage-sweep. No trees allowed 
 to grow too near the house ; in front, a stately 
 flatwith stone balustrades. But wherever the 
 eve turned there was nothing to be seen but 
 park — miles upon miles of park ; not a corn- 
 tield in sight — not a roof-tree — not a spire — only 
 those latasilentta — still widths of turf, and, some- 
 what thinly scattered and afar, those groves of 
 giant trees. The whole prospect so vast and so 
 monotonous that it never tempted you to take a 
 walk. No close-neighboring ])oetic thicket into 
 which to plunge, uncertain whither you would 
 emerge ; no devious stream to follow. The very 
 deer, fat and heavy, seemed bored by pastures it 
 would take them a week to traverse. People of 
 moderate wishes and modest fortunes never en- 
 vied Montfort Court; they admired it — they 
 were proud to say they had seen it. But never 
 did they say, 
 
 " Oh, that for me some home' like this would smile !" 
 Not so, very — very great people ! — they rather 
 coveted than admired. Those oak-trees so large, 
 yet so undccayed — that park, eighteen miles at 
 least in circumference — that solid palace which, 
 without inconvenience, could entertain and stow 
 away a king and his whole court — in short, all 
 that evidence of a princely territory, and a 
 weighty rent-roll, made English dukes respect- 
 fully envious, and foreign potentates gratifying- 
 ]y jealous. 
 
 But turn from the front. Oj^en the gate in 
 that stone balustrade. Come southward to the 
 garden side of the house. Lady Montfort's 
 flower-garden. Yes ; not so dull ! flowers, even 
 autumnal flowers, enliven any sward. Still, on 
 so large a scale, and so little relief; so little 
 mystery about those broad gravel walks ; not a 
 winding alley any where. Oh for a vulgar sum- 
 mer-house ; for some alcove, all honey-suckle 
 and ivy ! But the dahlias are splendid ! Very 
 true ; only dahlias, at the best, are such unin- 
 teresting prosy things. What poet ever wrote 
 upon a dahlia ! Surely Lady Montfort might 
 have introduced a little more taste here — shown 
 
 a little more fancy ! Lady Montfort ! I should 
 like to see my lord's face, if Lady Montfort took 
 anv such liberty. But there is Lady Montfort 
 walking slowly along that l)road, broad, broad 
 gravel walk — those s])lendid daiilias, on either 
 side, in their set parterres. There she walks, 
 in full evidence from all those si.\ty remorseless 
 windows on the garden front, each window ex- 
 actly like the other. There she walks, looking 
 wistfully to the far end — ('tis a long way otf) — 
 where, hajipily, tlicre is a wicket that carries a 
 persevering pedestrian out of sight of the sixty 
 windows, into shady walks, toward the banks of 
 that immense piece of water, two miles from the 
 house. My lord has not returned from his moor 
 in Scotland — My lady is alone. No company 
 in the house — it is like saying, " No aciiuaint- 
 anceinacity." But the retinue in full. Though 
 she dined alone, she might, had she pleased, 
 have had almost as many servants to gaze upon 
 her as there were windows now staring at her 
 lonely walk, with their glassy spectral eyes. 
 
 Just as Lady Montfort gains the wicket she 
 is overtaken by a visitor, walking fast from the 
 gravel sweep W the front door, where he has 
 dismounted — where he has caught sight of her; 
 any one so dismounting might have caught sight 
 of her — could not help it. Gardens so tine, were 
 made on purpose for fine persons walking in 
 them to be seen. 
 
 "Ah, Lady Montfort," said the visitor, stam- 
 mering painfully, "I am so glad to find you at 
 home." 
 
 "At home, George!" said the lady, extend- 
 ing her hand; "wiiere else is it likely that I 
 should be found ? But how pale you are ! What 
 has happened?" 
 
 She seated herself on a bench, under a cedar- 
 tree, just without the wicket, and George Mor- 
 ley, our old friend the Oxonian, seated himself 
 by her side familiarly, but with a certain rever- 
 ence. Lady ISIontfort was a few years older 
 than himself — his cousin — he had known her 
 from his childhood. 
 
 "What has happened!" he repeated, "no- 
 thing new. I have just come from visiting the 
 I good bishop." 
 
 " He does not hesitate to ordain you?" 
 
 " No — but I shall never ask him to do so." 
 
 "My dear cousin, are you not overscrupu- 
 lous ? " You would be an ornament to the Church, 
 ' sufficient in all else to justify your compulsory 
 j omission of one duty, which a curate could per- 
 I form for vou." 
 
 Morlev shook his head sadly. "One duty 
 omitted!" said he. "But is it not that duty 
 ! which distinguishes the priest from the layman? 
 ' and how far extends that duty ? ^ Wherever 
 there needs a voice to speak the Word ; not in 
 ' the pulpit only, but at the hearth, by the sick 
 I bed ; there should be the Pastor ! No— I can 
 , not, I ought not, I dare not ! Incompetent as 
 1 the laborer, how can I be worthy of the hire ?" 
 i It took him long to bring out these words ; his 
 
124 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 emotion increased his infirmity. Lady Mont- 
 fort listened with an exquisite respect, visible in 
 her compassion, and paused long before she an- 
 swered. 
 
 Georae Morley was the younger son of a coim- 
 try gentleman, with a good estate settled upon 
 the elder son. George's father had been an 
 intimate friend of his kinsman, the ilarquis of 
 Montfort (predecessor and gi-andsire of the pres- 
 ent lord) ; and the Marquis had, as he thought, 
 amply provided for George in undertaking to 
 secure to him, when of fitting age, the living of 
 Humbcrston, the most lucrative preferment in 
 his gift. The living had been held for the last 
 fifteen years by an incumbent, now very old, 
 upon the honorable understanding that it was 
 to be resigned in favor of George should George 
 take orders. The young man from his earliest 
 childhood thus destined to the Church, devoted 
 to the prospect of that profession all his studies, 
 all his thoughts. Xot till he was sixteen did 
 his infirmity of speech make itself seriously 
 percejHible ; and then elocution masters un- 
 dertook to cure it — they failed. But George's 
 mind continued in the direction toward which it 
 had been so systematically biased. Entering 
 Oxford, he became absorbed in its academical 
 shades. Amidst his books he almost forgot the 
 impediment of his speech. Shy, taciturn, and 
 solitary, he mixed too little with others to have 
 it much brought before his own notice. He car- 
 ried off prizes — he took higli honors. On leav- 
 ing the university, a profound theologian — an 
 enthusiastic Churchman — filled with the most 
 earnest sense of the pastor's solemn calling — lie 
 was thus complimentarily accosted by the Arch- 
 imandrite of his college, "What a pity you can 
 not go into the Church !" 
 
 "Can not — but I am going into the Church." 
 
 "You, is it possible? But perhajjs you are 
 sure of a li\'ing — " 
 
 " Yes — Humberston." 
 
 " An immense living, but a very large popu- 
 lation. Certainly it is in the bishop's own dis- 
 cretionary power to ordain you, and for all tlie 
 duties you can keep a curate. But — " The 
 Don stopped short, and took snuff. 
 
 That ''But" said as plainly as words could 
 say, "It may be a good thing for you, but is it 
 fair for the Church ?" 
 
 So George Morley, at least, thought that 
 "But" implied. His conscience took alarm. 
 He was a thoroughly noble-hearted man, likely 
 to be the more tender of conscience where 
 tempted by worldly interests. With that living 
 he was ricli, without it veiy poor. But to give 
 up a calling, to the idea of which he had at- 
 tached liimself with all the force of a powerful 
 and zealous nature, was to give up the whole 
 scheme and dream of his existence. He re- 
 mained irresolute for some time; at last he 
 wrote to the present Lord Montfort, intimating 
 his doubts, and relieving the JNIarquis from the 
 engagement which his lordship's predecessor 
 had made. The present Marquis was not a 
 man capable of understanding such scruples. 
 But, luckily perhaps for George and for the 
 Church, the larger affairs of the great House of 
 Montfort were not administered by the Mar- 
 quis. The parliamentary influences, the ec- 
 clesiastical preferments, together with the prac- 
 tical direction of minor agents to the vast 
 
 and complicated estates attached to the title, 
 were at that time under the direction of I\Ir. 
 Carr Vipont, a powerful member of Parliament, 
 and husband to that Lady Selina whose conde- 
 scension had so disturbed the nerves of Frank 
 A^ance the artist. Mr. Carr Vipont governed 
 tliis vice-royalty according to the rules and tra- 
 ditions by which the House of Montfort had be- 
 come great and prosperous. For not only every 
 state, but every great seigniorial House has its 
 hereditary maxims of policy : not less the House 
 of ]\Iontfort than the House of Hapsburg. Now 
 the House of Montfort made it a rule that all 
 admitted to be members of the family should 
 help each other; that the head of the House 
 should never, if it could be avoided, suffer any 
 of its branches to decay and wither into pover- 
 ty. The House of JNIontfort also held it a duty 
 to foster and make tlie most of every species of 
 talent that .could swell the influence, or adorn 
 the annals of the family. Having rank, having 
 wealth, it sought also to secure intellect, and to 
 knit together into solid union, throughout all 
 ramifications of kinship and cousinliood, each 
 variety of repute and power that could root the 
 ancient tree more firmly in the land. Agreea- 
 bly to this traditional policy, Mr. Carr A'ipont 
 not only desired that a Vipont ^lorley should 
 not lose a very good thing, but that a ven,- good 
 thing should not lose a Vipont Morley of high 
 academical distinction — a Vipont INIorley who 
 might be a bishop! He therefore drew up an 
 admirable letter, which the Marquis signed — 
 that the INIarquis should take the trouble of 
 copying it was out of the question — wherein 
 Lord ilontfort was made to express great admi- 
 ration of the disinterested delicacy of sentiment, 
 which proved George Vipont jMorley to be still 
 more fitted to the cure of souls ; and, placing 
 rooms at Montfort Court at his service (the 
 Marquis not being himself there at the mo- 
 ment), suggested that George should talk the 
 matter over with the present incumbent of Hum- 
 berston (tliat town was not many miles distant 
 from Montfort Court), who, though he had no 
 impediment in his speech, still never himself 
 preached or read prayers, owing to an aft'ec- 
 tion of the trachea, and who was, nevertheless, 
 a most eificient clergyman. George IMorley, 
 therefore, had gone down to !Montfort Court 
 some months ago, just after his interview with 
 Mrs. Crane. He had then accepted an invita- 
 tion to spend a week or two with the liev. Mr. 
 Allsop, the Hector of Humberston — a clergy- 
 man of the old school, a fair scholar, a perfect 
 gentleman, a man of the highest honor, good- 
 natured, charitable, but who took pastoral du- 
 ties much more easily than good clergymen of 
 the new school — be they high or low — are dis- 
 posed to do. Mr. Allsop, who was then in his 
 eightieth year, a bachelor with a verv good fjr- 
 tune of his own, was perfectly willing to fulfill 
 the engagement on M'hich he held his living, 
 and render it up to George ; but he was touch- 
 ed by the earnestness with which George as- 
 sured him that at all events he would not con- 
 sent to displace the venerable incumbent from 
 a tenure he had so long and honorably held — 
 and would wait till the living was vacated in 
 the ordinary course of nature. Mr. Allsop con- 
 ceived a warm aft'ection for the young scholar. 
 He had a grandniece staying with him on a vis- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 it, who less openlv, but not less warmly, shared 
 that affection; ami with her Geori^c Morlcy fell 
 shylv and timorously in love. With that livin;j; 
 he' woiikl be rich enough to marry — without it, 
 no. Without it he had nothing but a fel- 
 lowship, which matrimony would forfeit, and 
 the scanty portion of a country squire's youn- 
 ger son. Tlie young lady herself was dowerless, 
 ifor Allsop's fortune was so settled that no share 
 of it would come to his grandniece. Another 
 reason for conscience to gulp down that unhap- 
 py imjicdiment of speech! Certainly, during 
 this visit, ]\lorlcy's scruples relaxed ; but when 
 he returned home they came back with greater 
 force than ever — with greater force, because he 
 felt that now not only a sjiiritual ambition, but 
 a human love was a casuist in favor of self-in- 
 terest, lie iiad returned on a visit to Ilum- 
 berston Ilectory about a week previous to the 
 date of this chapter — the niece was not there. 
 Sternly he had forced himself to examine a lit- 
 tle more closely into the condition of the flock 
 which (if he accepted the charge) he would 
 have to guide, and the duties that devolved ujjon 
 the chief pastor in a populous trading town. 
 He became appalled. Iluniberston, like most 
 towns under the political influence of a Great 
 House, was rent by parties. One party, who 
 succeeded in returning one of tlie two members 
 for rarliament, all for the House of Montfort ; 
 the otlier party, who returned also tlicir mem- 
 ber, all against it. By one half the town, what- 
 ever came from Montfort Court was sure to be 
 regarded with a most malignant and distorted 
 vision. Meanwhile, though Mr. Allsop was pop- 
 ular with the higher classes, and with such of 
 the extreme poor as his charity relieved, his 
 pastoral influence generally was a dead letter. 
 His curate, who preached for him — a good 
 young man enough, but extremely dull — was 
 not one of those men who fill a church. Trades- 
 men wanted an excuse to stay away or choose 
 another place of worship ; and they contrived 
 to hear some passage in tl-.e sermons, overwliich, 
 while the curate mumbled, they habitually slept 
 ^that they declared to be "Puseyite." The 
 church became deserted : and about the same 
 time a very eloquent Dissenting minister ap- 
 peared at Ilumberston, and even professed 
 churchfolks went to hear him. George Jlorley, 
 alas! jierccived that at Humberston, if tlie 
 Church there were to hold her own, a powerful 
 and i)Opular preacher was essentially required. 
 His mind was now made up. At Carr Vipont's 
 suggestion, the bishop of the diocese, being then 
 at his palace, had sent to see him ; and, while 
 granting the force of his scru])les, had yet said, 
 '•Mine is the main responsibility. But if you 
 ask me to ordain you, I will do so without hes- 
 itation ; for if the Church wants preachers, it 
 also wants deep scholare and virtuous pastors." 
 Fresh from this interview, George IMorley came 
 to announee to Lady Montfort that his resolve 
 was unshaken. She, I have said, paused long 
 balbre she answered. " George," she began at 
 last, in a voice so touchingly sweet that its very 
 sound was balm to a wounded s])irit — "I must 
 not argue with you — I bow before the grandeur 
 of your motives, and I will not say that you are 
 not right. One thing I do feel, that if you thus 
 sacrifice your inclinations and intgrests from 
 scruples so pure and holy, you will never be to 
 
 be pitied — you will never know regret. Poor 
 or rich, single or wedded, a soul that so seeks 
 to reflect heaven will be serene and blessed !" 
 Thus she continued to address him for some 
 time, he all the while inexpressibly soothed and 
 comforted ; then gradually she insinuated hojies 
 even of a worldly and temporal kind — literature 
 was left to liim — the scholar's pen, if not the 
 preacher's voice. In literature he might make 
 a career that would lead on to fortune. There 
 were jjlaces also in the public service to which 
 a defect in speech was no obstacle. She knew 
 his secret, modest attachment; she alluded to 
 it just enough to encourage constancy and re- 
 buke despair. As she ceased, his admiring and 
 grateful consciousness of his cousin's rare qual- 
 ities changed tiie tide of his emotions toward 
 her from himself, and he exclaimed with an 
 earnestness that almost AvhoUy subdued his 
 stutter, 
 
 "What a counselor you are! — what a sooth- 
 er! If INIontfort were but less prosperous or 
 more ambitious, what a trcas.urc, either to con- 
 sole or to sustain, in a mind like yours !" 
 
 As those words were said, you might have 
 seen at once why Lady Montfort was called 
 haughty and reserved. Her lip seemed sud- 
 denly to snatch back its sweet smile — her dark 
 eye, before so purely, softly friend-like, became 
 coldly distant — the tones of her voice were not 
 the same as she answered — 
 
 "Lord ^lontfort values me, as it is, far be- 
 yond my merits — far," she added, with a dif- 
 ferent intonation, gravely mournful. 
 
 "Forgive me; I have displeased you. I did 
 Kot mean it. Heaven forbid that I should jire- 
 sume either to disparage Lord Montfort — or — 
 or to — " he stopped short, saving the hiatus by 
 a convenient stammer. "Only," he continued, 
 after a pause, " only forgive me this once. Kec- 
 ollect I was a little boy when you were a young 
 lady, and I have pelted you with snow-balls, 
 and called you 'Caroline.'" Lady IMontfort 
 suppressed a sigh, and gave the young scholar 
 back her gracious smile, but not a smile that 
 would have permitted him to call her " Caro- 
 line" again. She remained, indeed, a little more 
 distant than usual during the rest of their inter- 
 view, which was not much prolonged ; for Mor- 
 ley felt annoyed with himself that he had so in- 
 discreetly ofi'cnded her, and seized an excuse to 
 escape. "By-the-by," said he, " I have a letter 
 from Mr. Carr Vipont, asking me to give him a 
 sketch for a Gothic bridge to the water yonder. 
 I will, with your leave, walk down and look at 
 the proposed site. Only do say that you for- 
 give me." 
 
 " Forgive you, Cousin George, oh yes. One 
 word only — it is true you were a child still when 
 I fancied I was a woman, and you have a right 
 to talk to me ujion all things, cxcejjt those that 
 relate to me and Lord INlontfort ; unless, in- 
 deed," she added, with a bewitching half laugh, 
 "unless you ever see cause to scold me, there. 
 Good-by, my cousin, and in turn forgive mc, if 
 I was so petulant. The Caroline you pelted 
 with snow-balls was always a wayward, impuls- 
 ive creature, quick to take ofi'ense, to misunder- 
 stand, and — to repent." 
 
 Back into the broad, broad gravel-walk, 
 walked, more slowly than before. Lady Mont- 
 fort. Again the sixty ghastly windows stared 
 
126 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 at her with all their eyes — back from the gravel- 
 walk, through a side-door, into the pompous sol- 
 itude of the stately house — across long cham- 
 bers, where the mirrors reflected her form, and 
 the huge chairs, in their flaunting damask and 
 flaring gold, stood stiff on desolate floors — into 
 her own private room — neither large nor splen- 
 did that ; plain chintzes, quiet book-shelves. She 
 need not have been the Marchioness of JMont- 
 fort to inhabit a room as pleasant and as luxu- 
 rious. And the rooms that she could only have 
 owned as ^Marchioness, what were those worth 
 to her happiness? I know not. "Nothing," 
 fine ladies will perhaps answer. Yet those same 
 fine ladies will contrive to dispose their daugh- 
 ters to answer, " All." In her own room Lady 
 Montfort sunk on her chair ; wearily ; — wearily 
 she looked at the clock — wearily at the books 
 on the shelves — at the harp near the window. 
 Then she leaned her face on her hand, and that 
 face was so sad, and so humbly sad, that you 
 would have wondered how any one could call 
 Lady ]Montfort proud. 
 
 " Treasure ! I — I ! — worthless, fickle, credu- 
 lous fool I — I — I !" 
 
 The groom of tlie chambers entered with the 
 letters by the afternoon post. That Great House 
 contrived to worry itself with two posts a day. 
 A royal command to Windsor — 
 
 " I shall be more alone in a court than here," 
 murmured Lady Montfort. 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 Truly Baith the proverb, " Much com lies under the straw 
 that is not seen." 
 
 Meanwhile George Morley followed the long 
 shady walk — very handsome walk, full of prize 
 roses and rare exotics — artificially winding, too 
 — walk so well kept that it took thirty-four men 
 to keep it — noble walk, tiresome walk — till it 
 brought him to the great piece of water, which, 
 perhaps, four times in the year was visited by 
 the great folks in the Great House. And being 
 thus out of the immediate patronage of fashion, 
 the great piece of water really looked natural 
 — companionable, refreshing — you began to 
 breathe — to unbutton your waistcoat, loosen 
 your neckclotii — quote Chaucer, if you could rec- 
 ollect him, or Cowper, or Shakspeare, or Thom- 
 son's Seasons ; in short, any scraps of verse that 
 came into your head — as your feet grew joyously 
 entangled with fern — as the trees grouped for- 
 est-like before and round you — trees which there 
 being out of sight, were allowed to grow too old 
 to be worth five shillings apiece, moss-grown, 
 hollow-trunked, some pollarded — trees invalua- 
 ble ! Ha I tlie hare ! how she scuds ! See, the 
 deer marching down to the water-side. What 
 groves of bulrushes- — islands of water-lily ! And 
 to throw a Gothic bridge there, bring a great grav- 
 el road over the bridge ! Oh, shame! shame ! 
 
 So would have said the scholar, for he had a 
 true sentiment for nature, if the bridge had not 
 clean gone out of his head. 
 
 Wandering alone, he came at last to the most 
 rmibrageous and sequestered bank of the wide 
 ■water, closed round on every side by brushwood, 
 or still patriarchal trees. 
 
 Suddenly he arrested his steps — an idea struck 
 
 him — one of those odd, whimsical, grotesque 
 ideas which often when we are alone come across 
 us, even in our quietest or most anxious moods. 
 Was his infirmity really incurable ? Elocution 
 masters had said " Certainly not;" but they had 
 done him no good. Yet had not the greatest 
 orator the world ever knew a defect in utter- 
 ance? He too, Demosthenes, had, no doubt, 
 paid fees to elocution masters, the best in Ath- 
 ens, where elocution masters must have studied 
 their art ad unrjiiem, and the defect had baffled 
 them. But did Demosthenes despair ? No, he 
 resolved to cure himself — How? Was it not 
 one of his methods to fill his mouth with peb- 
 bles, and practice manfully to the roaring sea? 
 George Morley had never tried the effect of peb- 
 bles. Was there any virtue in them ? AYhy not 
 try ? No sea there, it is true ; but a sea was only 
 useful as representing the noise of a stormy dem- 
 ocratic audience. To represent a peaceful con- 
 gregation that still sheet of water would do as 
 well. Pebbles there were in plenty just by that 
 gravelly cove, near which a young pike lay sun- 
 ning his green back. Half in jest, half in earn- 
 est, the scholar picked up a handful of pebbles, 
 wiped them from sand and moidd, inserted them 
 between his teeth cautiously, and, looking round 
 to assure himself that none were by, began an 
 extempore discourse. So interested did he be- 
 come in that classical experiment, that he might 
 have tortured the air and astonished the magpies 
 (three of whom from a neighboring thicket list- 
 ened perfectly spell-bound) for more than half 
 an hour, when, seized with shame at the ludi- 
 crous impotence of his exertions — with despair 
 that so wretched a barrier should stand between 
 his mind and its expression — he flung away the 
 pebbles, and, sinking on the ground, he fairly 
 wept — wept like a baffled child. 
 
 The fact was, that JMorley had really the tem- 
 perament of an orator ; he had the orator's gifts 
 in warmth of passion, rush of thought, logical 
 ari'angemcnt ; there was in him the genius of a 
 great jjreacher. He felt it — he knew it; and in 
 that despair which only Genius knows, when 
 some pitiful cause obstructs its energies and 
 strikes down its powers — making a confidant of 
 Solitude — he wept loud and freely. 
 
 "Do not despond. Sir; I undertake to cure 
 you," said a voice behind. 
 
 George started up in confusion. A man, eld- 
 erly, but fresh and vigorous, stood beside him, 
 in a light fustian jacket, a blue apron, and with 
 rushes in his hands, which he continued to plait 
 together nimbly and deftly as he bowed to the 
 startled scholar. 
 
 " I was in the shade of the thicket yonder, 
 Sir ; pardon me, I could not help hearing you." 
 
 The Oxonian rubbed his e3"es, and stared at 
 the man with a vague impression that he had 
 seen him before — When? Where? 
 
 " You can cure me," he stuttered out ; " what 
 of? — the folly of trying to speak in i)ublic. 
 Thank you, I am cured." 
 
 "Nay, Sir, you see before you a man who c*n 
 make you a very good speaker. Your voice is 
 naturally fine. I repeat I can cure a defect 
 which is not in the organ, but in the manage- 
 ment." 
 
 " You can ! you — who and what are you ?" 
 
 " A basket-maker, Sir ; I hope for your cus- 
 tom." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 127 
 
 " Surely this is not the first time I have seen 
 you?" 
 
 "True ; yon once kindly suffered me to bor- 
 row a restii)<T-place on your father's land. One 
 good turn deserves another." 
 
 At tliat moment Sir Isaac peered through the 
 brambles, and, restored to his orit^inal white- 
 ness, and rcHcved from his false, iiorned cars, 
 marched fjravely toward the water, sniffed at 
 the scholar, sliglitly wagged his tail, and buried 
 himself among the reeds in search of a water- 
 rat he had therein disturbed a week before, and 
 always exjiected to find again. 
 
 Tlie sight of the dog immediately cleared up 
 the cloud in the scholar's memory ; but witli rec- 
 ognition came back a keen curiosity and a sharp 
 pang of remorse. 
 
 "And your little girl?" he asked, looking 
 down abaslied. 
 
 " Better than she was when we last met. 
 Providence is so kind to us." 
 
 Poor Waife, he never guessed that to the per- 
 son he thus revealed himself he owed the grief 
 for Sophy's abduction. He divined no reason 
 for the scholar's flushing cheek and embarrassed 
 manner. 
 
 "Yes, Sir, we have just settled in this neigh- 
 borhood. I have a pretty cottage yonder at the 
 outskirts of the village, and near the park-pales. 
 I recogni/cd you at once ; and as I heard you 
 just now, I called to mind that when we met be- 
 fore, vou said your calling should be the Church, 
 were "it not for your difficulty in utterance; and 
 I said to myself, 'No bad things tliose pebbles, 
 if his utterance were tiiick, which it is not ;' and 
 I have not a doubt, Sir, that the true fault of 
 Demosthenes, whom I presume you were imi- 
 tating, was that he spoke through his nose." 
 
 " Eh !" said the scholar, "through his nose? 
 I never knew that ! — and I — " 
 
 " And you are trying to speak without lungs ; 
 that is, witlunit air in them. You don't smoke, 
 I presume?" 
 
 "No — certainly not." 
 
 "You must learn — speak between each slow 
 puff of your jiipe. All you want is time, time to 
 quiet the nerves, time to think, time to breathe. 
 The niomcut you begin to stammer — stoj) — fill 
 the lungs thus, then try again! It is only a 
 clever man who can learn to write — that is, to 
 compose ; but any fool can be taught to speak — 
 Courage !" 
 
 " If you really can teach me,'" cried the learn- 
 ed man, forgetting all self-rcjiroach for his be- 
 trayal of Waife to Mrs. Crane in tlie absorbing 
 interest of the hope that sprang up within him 
 — " If you can teach me — if I can but con — con 
 — con — conq — " 
 
 " Slowly — slowly — breath and time ; take a 
 whiff from my pijjc — that's right. Yes, you can 
 conquer the im])ediment." 
 
 "Then I will be the best friend to you that 
 man ever had. There's my hand on it." 
 
 " I take it, but I ask leave to change the par- 
 ties in the contract. I don't want a friend — I 
 don't deserve one. You'll be a friend to my lit- 
 tle girl instead ; and if ever I ask you to help 
 me in aught for her welfare and hap])iness — " 
 
 "I will help, heart and soul. Slight, indeed, 
 any senice to her or to you compared with such 
 service to me. Free this wretched tongue from 
 its stammer, and thought and zeal will not stam- 
 
 mer whenever you say, ' Keep your promise.' I 
 am so glad your little girl is still with you !" 
 
 Waife looked surprised — " Is still with me — 
 why not?" 
 
 The scholar bit his tongue. That was not the 
 moment to C(nifcss ; it might destroy all Waife "s 
 confidence in him. He would do so later, 
 
 "When shall I begin my lesson?" 
 
 " Now, if you like. But have you a book in 
 your pocket ?" 
 
 "I always have." 
 
 "Not Greek, I hope, Sir." 
 
 " No, a volume of Barrow's Sermons. Lord 
 Chatham recommended those sermons to his 
 great son as a study for eloquence." 
 
 " Good ! Will you lend me the volume. Sir, 
 and now for it ; listen to me : one sentence at a 
 time — draw your breath when I do." 
 
 The three magpies pricked up their ears again, 
 and, as they listened, marveled much. 
 
 CHArTER III. 
 
 Could we know by what strange circumstances a man's 
 genius became jireparcd for practical success, we sliould 
 discover that the most serviceable items in his education 
 were never entered in the hills which his father paid 
 fpr it. 
 
 At the end of the veiy first lesson George 
 ^lorley saw that all the elocution-masters to 
 whose skill he had l]een consigned were blun- 
 derers in comjiarison to the baskct-inakcr. 
 
 Waife did not jjuzzle him with scientific the- 
 ories. All that the groat comedian required of 
 him was to observe and to imitate. Observation, 
 imitation, lo ! the ground-work of all art ! the 
 primal elements of all genius ! Not there, indeed, 
 to halt, but there ever to commence. AVliat re- 
 mains to carry on the intellect to mastery ? Two 
 steps — to reflect, to reproduce. Observation, im- 
 itation, reflection, rejjroduction. In these stands 
 a mind complete and consummate, fit to cope 
 with all labor, achieve all success. 
 
 At the end of the first lesson George Morley 
 felt that his cure was possible. ]\Iaking an ap- 
 ])ointmcnt for the next day at the same place, 
 lie came thither stealthily, and so on day by 
 day. At the end of a week he felt that the cure 
 was nearly sure ; at the end of a month the cure 
 was self-evident. He should live to preach the 
 Word. True, that he ])racticcd incessantly in 
 private. Not a moment in his waking hours 
 that the one thought, one object, were absent 
 from his mind ; true, that with all his ]iaticnce, 
 all his toil, the obstacle was yet serious, might 
 never be entirely overcome. Nervous hurry — ra- 
 ))idity of action — vehemence of feeling brought 
 back, might, at unguarded moiuents, always 
 bring back the gasping breath — the emptied 
 lungs — the struggling utterance. But the re- 
 lapse — rarer and rarer now with each trial — 
 would be at last scarce a drawback. " Nay," 
 quoth Waife, " instead of a drawl>ack, become 
 but an orator, and you will convert a defect into 
 a beauty." 
 
 Thus justly sanguine of the accom]ili>hment 
 of his life's chosen object, the scholar's gratitude 
 lo Waife was unspeakable. And seeing the man 
 daily at last in his own cottage — Sophy's health 
 restored to her cheeks, smiles to her lip, and 
 cheered at her light fancy-work beside her 
 
128 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 grandsire's elbo^-chair, with fairy legends in- 
 stilling perhaps golden truths — seeing Waife 
 thus, the scholar mingled with gratitude a 
 strange tenderness of respect. lie knew naught 
 of the vagrant's past — his reason might admit 
 that in a position of life so at variance with the 
 gifts natural and acquired of the singular basket- 
 maker, there was something mj'sterious and sus- 
 picious. But he blushed to think that he had 
 ever ascribed to a flawed or wandering intellect 
 the eccentricities of glorious Humor — abetted an 
 attempt to separate an old age so innocent and 
 genial from a childhood so fostered and so fos- 
 tering. And sure I am that if the whole world 
 had risen np to point the finger of scorn at the 
 one-eyed cripple, George Morley, the well-born 
 gentleman — the refined scholar — the spotless 
 Churchman — would have given him his arm to 
 lean upon, and walked by his side unashamed. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 To judge human character rightly, a man may some- 
 times have very small experience, provided he has a 
 very large heart. 
 
 NuMA PoMPiLirs did not more conceal from 
 notice the lessons he received from Egeria than 
 did George ]Morley those which he received from 
 the basket-maker. Natural, indeed, must be his 
 wish for secrecy — pretty stoiy it would be for 
 Humberston, its future rector learning how to 
 preach a sermon from an old basket-maker ! But 
 he had a nobler and more imperious motive for 
 discretion — his honor was engaged to it. Waife 
 exacted a promise tliat he would regard the in- 
 tercourse between them as strictly private and 
 confidential. 
 
 " It is for my sake I ask this," said Waife, 
 frankly, '• though I might say it was for yours." 
 The Oxonian promised, and was bound. For- 
 tunately, Lady I\Iontfort quitting the Great 
 House the very day after George had first en- 
 countered the basket-maker, and writing word 
 that she should not return to it for some weeks 
 — George was at liberty to avail himself of her 
 lord's general invitation to make use of ^lont- 
 fort Court as his lodgings when in the neighbor- 
 hood, which the proprieties of the world would 
 not have allowed him to do while Lady ^lontfort 
 was there without either host or female guests. 
 Accordingly, he took up his abode in a corner 
 of the vast palace, and was easily enabled, when 
 he pleased, to traverse unobserved the solitudes 
 of the park, gain the water-side, or stroll thence 
 through the thick copse leading to Waife's cot- 
 tage, which bordered the park-pales, solitary, 
 sequestered, beyond sight of the neighboring 
 village. The great house all to himself, George 
 was brought in contact with no one to whom, in 
 unguarded moments, he could even have let out 
 a hint of his new acquaintance, except the cler- 
 gyman of the parish, a worthy man, who lived 
 in strict retirement upon a scanty stipend. For 
 the I\Iarquis was the lay impropriator ; the liv- 
 ing was therefore but a very poor vicarage, be- 
 low the acceptance of a Vipont or a Yipont's 
 tutor — sure to go to a quiet wortiiy man forced 
 to live in strict retirement. George saw too lit- 
 tle of this clergyman either to let out secrets 
 or pick up information. Fi'om him, however, 
 
 ', George did incidentally learn that Waife had 
 i some months previously visited the village, and 
 proposed to the bailiff to take the cottage and 
 i osier land, which he now rented — that he rep- 
 , resented himself as having known an old bask- 
 et-maker who had dwelt there many years ago, 
 I and had learned the basket craft of" that long 
 I deceased operative. As he offered a higher rent 
 , than the bailitf could elsewhere obtain, and as 
 the bailiff was desirous to get credit with 3Ir. 
 Carr \'ipont for improving the property, by re- 
 viving thereon an art which had fallen into 
 desuetude, the bargain was struck, provided the 
 candidate, being a stranger to the ])lace, could 
 I furnish the bailiff with any satisfactory refer- 
 1 ence. Waife had gone away, saying he should 
 shortly return with the requisite testimonial. 
 In fact, poor man, as we know,, he was then 
 counting on a good word from .Mr. Hartopp. 
 He had not, however, returned for some months. 
 The cottage having been meanwhile wanted for 
 the temporary occupation of an under game- 
 keeper, while his own was under repair, fortu- 
 nately remained unlet. Waife, on returning, 
 accompanied by his little girl, had referred the 
 bailiff to a respectable house-agent and collector 
 of street rents in Bloomsbury, who wrote word 
 that a lady, then abroad, had authorized him, 
 as the agent employed in the management of a 
 house property from which mnch of her income 
 was derived, not only to state that Waife was a 
 very intelligent man, likely to do well whatever 
 he undertook, but also to guarantee, if required, 
 the punctual payment of the rent for any holding 
 of which he became the occupier. On this the 
 agreement was concluded — the basket-maker 
 installed. In the immediate neighborhood there 
 was no custom for basket-work, but Waife's per- 
 formances were so neat, and some so elegant 
 and fanciful, that he .had no diiliculty in con- 
 tracting with a large tradesman (not at Hum- 
 berston, but a more distant and yet more thriv- 
 ing town about twenty miles oft'), for as much 
 of such work as he could supply. Each week 
 the carrier took his goods and brought back the 
 payments ; the profits amply suflSced for Waife's 
 and Sophy's daily bread, with even more than 
 the surplus set aside for the rent. For the rest, 
 the basket-maker's cottage being at tlie farthest 
 outskirts of the straggling village inhabited but 
 by a laboring peasantry, his way of life was not 
 much known, nor much inquired into. He 
 seemed a harmless hard-working man — never 
 seen at the beer-house, always seen with his 
 neatly-dressed little grandchild in his quiet cor- 
 ner at church on Sundays — a civil, well-behaved 
 man too, who touched his hat to the bailift", and 
 took it oft' to the vicar. 
 
 An idea prevailed that the basket-maker had 
 spent much of his life in foreign parts, favored 
 partly by a sobriety of habits which is not alto- 
 gether national, partly by something in his ap- 
 pearance, which, without being above his lowly 
 calling, did not seem quite in keeping with it — 
 outlandish in short — but principally by the fact 
 that he had received since his arrival two letters 
 with a foreign jxjstmark. The idea befriended 
 the old man ; allowing it to be inferred that he 
 had probably outlived the friends he had for- 
 merly left behind him in England, and on his 
 return, been sufficiently fatigued with his ram- 
 bles to drop contented in any corner of his native 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 129 
 
 soil, wherein he could find a quiet home, and 
 earn by light toil a decent livelihood. 
 
 George, though naturally curious to know 
 what had been the result of his communication 
 to Mrs. Crane — whether it had led to Waife's 
 discovery or caused him annoyance, had hither- 
 to, however, shrunk from touching upon a topic 
 which subjected himself to an awkward confes- 
 sion of officious intermeddling, and might ap- 
 pear an indirect and indelicate mode of prying 
 into painful family affairs. But one day he re- 
 ceived a letter from his father which disturbed 
 him greatly, and induced him to break ground 
 and speak to his preceptor frankly. In this let- 
 ter the elder ^•. Morley mentioned incidental- 
 ly, among other scraps of local news, that he had 
 seen Mr. Hartopp, who was rather out of sorts, 
 his good heart not having recovered the shock 
 of having been abominably " taken in" by an 
 impostor for whom he had conceived a great 
 fancy, and to whose discovery George himself 
 had providentially led (the father referring here 
 to what George had told him of his first meeting 
 with Waife, and his visit to Mrs. Crane), the 
 impostor, it seemed, from what Mr. Hartopp let 
 fall, not being a little queer in the head — as 
 George had been led to surmise — but a very bad 
 character. " In fact," added the elder Morley, 
 "a character so bad, that Mr. Hartopp was too 
 glad to give up the child, whom the man ap- 
 pears to have abducted, to her lawful protectors; 
 and I suspect from what Hartopp said, though 
 he does not like to own that he was taken in to 
 so gross a degree, that he had been actually in- 
 troducingto his fellow-townsfolk, and conferring 
 familiarly, with a regular jail-bird — perhaps a 
 burglar. How lucky for that poor, soft-headed, 
 excellent Jos Hartopp — whom it is positively as 
 inhuman to take in as if he were a born natural 
 — that the lady you saw an'ived in time to ex- 
 pose the snares laid for his benevolent credulity. 
 But for that, Jos might have taken the fellow 
 into his own house — (just like him !) — and been 
 robbed by this time — perhaps murdered — Heav- 
 en knows !" 
 
 Incredulous and indignant, and longing to be 
 empowered to vindicate his friend's fair name, 
 George seized his hat, and strode quick along 
 the path toward the basket-maker's cottage. 
 As he gained the water-side he perceived Waife 
 himself, seated on a mossy bank, under a gnarled 
 fantastic thorn-tree, watching a deer as it came 
 to drink, and whistling a soft mellow tune — the 
 tunc of an old English border-song. The deer 
 lifted its antlers from the water, and turned its 
 large bright eyes toward the*o])posite bank, 
 whence the note came — listening and wistful. 
 As George's step crushed the wild thyme, which 
 the thorn-tree shadowed — "Hush," said Waife, 
 "and mark how the rudest musical sound can 
 affect the brute creation." He resumed the 
 whistle — a clearer, louder, wilder tune — that of 
 a lively hunting-song. The deer turned quickly 
 round — uneasy, restless, tossed its antlers, and 
 bounded through the fern. Waife again changed 
 the key of his primitive music — a melancholy 
 belling note, like the belling itself of a melan- 
 choly hart, but more modulated into sweetness. 
 The deer arrested its flight, and, lured by the 
 mimic sound, returned toward the water-side, 
 slow and stately. 
 
 " I don't think the story of Orpheus charming 
 
 the brutes was a fable — do you, Sir ?" said Waife. 
 ' ' The rabbits about here know me already ; and 
 if I had but a fiddle I would undertake to make 
 friends with that reserved and unsocial water- 
 rat, on whom Sir Isaac in vain endeavoi-s at 
 present to force his acquaintance. ^lan com- 
 mits a great mistake in not cultivating more in- 
 timate and amicable relations with the other 
 branches of earth's great family. Few of them 
 not more amusing than we arc— naturally, for 
 they have not our cares. And such variety of 
 character, too, where you would least expect it!" 
 Geougi: Moklet. "Very true: Cowjier no- 
 ticed marked differences of character in his fa- 
 vorite hares." 
 
 Waife. "Hares! I am sure that there are 
 not two house-flies on a window-pane, two min- 
 nows in that water, that would not present to us 
 interesting points of contrast as to temper and 
 disposition. If house-flies and minnows could 
 but coin money, or set up a manufacture — con- 
 trive something, in short, to buy or sell attractive 
 to Anglo-Saxon enterprise and intelligence — of 
 course we should soon have diplomatic relations 
 with them; and our dispatches and newspapers 
 would instruct us to a T in the characters and 
 propensities of their leading personages. But 
 where man has no pecuniary nor ambitious in- 
 terests at stake in his commerce with any class 
 of his fellow-creatures, his information about 
 them is extremely confused and superficial. 
 The best naturalists are mere generalizcrs, and 
 think they have done a vast deal when they 
 classify a species. What should we know about 
 mankind if we had only a naturalist's definition 
 of man ? We only know mankind by knocking 
 classification on the head, and studying each 
 man as a class in himself. Compare Buffon 
 with Shakspeare I Alas ! Sir — can we never 
 have a Shakspeare for house-flies and min- 
 nows ?" 
 
 George Mokley. " With all respect for min- 
 nows and house-flies, if we found another Shaks- 
 peare, he might be better employed, like his 
 predecessor, in selecting individualities from the 
 classifications of man." 
 
 Waife. " Being yourself a man, you think so 
 
 — a house-fly might be of a different opinion. 
 
 But permit me, at least, to doubt whether such 
 
 an investigator would be better employed in 
 
 reference to his own happiness, though I grant 
 
 that he would be so in reference to your intel- 
 
 j lectual amusement and social interests. Poor 
 
 I Shakspeare! How much he must have suf- 
 
 j fered!"' 
 
 George Morley. " You mean that he must 
 
 have been racked by the passions he describes 
 
 — bruised by collision with the hearts he dis- 
 
 I sects. That is not necessary to genius. The 
 
 ! judge on his bench, summing up evidence, and 
 
 I charging the jury, has no need to have shared 
 
 j the temptations, or been privy to the acts, of 
 
 the prisoner at the bar. Yet how consummate 
 
 ; may be his analysis !"' 
 
 I "No," cried Waife, roughly. "No. Your 
 
 ; illustration destroys your argument. The judge 
 
 knows nothing of the prisoner! There are the 
 
 ! circumstances — there is the law. By these he 
 
 I generalizes — by these he judges — right or wrong. 
 
 But of the individual at the bar — of the world 
 
 — the tremendous world within that individual 
 
 heart — I repeat — he knows nothing. Did he 
 
130 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 know, law and circumstance might vanish — hu- 
 man justice would be paralyzed. Ho, there ! 
 place that swart-visajied, ill-looking foreigner in 
 the dock, and let counsel open the case — hear 
 the witnesses depose ! Oh, horrible wretch ! — a 
 murderer — unmanly murderer ! — a defenseless 
 woman smothered by caitiff hands ! Hang him 
 up — hang him up ! ' Softly,' whispers the Poet, 
 and lifts the vail from the Assassin's heart. 
 'Lo ! it is Othello the Moor!' What jury now 
 dare find that criminal guilty ? — what judge 
 now will put on the black cap ? — who now says, 
 'Hang him up — hang him ui5?"' 
 
 With such lifelike force did the Comedian 
 vent this passionate outburst that he thrilled 
 his listener with an awe akin to tliat which the 
 convicted Moor gathers round himself at the 
 close of the sublime drama. Even Sir Isaac 
 was startled ; and, leaving his hopeless pursuit 
 of the water-rat, uttered a low bark, came to 
 his master, and looked into his face with solemn 
 curiosity. 
 
 Waife (relapsing into colloquial accents). 
 " Why do we s}'mpathize with those above us 
 more than with those below ? why with the sor- 
 rows of a king rather than those of a beggar? 
 why does Sir Isaac sympathize with me more 
 than (let that water-rat vex him ever so much) 
 I can possibly sympathize with him? Whatever 
 be the cause, see at least, INIr. Morley, one rea- 
 son why a poor creature like myself finds it bet- 
 ter employment to cultivate the intimacy of 
 brutes than to prosecute the study of men. 
 Among men, all are too high to sympathize with 
 me ; but I have known two friends who never 
 injured nor betrayed me. Sir Isaac is one, 
 Wamba was another. Wamba, Sir, the native 
 of a remote district of the globe (two friends 
 civilized Europe is not large enough to afl'ord to 
 any one man) — Wamba, Sir, was less gifted by 
 nature, less refined by education than Sir Isaac ; 
 but he was a safe and trustworthy companion. 
 Wamba, Sir, v/as — an opossum." 
 
 Geokge Morley. " Alas, my dear Mr. Waife, 
 I fear that men must have behaved very ill to 
 you." 
 
 Waife. " I have no right to complain. I 
 have behaved very ill to myself. When a man 
 is his own enemy, he is ver)- unreasonable if he 
 expect other men to be his benefactors." 
 
 George Morley (with emotion). "Listen, 
 I have a confession to make to you. I fear I 
 have done you an injurj- — where, officiously, I 
 meant to do a kindness." The scholar hurried 
 on to narrate the particulars of his visit to Mrs. 
 Crane. On concluding the recital, he added — 
 "When again I met you here and learned that 
 your Sophy was with you, I felt inexpressibly 
 relieved. It was clear then, I thought, that your 
 grandchild had been left to your care unmolested, 
 either that you had proved not to be the person 
 of whom the parties were in search, or family 
 affairs had been so explained and reconciled, 
 that my interfei'ence had occasioned you no 
 harm. But to-day I have a letter from my fa- 
 ther which disquiets me mucli. It seems that 
 the persons in question did visit Gatesboro' and 
 have maligned you to Mr. Hartopp. Under- 
 stand me, I ask for no confidence which you 
 may be unwilling to give ; but if you will arm 
 me with the power to vindicate your character 
 from aspersions which I need not your assur- 
 
 ance to hold unjust and false, I will not rest till 
 that task be triumphantly accomplished." 
 
 Waife (in a tone calm but dejected). "I 
 thank you with all my heart. But there is no- 
 thing to be done. I am glad that the subject 
 did not start up between us until such little 
 service as I could render you, Mr. Morley, was 
 pretty well over. It would have been a pity if 
 you had been compelled to drop all communica- 
 tion with a man of attainted character before 
 you had learned how to manage the powers that 
 will enable you hereafter to exhort sinners worse 
 than I have been. Hush, Sir! you feel that, at 
 least now, I am an inoft'ensive old man — labor- 
 ing for a humble livelihood. Ifoa Mill not re- 
 peat here what you may have heard, or yet 
 hear, to the discredit of my former life? You 
 will not send me and my grandchild forth from 
 our obscure refuge to confront a world with 
 which Ave have no strength to cope ? And, be- 
 lieving this, it only remains for me to say Fare- 
 you-well, Sir." 
 
 "I should deserve to lose spe — spe — speech 
 altogether," cried the Oxonian, gasping and 
 stammering fearfully as he caught Waife firmly 
 by the arm, "if I suffered — suit" — suff — sufif — " 
 
 "One, two! take time, Sir!" said the Come- 
 dian, softly. And with a sweet patience he re- 
 seated himself on the bank. 
 
 The Oxonian threw himself at length by the 
 outcast's side ; and with the noble tenderness of 
 a nature as chivalrously Christian as Heaven 
 ever gave to priest, he rested his folded hands 
 u])on Waife's shoulder, and looking him full and 
 close in the face, said thus, slowly, deliberately, 
 not a stammer, 
 
 " You do not guess what you have done for 
 me ; you have secured to me a home and a 
 career — the wife of whom I must otherwise have 
 despaired — the divine vocation on which all my 
 earthly hopes were set, and which I was on tlie 
 eve of renouncing — do not think these are obliga- 
 tions which can be lightly shaken off. If there 
 are circumstances which forbid me to disabuse 
 others of impressions which wrong you, imagine 
 not that their false notions will affect my own 
 gratitude — my own respect for you!" 
 
 " Nay, Sir ! they ought — they must. Perhaps 
 not your exaggerated gratitude for a service 
 which you should not, however, measure by its 
 effects on yourself, but by the slightness of the 
 trouble it gave to me ; not perhaps your grati- 
 tude — but j'our respect, yes." 
 
 " I tell you no ! Do you fancy that I can not 
 judge of a man's nature without calling on him 
 to trust me wuh all the secrets — all the errors, 
 if you will, of his past life ? Will not the call- 
 ing to which I may now hold myself destined 
 give me power and commandment to absolve all 
 those who truly rejient and unfeignedly believe? 
 Oh, Mr. Waife! if in earlier days you have 
 sinned, do you not repent? and how often, in 
 many a lovely gentle sentence dropped unawares 
 from your lips, have I had cause to know that 
 you unfeignedly believe! Were I now clothed 
 with sacred authority, could I not absolve you as 
 a priest ? Think you that, in the mean while, I 
 dare judge you as a man ? I — life's new recruit, 
 guarded hitherto from temptation by careful jjar- 
 ents and favoring fortune — /presume to judge, 
 and judge harshly, the gray-haired veteran, wea- 
 ried by the march, wounded in the battle!" 
 
"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 131 
 
 " You arc a noblc-heartcd human being," said 
 "Waifp, greatly aflected. ' ' And — mark my words 
 — a mantle of charity so large you will live to 
 wear as a robe of honor. But hear me, Sir! 
 Mr. Hartopp also is a man infinitely charitable, 
 benevolent, kindly, and, through all his sim- 
 plicity, acutely shrewd, ilr. Hartopp, on hear- 
 ing what was said against me, deemed me unfit 
 to retain my grandchild, resigned the trust I had 
 confided to him, and would have given me alms, 
 no doubt, had I asked them, but not his hand. 
 Take your hands. Sir, from my shoulder, lest the 
 touch sully you." 
 
 George did take his hands from the vagrant's 
 shoulder, but it was to grasp the hand that 
 waived them off, and struggled to escape the 
 pressure. ''You are innocent, you are innocent I 
 forgive mc that I spoke to you of repentance, as 
 if you had been guilty. I feel you are innocent 
 — feel it by my own heart. You turn away. I 
 defy you to say that you are guilty of what has 
 been laid to your charge, of wliat has darkened 
 your good name, of what ^Nlr. Hartopp believed 
 to your prejudice. Look me in the face and 
 sav, ' I am not innocent, I have not been be- 
 lied.' " 
 
 Waife remained voiceless — motionless. 
 
 The young man, in whose nature lay yet un- 
 proved all those grand qualities of heart, with- 
 out which never was there a grand orator, a 
 grand preacher — qualities which grasp the re- 
 sults of argument, and arrive at tlie end of elab- 
 orate reasoning by sudden impulse — here re- 
 leased "Waife's hand, rose to his feet, and, fac- 
 ing Waife, as the old man\ate with face avert- 
 ed, eyes downcast, breast heaving, said, loftily, 
 
 "Forget that I may soon be the Christian 
 minister whose duty bows his ear to the lips of 
 shame and guilt — whose hand, when it points 
 to Heaven, no mortal touch can sully — M^hose 
 sublimest post is by the sinner's side. Look on 
 me but as man and gentleman. See, I now 
 extend this hand to you. If, as man and gen- 
 tleman, you have done that which, could all 
 hearts be read, all secrets known — human judg- 
 ment reversed by Divine omniscience — forbids 
 you to take this hand — the?i reject it — go hence 
 — we parti But if no such act be on your con- 
 science — however you submit to its imputation 
 — THEN, in the name of Truth, as man and gen- 
 tleman to man and gentleman, I command you 
 to take this right hand, and in the name of that 
 Honor which bears no paltering, I forbid you to 
 disobey." 
 
 The vagabond rose, like the dead at the spell 
 of a magician — tdok, as if irresistibly, the hand 
 held out to him. Arid the scholar, overjoyed, 
 fell on his breast, embracing him as a son. 
 
 "You know," said George, in trembling ac- 
 cents, " that the hand you have taken will nev- 
 er betray — never desert; but is it — is it really 
 powerless to raise and to restore you to your 
 place ?" 
 
 '•Powerless among your kind for that indeed," 
 aHwered Waife. in accents still more tremu- 
 lous. "All the kings of the earth are not strong 
 enough to raise a name that has once been 
 trampled into the mire. Learn that it is not 
 only impossible for me to clear myself, but that 
 it is equally impossible for me to confide to mor- 
 tal being a single plea in defense if I am inno- 
 cent, in extenuation if I am guilty. And say- 
 
 ing this, and entreating yon to hold it more 
 merciful to condemn than to question me — for 
 question is torture — I can not reject your pity ; 
 but it would be mockery to offer me respect !" 
 
 " What ! not respect the fortitude which cal- 
 umny can not crush ? Would that fortitude be 
 possible if you were not calm in the knowledge 
 that no false witnesses can mislead the Eternal 
 Judge ? Respect you ! yes — because I have seen 
 you happy in despite of men, and therefore I 
 know that the cloud around you is not the frown 
 of Heaven." 
 
 " Oh," cried Waife, the tears rolling down his 
 cheeks, " and not an hour ago I was jesting at 
 human friendship — venting graceless spleen on 
 my fellow-men! And now — now — Ah! Sir, 
 Providence is so kind to me! And," said he, 
 brushing away his tears, as the old arch smile 
 began to play round the corner of his mouth — 
 " and kind to me in the very quarter in which 
 unkindness had most sorely smitten me. True, 
 you directed toward me the woman who took 
 from me my grandchild — who destroyed me in 
 the esteem of good Mr. Hartopp. Well, you 
 see, I have my sweet Sophy back again ; we are 
 in the home of all others I most longed for ; and 
 that woman — yes, I can, at least thus far, con- 
 fide to you my secrets, so that you may not blame 
 yourself for sending her to Ga'tesboro' — that veiy 
 woman knows of my shelter — furnished me with 
 the very reference necessary to obtain it; has 
 freed my grandchild from a loathsome bondage, 
 which I could not have legally resisted ; and 
 should new persecutions chase us, will watch, 
 and warn, and help us. And if you as^ me 
 how this change in her was effected — how, when 
 we had abandoned all hope of green fields, and 
 deemed that only in the crowd of a city we could 
 escape those who pursued us when discovered 
 there, though I fancied myself an adept in dis- 
 guise, and the child and the dog were never seen 
 out of the four garret walls in which I hid them ; 
 if you ask me, I say, to explain how that very 
 woman was suddenly converted from a remorse- 
 less foe into a saving guardian, I can only an- 
 swer, by no wit, no device, no persuasive art of 
 mine. Providence softened her heart, and made 
 it kind, just at the moment when no other agency 
 on earth could have rescued us from — from — " 
 
 " Say no more — I guess ! the paper this wo- 
 man showed me was a legal form authorizing 
 your poor little Sophy to be given up to the care 
 of a father. I guess ! of that father you would 
 not speak ill to me ; yet from that father you 
 would save your grandchild. Say no more. And 
 yon quiet home — your humble employment, re- 
 ally content you ?" 
 
 " Oh, if such a life can but last ! Sophy is so 
 well, so cheerful, so happy. Did not you hear 
 her singing the other day ? She never used to 
 sing ! But we had not been here a week when 
 song broke out from her untaught, as from a 
 bird. But if any ill report of me travel hither 
 from Gatesboro', or elsewhere, we shotdd be sent 
 away, and the bird would be mute in my thorn- 
 tree — Sophy would sing no more." 
 
 "Do n.ot fear that slander shall drive you 
 hence. Lady Montfort, you know, is my cous- 
 in, but you know not — few do — how thoroughly 
 generous and gentle-hearted she is. I will speak 
 of you to her — Oh, do not look alarmed. She 
 will take my word when I tell her 'that is a 
 
132 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 good man ;' and if she ask more, it will be enough 
 to say, 'those who have known better days are 
 loth to speak to strangers of the past.'" 
 
 " I thank you earnestly, sincerely," said 
 Waife, brightening up. " One favor more — if 
 you saw in the formal document shown to you, 
 or retain on j-our memory, the name of — of the 
 person authorized to claim Sophy as his child, 
 you will not mention it to Lady Montfort. I 
 am not sure if ever she heard that name, but 
 she may have done so — and — and — " He 
 paused a moment, and seemed to muse ; then 
 went on, not concluding his sentence. "You 
 are so good to me, IMr. Morley, that I wish to 
 confide in you as far as I can. Now, you see I 
 am already an old man, and my chief object is 
 to raise up a friend for Sophy when I am gone 
 — a friend in her own sex. Sir. Oh, you can 
 not guess how I long — how I yearn to view that 
 child under the holy fostering eyes of woman. 
 Perhaps if Lady iNIontfort saw my pretty Sophy 
 she might take a fancy to her. Oh, if she did 
 — if she did I And Sophy," added Waife, proud- 
 ly, "has a right to respect. She is not like me 
 — any hovel good enough for me. But for her! 
 — Do you know that I conceived that hojje — 
 that the hope helped to lead me back here when, 
 months ago, I was at Humbesston, intent upon 
 rescuing Sophy ; and saw, though," observed 
 Waife, with a sly twitch of the muscles round j 
 his mouth, " I had no right at that precipe mo- 
 ment to be seeing any thing — Lady ]\Iontfort's 
 humane fear for a blind old impostor, who was 
 trying to save his dog — a black dog, Sir, who 
 had dyed his hair — from her carriage wheels. 
 And the hope became stronger still, when, the 
 first Sunday I attended yon village church, I 
 again saw that fair — wondrously fair — face at 
 the far end — fair as moonlight and as melan- 
 choly. Strange it is. Sir, that I, naturally a 
 boisterous, mirthful man, and now a shy, skulk- 
 ing fugitive — feel more attracted, more allured 
 toward a countenance, in proportion as I read 
 there the trace of sadness. I feel less abashed 
 by my own nothingness — more emboldened to 
 approach and say, ' Not so far apart from me ; 
 thou, too, hast suffered.' Why is this?" 
 
 Geouge Motley. "'The fool hath said in 
 his heart that there is no God ;' but the fool 
 hath not said iu his heart that tliere is no sor- 
 row — pithy and most profound sentence; inti- 
 mating the irrefragable chain that binds men to 
 the Father. And where the chain tightens the 
 children are closer drawn together. But to your 
 wish — I will remember it. And when my cous- 
 in returns she shall see your Sophy." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 llr. "Waife, being by nature unlucky, considers that, in 
 proportion as Fortune brings him good luck, Nature 
 converts it into hzd. He suffers Mr. George Morley to 
 go away in his debt, and Sophy fears that he will be 
 dull in consequence. 
 
 George Morlet, a few weeks after the con^ 
 versation last recorded, took his departure from 
 Montfort Court, prepared, without a scruple, to 
 present himself for ordination to the friendly 
 bishop. From Waife he derived more than the 
 cure of a disabling infirmity ; he received those 
 hints which, to a man who has the natural tem- 
 
 perament of an orator, so rarely united with 
 that of the scholar, expedite the mastery of 
 the art which makes the fleeting human voice 
 an abiding, imperishable power. The grateful 
 teacher exh:iusted all his lore upon the pupil 
 whose genius he had freed — whose heart had 
 subdued himself. Before leaving, George was 
 much perplexed how to offer to Waife any oth- 
 er remuneration than that which, in Waife's es- 
 timate, had already overpaid all the benefits he 
 had received — viz., unquestioning friendship and 
 pledged protection. It need scarcely be said that 
 George thought the man to whom he owed for- 
 tune and happiness was entitled to something 
 beyond that moral recompense. But he found, 
 at the first delicate hint, that Waife would not 
 hear of money, though the ex-Comedian did 
 not affect any very Quixotic notions on that 
 practical subject. " To tell you the truth. Sir, 
 I have rather a superstition against having more 
 money in my hands than I know what to do 
 with. It has always brought me bad luck. And 
 what is very hard — the bad luck stays, but the 
 money goes. There was that splendid sum I 
 made at Gainsboro'. You should have seen me 
 counting it over. I could not have had a proud- 
 er or more swelling heart if I had been that 
 great man Mr. Elwes the miser. And what bad 
 luck it brought me, and how it all frittered it- 
 self away ! Nothing to show for it but a silk 
 ladder and an old hurdy-gurdy, and 1 sold t/ietn 
 at half-price. Then, when I had the accident 
 which cost me this eye, the railway people be- 
 haved so generously, gave me £120 — think of 
 that ! And before three days the money was all 
 gone !" 
 
 "How was that?" said George, half amused, 
 half pained; "stolen, perhaps?" 
 
 "Not so," answered Waife, somewhat gloom- 
 ily, "but restored. A poor dear old man, who 
 thought very ill of me — and I don't wonder at 
 it — was reduced from great wealth to great j)Ov- 
 erty. While I was laid up my landlady read a 
 newspaper to me, and in that newspaper was an 
 account of his reverse and destittition. But I 
 was accountable to him for the balance of an 
 old debt, and that, with the doctor's bills, quite 
 covered my £120. I hope he does not think 
 quite so ill of me now. But the money brought 
 good luck to him rather than to me. Well, Sir, 
 if you were now to give me money I should be 
 on the look-out for some mournful calamity. 
 Gold is not natural to me. Some day, however, 
 by-and-by, when you are inducted into your liv- 
 ing, and have become a renowned preacher, and 
 have jdonty to spare, with an idea that you 
 would feel more comfortable in your mind if 
 you had done something royal for the basket- 
 maker, I will ask you to help me to make up a 
 sum which I am trying by degrees to save — an 
 enormous sum — as much as I paid away from 
 my railway com])ensation — I owe it to the lady 
 who lent it to release Sojihy from an engage- 
 ment which I — certainly without any remorse 
 of conscience — made the child break." 
 
 " Oh yes ! What is the amount ? Let me at 
 least repay that debt." 
 
 " Not yet. The lady can wait — and she would 
 be pleased to wait, because she deserves to wait 
 — it would ha unkind to her to pay it off at once. 
 But in thx! mean while, if you could send me a 
 few good books for Sophy ? — instructive ; yet 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 133 
 
 not very, very dry. And a French dictionary — 
 I can teach her French when the winter days 
 close in. You see I am not above beinj:; j)aid, 
 Sir. But, Mr. Morlcy, there is a great favor you 
 can do me." 
 
 "What is it? Speak." 
 
 "Cautiously refrain from doing mc a great 
 disservice ! You are going back to your friends 
 and relations. Never sjicak of me to them. 
 Never describe me and my odd ways. Name 
 not the lady, nor — nor — nor — the man who 
 claimed Sophy. Your friends might not hurt 
 me, others might. Talk travels. The Hare is 
 not long in its form when it has a friend in a 
 Hound that gives tongue. Promise what I ask. 
 Promise it as 'man and gentleman.'" 
 
 " Certainly. Yet I have one relation to whom 
 I should like, with your ]>crnHssian, to speak of 
 you — with whom I could wish you acquainted. 
 He is so thorough a man of the world that he 
 might suggest some method to clear your good 
 name, which you yourself would approve. My 
 uncle, Colonel Morley — " 
 
 "On no account!" cried Waife, almost fierce- 
 ly, and he evinced so much anger and uneasi- 
 ness that it was long before George could j)aci- 
 fy him by the most earnest assurances that his 
 secret should be inviolably kept, and his injunc- 
 tions faitlifully obeyed. No men of llie world 
 consulted how to force hini back to the world 
 of men that he fled from ! No colonels to scan 
 him with martinet eyes, and hint how to pipe- 
 clay a tarnish ! Waife's apprehensions gradu- 
 ally allayed, and his confidence restored, one 
 fine morning George took leave of his eccentric 
 benefactor. 
 
 Waife and Sophy stood gazing after him from 
 their garden-gate ; the cripple leaning lightly 
 on the child's arm. She looked with anxious 
 fondness into the old man's thoughtful face, 
 and clung to him more closely as slie looked. 
 
 "Will you not be dull, jjoor gi-andy? Will 
 you not miss him ?" 
 
 "A little at first," said Waife, rousing him- 
 self. " Education is a great thing. An edu- 
 cated mind, provided that it does us no mischief 
 — which is not always the case — can not be with- 
 drawn from our existence without leaving a blank 
 behind. Sophy, we must seriously set to work 
 and educate ourselves!" 
 
 " We will, grandy dear," said Sophy, with de- 
 cision; and a few minutes afterward, "If I can 
 become very, very clever, you will not pine so 
 much after that gentleman— will you, grandy?" 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 Being a chapter that comes to an untimely end. 
 
 Winter was far advanced when Montfort 
 Court was again brightened by the presence of 
 its lady. A polite letter from Mr. Carr Vipont 
 had reached her before leaving Windsor, sug- 
 gesting how much it would be for the advantage 
 of the Vipont interest if she would consent to 
 visit for a month or two the seat in Ireland, 
 which had been too long neglected, and at 
 which my lord would join her on his departure 
 from his Highland moors. So to Ireland went 
 Lady Montfort. My lord did not join lier there ; 
 but Mr. Carr Vipont deemed it desirable for the 
 
 Vipont interest that the wedded pair should re- 
 unite at Montfort Court, where all the Vipont 
 family were invited to witness their felicity or 
 mitigate their cmitii. 
 
 But, before proceeding another stage in this 
 history, it becomes a just tribute of respect to 
 the great House of Vipont to pause and ])lace 
 its past records and i>rescnt grandeur in fuller 
 display before the reverential reader. Tke 
 House of Vipont! What am I about? The 
 House of Vipont requires a chapter to itself. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The House op Vipont. — " Majora cayiamus." 
 
 The House of Vipont ! Looking back through 
 ages, it seems as if the House of Vipont were 
 one continuous, living idiosyncrasy, having in 
 its progressive development a connected unity 
 of thought and action, so that through all the 
 changes of its outward form it had been moved 
 and guided by the same single spirit — " Le roi 
 est viort — v'lve le roi T' — A Vipont dies — live the 
 Vipont ! Despite its high-sounding Norman 
 name, the House of Vipont was no House at all 
 for some generations after the Conquest. The 
 first Vipont who emerged from the obscurity of 
 time was a rude soldier, of Gascon origin, in the 
 reign of Henry II. ; one of the thousand fight- 
 ing men who sailed from Milford Haven with 
 the stout Earl of Pembroke, on that strange ex- 
 pedition which ended in the con(}uest of Ire- 
 land. This gallant man obtained large grants 
 of land in that fertile island — some Mac or some 
 O' vanished, and the House of Vipont rose. 
 
 During the reign of Richard I. the House of 
 Vipont, though recalled to England (leaving its 
 Irish acquisitions in charge of a fierce cadet, 
 who served as middleman), excused itself from 
 tiie Crusade, and, by marriage with a rich gold- 
 smith's daughter, was enabled to lend moneys to 
 those who indulged in that exciting but costlv 
 pilgrimage. In the reign of John the House of 
 Vipont foreclosed its mortgages on lands thus 
 pledged, and became possessed of a very fair 
 property in England, as well as its fiefs in the 
 sister isle. 
 
 The House of Vipont took no part in the 
 troublesome politics of that day. Discreetly 
 obscure, it attended to its own fortunes, and felt 
 small interest in Magna Charta. During the 
 reigns of the Plantagenet Edwards, who were 
 great encouragers of mercantile adventure, the 
 House of Vipont, shunning Creci, Bannockburn, 
 and such profitless brawls, internuxrricd with 
 London traders, and got many a good thing out 
 of the Genoese. In the reign of Ilenry IV. the 
 House of Vipont reaped the benefit of its i)ast 
 forbearance and modesty. Now, for the first 
 time, the Viponts appear as belted knights — 
 they have armorial bearings — they are Lancas- 
 terian to the back-bone — they are exceedingly 
 indignant against heretics — they burn the Lol- 
 lards — they have j)laces in the household of 
 Queen Joan, who was called a witch, but a 
 witch is a very good friend when she wields a 
 sceptre instead of a broomstick. And in i)roof 
 of its growing importance, the House of Vipont 
 marries a daughter of the then mighty House 
 of Darrell. lu the reign of Henry V., during 
 
134 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 the invasion of France, the House of Vipont — 
 being afraid of the dysentery which carried off 
 more brave fellows than the field of Agincourt 
 — contrived to be a minor. The Wars of the 
 Roses puzzled the House of Vipont sadly. But 
 it went through that perilous ordeal with sin- 
 gular tact and success. The manner in which 
 it changed sides, each change safe, and most 
 changes lucrative, is beyond all praise. 
 
 On the whole, it preferred the Yorkists ; it 
 was impossible to be actively Lancasterian, with 
 Henry VI. of Lancaster always in prison. And 
 thus, at the death of Edward IV., the House of 
 Vipont was Baron Vipont of Vi]Jont, with twen- 
 ty manors. Richard IH. counted on the House 
 of Vipont, when he left London to meet Rich- 
 mond at Bosworth — he counted without his host. 
 The House of Vipont became again intensely 
 Lancasterian, and was among the first to crowd 
 round the litter in which Henry VII. entered 
 the metropolis. In that reign it married a re- 
 lation of Empson's — did the great House of Vi- 
 pont ! and as nobles of elder date had become 
 scarce and poor, Henry VII. was pleased to make 
 the House of Vipont an earl — the Earl of JNIont- 
 fort. In the reign of Henry VIII., instead of 
 burning Lollards, the House of Vipont was all 
 for the Reformation — it obtained the lands of 
 two priories and one abbey. Gorged Mith that 
 spoil, the House of Vipont, like an anaconda in 
 the process of digestion, slept long. But no, it 
 slept not. Tliough it kept itself still as a mouse 
 during the reign of bloody Queen Mary (only 
 letting if be known at court that the House of 
 Vipont had strong papal leanings) ; though dur- 
 ing the reigns of Elizabeth and James it made 
 no noise, the House of Vipont was silently in- 
 flating its lungs, and improving its constitution. 
 Slept, indeed ! it was wide awake. Then it was 
 that it began systematically its grand policy of 
 alliances ; then was it sedulously grafting its 
 olive branches on the stems of those fruitful 
 New Houses that had sprung up with the Tu- 
 dors ; then, alive to the spirit of the day, prov- 
 ident of the wants of the mon-ow, over the 
 length and breadth of the land it wove the in- 
 terlacing net-work of useful cousinhood ! Then, 
 too, it began to build palaces, to inclose parks 
 — it traveled, too, a little — did the House of 
 Vipont ! It visited Italy — it conceived a taste ; 
 a very elegant House became the House of Vi- 
 pont ! And in James's reign, for the first time, 
 the House of Vipont got the Garter. The Civil 
 Wars broke out — England was rant. Peer and 
 knight took part with one side or the other. 
 The House of Vipont was again perplexed. 
 Certainly at the commencement it was all for 
 King Charles. But when King Charles took to 
 fighting, the House of Vipont shook its saga- 
 cious head, and went about, like Lord Falkland, 
 sighing "Peace, peace!" Finally it remem- 
 bered its neglected estates in Ireland — its duties 
 called it thither. To Ireland it went, discreet- 
 ly sad, and, marrying a kinswoman of Lord 
 Fauconberg — the only popular and safe connec- 
 tion formed by the Lord Protector's family — it 
 was safe when Cromwell visited L-eland ; and 
 no less safe when Charles II. was restored to 
 England. During the reign of the merry mon- 
 arch the House of Vipont was a courtier, mar- 
 ried a beauty, got the Garter again, and, for the 
 first time, became the fashion. Fashion began I 
 
 to be a Power. In the reign of James II. the 
 House of Vipont again contrived to be a minor, 
 who came of age just in time to take the oaths 
 of fealty to William and Mary. In case of ac- 
 cidents, the House of Vipont kept on friendly 
 terms with the exiled Stuarts, but it wi-ote no 
 letters, and got into no scrapes. It was not, 
 however, till the Government, under Sir R. Wal- 
 pole, established the constitutional and parlia- 
 mentary system which characterizes modern 
 freedom that the puissance accumulated through 
 successive centuries by the House of Vipont be- 
 came pre-eminently visible. By that time its 
 lands were vast, its wealth enormous ; its parlia- 
 mentary influence, as "a Great House," was 
 now a part of the British Constitution. At this 
 period the House of Vipont found it convenient 
 to rend itself into two grand divisions — the 
 peer's branch and the commoner's. The House 
 of Commons had become so important that it 
 was necessary for the House of Vipont to be 
 represented there by a great commoner. Thus 
 arose the family of "Carr Vipont. That division 
 — owing to a marriage settlement favoring a 
 younger son by the heiress of the Carrs — car- 
 ried oif a good slice from the estate of the earl- 
 dom — uno averso, non deficit alter ; tlie earldom 
 mourned, but replaced the loss by two wealthy 
 wedlocks of its own ; and had since seen cause 
 to rejoice that its power in the L'pper Chamber 
 was strengthened by such aid in the Lower. 
 For, thanks to its parliamentary influence, and 
 the aid of the great commoner, in the reign of 
 George HI. the House of Vipont became a Mar- 
 quis. From that time to the present day the 
 House of Vipont had gone on pi-ospering and 
 progressive. It was to the aristocracy what the 
 Times newspaper is to the press. The same quick 
 sympathy with public feeling — the same unity 
 of tone and purpose — the same adaptability — 
 and something of the same lofty tone of superi- 
 ority to the petty interests of party. It may be 
 conceded that the House of Vipont was less brill- 
 iant than the Times newspaper, but eloquence 
 andwit, necessary to the duration of a newspaper, 
 were not necessary to that of the House of Vi- 
 pont. Had they been so, it would have had them ! 
 The Head of the House of Vipont rarely con- 
 descended to take oSice. With a rent-roll loose- 
 ly estimated at about £170,000 a year, it is be- 
 neath a man to take from the public a paltry five 
 or six thousand a year, and undergo all the un- 
 dignified abuse of popular assemblies, and "a 
 ribald press." But it was a matter of course 
 that the House of Vipont should be represented 
 in any cabinet that a constitutional monarch 
 could be advised to form. Since the time of 
 Walpole, a Vipont was always in the service of 
 his country, except in those rare instances when 
 the country was infamously misgoverned. The 
 cadets of the House, or the senior member of 
 the great commoner's branch of it, sacrificed 
 their ease to fulfill that duty. The Montfort 
 marquises in general were contented with situ- 
 ations of honor in the household, as of Lord 
 Steward, Lord Chamberlain, or Master of the 
 Horse, etc. — not onerous dignities ; and even 
 these they only deigned to accept on those es- 
 pecial occasions when danger threatened the 
 Star of Brunswick, and the sense of its exalted 
 station forbade the House of Vipont to leave its 
 country in the dark. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 135 
 
 Great Houses like that of Yipont assist the 
 work of civilization by the law of their exist- 
 ence. Tiicv arc sure to liave a spirited and 
 wealthy tenantry, to whom, if but for the sake 
 of that popular character which doubles politic- 
 al influence, they are liberal and kindly land- 
 lords. Under their sway fens and sands become 
 fertile — agricultural experiments arc tested on 
 a larijc scale — cattle and sheep improve in breed 
 — national cajjital augmeuts, and, sjiringing be- 
 neath the plowshare, circulates indirectly to 
 speed the ship and animate the loom. Had 
 there been no Woburn, no Holkham, no Mont- 
 fort Court, England would be the poorer by 
 manv a million. Our great Houses tend also 
 to the relinement of national taste ; they have 
 their show-i)laces, their picture-galleries, their 
 beautiful grounds. The humblest drawing-rooms 
 owe an elegance or comfort — the smallest gar- 
 den, a Hower or esculent — to the importations 
 which luxury bon-owed from abroad, or the in- 
 ventions it stimulated at home, for the original 
 benefit of great Houses. Having a fair share 
 of such merits, in common with other great 
 Houses, the House of Yipont was not without 
 good qualities peculiar to itself. Precisely be- 
 cause it was the most egotistical of Houses, fill- 
 ed with the sense of its own identity, and guided 
 by the instincts of its own conservation, it was 
 a very civil, good-natured House — courteous, 
 generous, hospitable ; a House (I mean the Head 
 of it — not, of course, all its subordinate mem- 
 bers, including even the august Lady Selina) 
 tliat could bow graciously, and shake liands with 
 you. Even if you had no vote yourself, you 
 might have a cousin who had a vote. And once 
 admitted into the family, the House adojjtcd 
 you ; you liad only to marry one of its remotest 
 relations, and the House sent you a wedding 
 present ; and at every general election invited 
 you to rally round your connection — the JNIar- 
 quis. Therefore, next only to the Established 
 Church, the House of Yipont was that British 
 institution the roots of which v/ere the most 
 widely spread. 
 
 Now the Yiponts had for long generations 
 been an energetic race. Whatever their de- 
 fects, they had exhibited shrewdness and vigor. 
 The late ^larquis (grandfather to the present) 
 had been, perhaps, the ablest (that is, done most 
 for the House of Yipont) of them all. Of a 
 grandiose and superb mode of living — of a ma- 
 jestic deportment — of princely manners — of a 
 remarkable talent for the management of all 
 business, whether private or jjublic — a perfect 
 enthusiast for the House of Yipont, and aided 
 by a marchioness in all respects wortliy of him, 
 he might be said to be the culminating flower 
 of the venerable stem. But the present lord, 
 succeeding to the title as a mere child, was a 
 melancholy contrast, not only to his grandsire, 
 but to the general character of his progenitors. 
 Before his time every head of the House had 
 done something for it — even the most frivolous 
 had contributed ; one had collected the pictures, 
 another the statues, a third the medals, a fourth 
 had amassed the famous Yipont library; while 
 others had at least married heiresses, or aug- 
 mented, through ducal lines, the splendor of the 
 interminable cousinhood. The present marquis 
 was literally nil. The pith of the Yiponts was 
 not in him. He looked well, he dressed well ; 
 
 if life were only the dumb show of a tableau, he 
 would have been a paragon of a Marquis. But 
 he was like the watches we give to little chil- 
 dren, with a pretty gilt dial-plate, and no works 
 in them. He was thoroughly inert — there was 
 no winding him u]j ; he could not manage his 
 property — he could not answer his letters — very 
 few of them could he even read through. Pol- 
 itics did not interest him, nor literature, nor 
 ficld-sj)orts. He shot, it is true, but mechanic- 
 ally — wondering, perhaps, why he did shoot. He 
 attended races, because the House of Yijjont kept 
 a racing stud. He bet on his own horses, but if 
 they lost showed no vexation. Admirers (no 
 Marquis of Jlontfort could be wholly without 
 them) said, ''What fine temjicr! wluit good- 
 breeding !"' it was nothing but constitutional 
 apathy. No one could call hiui a bad man — 
 he was not a profligate, an ojipressor, a miser, a 
 spendthrift ; he would not have taken the trou- 
 ble to be a bad man on any account. Those 
 who beheld his character at a distance would 
 have called him an exemplan- man. The more 
 conspicuous duties of his station, subscriptions, 
 charities, the maintenance of grand establish- 
 ments, the encouragement of the fine arts, were 
 virtues admirably performed for him by others. 
 But the phlegm or nullity of his being was not, 
 after all, so complete as I have made it, perhaps, 
 aj)pear. He had one susceptibility which is 
 more common with women than with men — the 
 suscejjtibility to pique. His amour projire was 
 unforgiving — pique that, and he could do a rash 
 thing, a foolish thing, a spiteful thing — pique 
 that, and, prodigious! the watch went ! He had 
 a rooted pique against his marchioness. Apjjar- 
 ently he had conceived this pique from the very 
 first. He showed it passively by supreme ne- 
 glect ; he showed it actively by removing her 
 from all the spheres of power which naturally 
 fall to the wife when the husband shuns the de- 
 tails of business. Evidently he had a dread lest 
 any one should say, '"Lady Montfort influences 
 my lord." Accordingly, not only the manage- 
 ment of his estates fell to Carr Yipont, but even 
 of his gardens, his household, his domestic ar- 
 rangements. It was Carr Yipont or Lady Se- 
 lina who said to Lady ilontfort, " Give a ball ;" 
 " You should ask so and so to dinner." " Mont- 
 fort was much hurt to see the old lawn at the 
 Tmckenham Yilla broken up by those new bos- 
 quets. True, it is settled on you as a jointure 
 house, but for that verj' reason iloutfort is sens- 
 itive," etc., etc. In fact, they were virtually as 
 separated, my lord and my lady, as if legally 
 disunited, and as if Carr Yipont and Lady Se- 
 lina were trustees or intenm;diaries in any po- 
 lite approach to each other. But, on the other 
 hand, it is fair to say that where Lady IMout- 
 fort"s s])here of action did not interfere with her 
 husband's plans, habits, likings, dislikings, jeal- 
 ous ajjprehcnsions, that she should be supposed 
 to have any ascendency over what exclusively 
 belonged to himself as Rot faineant of the Vi- 
 pont's, she was left free as air. No attempt at 
 masculine control or conjugal advice. At her 
 disposal was wealth without stint — every luxury 
 the soft could desire — every gewgaw the vain 
 could covet. Had her pin-money, which was in 
 itself the revenue of an ordinary peeress, failed 
 to satisfy her wants — had she grown tired of 
 wearing the family diamonds and coveted new 
 
13G 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 gems from Golconda — a single word to Carr Vi- 
 pont or Lady 8elina would have been answered 
 by a carte blanche on the Bank of England. But 
 Lady Montfort had the misfortune not to be ex- 
 travagant in her tastes. Strange to say, in the 
 world Lord Montfort's marriage was called a 
 love match ; ho had married a portionless girl, 
 daughter to one of his poorest and obscurest 
 cousins, against the uniform j)olicy of the House 
 of Vipont, which did all it could for poor cous- 
 ins except marrying them to its chief. But Lady 
 Jlontfon's conduct in these trying circumstances 
 was admirable and rare. Few affronts can hu- 
 miliate us unless we resent them — and in vain. 
 Lady Montfort had that exquisite dignity wliich 
 gives to submission the grace of cheerful acqui- 
 escence. That in the gay world flatterers should 
 gather round a young wife so eminently beauti- 
 ful, and so wholly left by her husband to her 
 own guidance, was inevitable. But at the very 
 first insinuated compliment or pathetic condo- 
 lence, Lady Montfort, so meek in her house- 
 hold, was haughty enough to have daunted Love- 
 lace. She was thus very early felt to be beyond 
 temptation, and the boldest passed on norpre- 
 sumed to tempt. She was unpopular; called 
 "proud and freezing;" she did not extend the 
 influence of The House ; she did not confirm its 
 fashion — fashion which necessitates social ease, 
 and which no rank, no wealth, no virtue can of 
 themselves suffice to give. And this failure on 
 her part was a great oflTense in the eyes of the 
 House of Vipont. " She does absolutely nothing 
 for us," said Lady Selina; but Lady Selina in 
 her heart was well pleased that to her in reality 
 thus fell, almost without a rival, the female rep- 
 resentation, in the great world, of the Vipont 
 honors. Lady Selina was fiishion itself. 
 
 Lady Montfort's social peculiarity was in the 
 eagerness with which she sought the society of 
 persons wlio enjoyed a reputation for superior 
 intellect, whether statesmen, lawyers, authors, 
 philosophers, artists. Intellectual intercourse 
 seemed as if it was her native atmosphere, from 
 which she was habitually banished, to which she 
 returned with an instinctive 3-earning and a new 
 zest of life ; yet was she called, even here, nor 
 seemingly without justice — capricious and un- 
 steady in her likings. These clever personages, 
 after a little while, all seemed to disappoint her 
 expectations of them ; she sought the acquaint- 
 ance of each with cordial earnestness ; slid from 
 the acquaintance with weary languor; never, 
 after all, less a'one than wbcn alone. 
 
 And so wondrous lovely ! Notiiing so rare as 
 beauty of the high type ; genius and beaut}', in- 
 deed, are both rare ; genius, which is the beauty 
 of the mind— beauty, which is the genius of the 
 body. But, of the two, beauty is the rarer. All 
 of us can count on our fingers some forty or 
 fifty persons of undoubted and illustrious genius, 
 including those famous in action, letters, art. 
 But can any of us remember to have seen more 
 than four or five specimens of first-rate ideal 
 beauty ? Whosoever had seen Lady Montfort 
 would have ranked her among such four or five 
 in his recollection. There was in her face that 
 lustrous dazzle to which the Latin poet, jier- 
 haps, refers when he speaks of the 
 
 " Nitor 
 Splendentis Pario niarmoie purius . . . 
 Et voltus, nimium lubricus adspici," 
 
 and which an English poet, with the less sensu- 
 ous but more spiritual imagination of northern 
 genius, has described in lines that an English 
 reader may be pleased to see rescued from 
 oblivion : 
 
 '•Her face was like the milky way i' the sky, 
 A iiieetliig of gentle lights without a name." • 
 
 The eyes so ])urely bright, the exquisite har- 
 mony of coloring between the dark (not too dark) 
 hair, and the ivory of the skin; such sweet 
 radiance in the lip when it broke into a smile. 
 And it was said that in her maiden day, before 
 Caroline Lyndsay became Marchioness of Mont- 
 fort, that smile was the most joyous thing im- 
 aginable. Absurd now; you would not think 
 it, but that stately lady had been a wild, fanci- 
 ful girl, with the merriest laugli and the quick- 
 est tear, filling the air round her witli April sun- 
 shine. Certainly, no beings ever yet lived the 
 life Nature intended them to live, nor had fair 
 play for heart and mind, who contrived, by hook 
 or by crook — to marry the wrong person ! 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The interior of the Great House. The British Constitu- 
 tion at home in a Family Party. 
 
 Great was the family gathering that Christ- 
 mas tide at Montfort Court. Thither flocked 
 the cousins of the House in all degrees and of 
 various ranks. From dukes who had nothing 
 left to M'ish for that kings and cousinhoods can 
 give, to briefless barristers and aspiring cornets, 
 of equally good blood with the dukes — the superb 
 family united its motley scions. Such re'unions 
 were frequent, they belonged to the hereditary 
 policy of the House of Vipont. On this occa- 
 sion the muster of the clan was more significant 
 than usual; there was a "crisis" in the con- 
 stitutional history of the British empire. A new 
 Government had been suddenly formed within 
 the last six weeks, which certainly ])ortended 
 some direful blow on our ancient institutions, 
 for the House of Vipont had not been consulted 
 in its arrangements, and was wholly unrepre- 
 sented in the Ministry, even by a lordship of 
 the Treasury. Carr Vipont had therefore sum- 
 moned the patriotic and resentfid kindred. 
 
 It is an hour or so after the conclusion of din- 
 ner. The gentlemen have joined the ladies in 
 the state suite — a suite which the last Marquis 
 had rearranged and redecorated in his old age 
 — during the long illness that finally conducted 
 him to his ancestors. During his earlier years 
 that princely iMarquis had deserted Montfort 
 Court for a seat nearer to London, and there- 
 fore much more easily filled with that brilliant 
 society of which he had been long the ornament 
 and centre. Railways not then existing for the 
 annihilation of time and space, and a journey 
 to a northern county four days with post-horses, 
 making the invitations even of a Marquis of 
 Montfort unalluring to languid beauties and 
 gouty ministers. But nearing the end of his 
 worldly career, this long neglect of the dwelling 
 identified with his hereditary titles smote the 
 conscience of the illustrious sinner. And other 
 occupations beginning to pall, his lordship, ac- 
 companied and cheered by a chajdain, who had 
 a fine taste in the decorative arts, came resolute- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 137 
 
 ly to Montfort Court ; and there, surrounded 
 with architects, and gilders, and upholsterers, 
 redeemed his errors ; and soothed by the reflec- 
 tion of the palace provided for his successor, 
 added to his vaults — a coftin. 
 
 The suite expands before the eve. You arc 
 in the jrrand drawing-room, copied from that 
 of Versailles. That is the jiicture, full length, 
 of the late Marquis in his robes ; its pendent is 
 the late Marchioness, his wife. 'J'hat table of 
 malachite is a present from the Russian Em- 
 peror Alexander ; that vase of Sevre which rests 
 on it was made for ilarie Antoinette — see her 
 portrait enameled in its centre. Through the 
 open door at the far end your eye loses itself in 
 a vista of other pompous chambers — the music- 
 room, the statue hall, the orangery ; other rooms 
 there are appertaining to the suite — a ball-room 
 fit for Babylon, a library that might have adorn- 
 ed Alexandria — but they are not lighted, nor re- 
 quired, on this occasion ; it is strictly a family 
 party, sixty guests and no more. 
 
 In the drawing-room three whist-tables carry 
 oflf the more elderly and grave. The piano, in 
 the music-room, attracts a youtiger grouj). Lady 
 Selina Vipont's eldest daughter Ilonoria, a young 
 lady not yet brought out, but about to be brought 
 out the next season, is threading a wonderfully 
 intricate German piece — 
 
 " Linked music long drawn out,' 
 with variations. Iler science is consummate. 
 No pains have been spared on her education ; 
 elaborately accomplished, she is formed to be 
 the sympathizing spouse of a wealthy statesman. 
 ■ Lady Montfort is seated by an elderly duchess, 
 who is good-natured, and a great talker; near 
 her are seated two middle-aged gentlemen, who 
 had been conversing with her till the duchess, 
 having cut in, turned dialogue into monologue. 
 The elder of these two gentlemen is iNIr. Carr 
 Vipont, bald, with clipped parliamentary whis- 
 kers ; values himself on a likeness to Canning, 
 but with a portlier presence — looks a large-acred 
 man. Carr Vipont has about £-10,000 a year ; 
 has often refused office for himself, while tak- 
 ing care that other Viponts should have it ; is a 
 great authority iit Committee business and the 
 rules of the House of Commons ; speaks very 
 seldom, and at no great length, never arguing, 
 merely stating his opinion, carries great weight 
 with him, and as he votes, vote fifteen other 
 members of the House of Vipont, besides ad- 
 miring satellites. lie can therefore turn divi- 
 sions, and has decided the fate of cabinets. A 
 pleasant man, a little consequential, but the re- 
 verse of haughty — unctuously overbearing. The 
 other gentleman, to whom he is listening, is our 
 old acquaintance Colonel Alban Vipont Morlev 
 — DaiTcll's friend — George's uncle — a man of 
 importance, not inferior, indeed, to that of his 
 kinsman Carr; an authority in club-rooms, an 
 oracle in drawing-rooms, a first-rate man of the 
 beau nioiide. Alban Morlev, a younger brother, 
 had entered the Guards young; retired, young 
 also, from the Guards with the rank of colonel, 
 and on receipt of a legacy from an old aunt, 
 which, with the interest derived from the sum 
 at which he sold his commission, allowed him a 
 clear income of £KMX) a year. This modest in- 
 come sufficed for all his wants, fine gentleman 
 though he was. lie had refused to go into Par- 
 liament — refused a high place in a public de- 
 
 ! partment. Single himself, he showed his rc- 
 j spect for wedlock by the interest he took in the 
 marriages of other iieoj)le — ^just as Earl War- 
 wick, too wise to set up for a king, gratified his 
 passion for royalty by becoming the king-maker. 
 The colonel was exceedingly accomplished, a 
 very fair scholar, knew most modern languages. 
 In painting an amateur, in music a connoisseur; 
 witty at times, and with wit of a high quality, 
 but thrifty in the exjienditure of it; too wise to 
 be known as a wit. :Manly too, a daring rider, 
 who had won many a fox's brush, a famous 
 deer-stalker, and one of the few English gentle- 
 men who still keep up the noble art of fencing — 
 twice a week to be seen, foil in hand, against all 
 comers in Angelo's rooms. Thin, well-thaped 
 — not handsome, my dear young lady, far from 
 it, but with an air so thoroughbred, that, had 
 you seen him in the day when the ojiera-liousc 
 had a crush-room and a fops' alley — seen him 
 in either of those resorts, surrounded by elabo- 
 rate dandies, and showy beauty-men— ^dandies 
 and beauty-men would have seemed to you sec- 
 ond-rate and vulgar; and the eye, fascinated by 
 that quiet form — j)lain in manner, plain in dress, 
 jjlain in feature — you would have said, "How 
 very distinguished it is to be so plain !" Know- 
 ing the great world from the core to the cuticle, 
 and on that knowledge basing authority and 
 position, Colonel Morlev was not calculating — 
 not cunning — not suspicious. His sagacity the 
 more quick because its movements were straight- 
 forward. Intimate with the greatest, but sought, 
 not seeking. Not a flatterer nor a parasite. 
 But when his advice was asked (even if advice 
 necessitated reproof), giving it with military 
 candor. In fine, a man of such social reputa- 
 tion as rendered him an ornament and prop to 
 the House of Vipont ; and with unsuspected 
 depths of intelligence and feeling which lay in 
 the lower strata of his knowledge of this world, 
 to witness of some other one, and justified Dar- 
 rell in commending a boy like Lionel llaughton 
 to the Colonel's friendly care and admonitory 
 counsels. The Colonel, like other men, had his 
 weakness, if weakness it can be called; he be- 
 lieved that the House of Vipont was not merely 
 the Corinthian capital, but the embattled keep 
 — not merely the du/ce decus, but the presidium 
 columcnque rerum of the British monarchy. He 
 did not boast of his connection with the House; 
 he did not provoke your spleen by enlarging on 
 its manifold virtues ; he would often have his 
 harmless jest against its members or even against 
 its pretensions, but such seeming evidences of 
 forbearance or candor were cimning devices to 
 mitigate envy. His devotion to the House was 
 not obtrusive, it was profound. He loved the 
 House of Vipont for the sake of England, he 
 loved England for the sake of the House of Vi- 
 pont. Had it been possible, by some tremen- 
 dous reversal of the ordinarj- laws of nature, to 
 dissociate the cause of England from the cause 
 of the House of Vipont, the Colonel would have 
 said, " Save at least the Ark of the Constitution! 
 and rally round the old House I" • 
 
 The Colonel had none of Guy Darrell's in- 
 firmity of family pride ; he cared not a rush for 
 mere pedigrees — much too liberal and enlight- 
 ened for such (Obsolete prejudices. No! He 
 knew the world too well not to be quite aware 
 that old family and long pedigrees are of no use 
 
138 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 to a man if he has not some money or some 
 merit. But it was of use to a man to be a cousin 
 of the House of Vipont, though without any 
 money, without any merit at all. It was of use 
 to be part and parcel of a British institution ; it 
 was of use to have a legitimate indefeasible right 
 to share in the administration and patronage of 
 an empire, on which (to use a novel illustration) 
 "the sun never sets." You might want nothing 
 for yourself — the Colonel and the Marquis equal- 
 ly wanted nothing for themselves ; but man is 
 not to be a selfish egotist ! Man has cousins — 
 his cousins may want something. • Demosthenes 
 denounces, in words that inflame every manly 
 breast, the ancient Greek who does not love his 
 PoLis or State, even though he take nothing 
 from it but barren honor, and contribute toward 
 it — a gi-eat many disagreeable taxes. As the 
 PoLis to the Greek, was the House of Vipont to 
 Alban Vipont Morley. It was the most beauti- 
 ful touching affection imaginable ! Whenever 
 the House was in difliculties — whenever it was 
 threatened by a crisis — the Colonel was by its 
 side, sparing no pains, neglecting no means, to 
 get the Ark of the Constitution back into smooth 
 water. That duty done, he retired again into 
 private life, and scorned all other reward than 
 the still whisper of applauding conscience. 
 
 "Yes," said Alban Morley, whose voice, 
 though low and subdued in tone, was extremelv 
 distinct, with a perfect enunciation, " Yes, it 
 is quite true, my nephew has taken orders — his 
 defect in speech, if not quite removed, has ceased 
 to be any obstacle, even to eloquence ; an occa- 
 sional stammer may be effective — it increases 
 interest, and when the right word comes, there 
 is the charm of surprise in it. I do not doubt 
 that George will be a very distinguished clergy- 
 man." 
 
 Mr. Carr Vipoxt. "We want one — the 
 House wants a very distinguished clergyman ; 
 we have none at this moment — not a bishop — 
 not even a dean ; all mere parish parsons, and 
 among them not one we could push. Very odd, 
 with more than forty livings too. But the Vi- 
 ponts seldom take to the Church kindly — George 
 must be pushed. The more I think of it, the 
 more we want a bishop : a bishop would be use- 
 ful in the present crisis. (Looking round the 
 rooms proudly, and softening his voice.)" A nu- 
 merous gathering, Morley ! This demonstration 
 will strike teiTor in Downing Street — eh ! The 
 old House stands firm — never Avas a family so 
 united; all here, I think — that is, all worth 
 naming — all, except Sir James, whom Montfort 
 chooses to dislike, and George — and George 
 comes to-moiTow." 
 
 Colonel Morley. "You forget the most 
 eminent of all our connections — the one who 
 could indeed strike terror into Downing Street, 
 were his voice to be heard again !" 
 
 Carr Vipont. " Whom do j-ou mean ? Ah, 
 I know ! — Guy Darrell. His wife v>as a Vipont 
 — and he is not here. But he has long since 
 ceased to communicate with any of us — the 
 only connection that ever fell away from the 
 house of Vipont — especially in a crisis like the 
 present. Singular man ! For all the use he is 
 to us he might as well be dead ! But he has a 
 fine fortune — what will he do with it ?" 
 
 The Duchess. "IV^- dear lady Montfort, 
 you have hurt yourself with that paper-cutter." 
 
 Lady Montfort. "No, indeed. Hush! we 
 are disturbing Mr. Carr Vipont." 
 
 The Duchess, in awe of Carr Vipont, sinks 
 her voice, and gabbles on — whisperously. 
 
 Care Vipont (resuming the subject). "A 
 very fine fortune — what will he do with it ?" 
 
 Colonel Morley. " I don't know, but I had 
 a letter from him some months ago." 
 
 Care Vipont. "You had — and never told 
 me!" 
 
 Colonel Morley. "Of no importance to 
 you, my dear Carr. His letter merely intro- 
 duced to me a channing young fellow — a kins- 
 man of his own (no Vipont) — Lionel Haughton, 
 son of poor Charlie Haughton, whom you may 
 remember." 
 
 Carr Vipont. "Yes, a handsome scamp — 
 went to the dogs. So Darrell takes up Charlie's 
 son — what! as his heir?" 
 
 Colonel Morley. "In his letter to me he 
 anticipated that question in the negative." 
 
 Carr Vipont. " Has Darrell any nearer 
 kinsmen ?" 
 
 Colonel Morley. "Not that I know of." 
 
 Carr Vipont. " Perhaps he will select one 
 of his wife's family for his heir — a Vipont; I 
 should not wonder." 
 
 Colonel Morley (drvly). "I should. But 
 why may not Darrell marry again? I always 
 thought he would — I think so still." 
 
 Carr Vipont (glancing toward his own 
 daughter Honoria). " Well, a wife well-chosen 
 might restore him to society, and to us. Pity, 
 indeed, that so great an intellect should be sus- 
 pended — a voice so eloquent hushed. You are 
 right ; in this crisis, Guy DaiTell once more in 
 the House of Commons, we should have all we 
 require — an orator, a debater! Very odd, but 
 at this moment we have no speakers — we, the 
 Viponts !" 
 
 Colonel Morley. "Yourself?" 
 
 Carr Vipont. "You are too kind. I can 
 speak on occasions ; but regularly, no. Too 
 much drudgery — not young enough to take to it 
 now. So you think Darrell will marry again? 
 A remarkably fine-looking fellow when 1 last 
 saw him : not old yet ; I dare say, well-pre- 
 sen-ed. I wish I had thought of asking him 
 here — Montfort !" (Lord ^lontfort, with one or 
 two male fi-iends, was passing by toward a bill- 
 iai'd-room, opening through a side-door from 
 the regular suite)— " Momfort ! only think, we 
 forgot to im4te Guy Darrell. Is it too late be- 
 fore our party breaks up ?" 
 
 Lord Montfort (sullenly). " I don't choose 
 Guy Darrell to be invited to my house." 
 
 Carr Vipont was literally stunned by a reply 
 so contumacious. Lord Montfort demur at 
 what Carr Vipont suggested ! He could not be- 
 lieve his senses. 
 
 ' • Not choose, my dear Montfort ! yon are jok- 
 ing. A monstrous clever fellow, Guy Darrell, 
 and at this crisis — " 
 
 " I hate clever fellows — no such bores !" said 
 Lord Montfort, breaking from the caressing 
 clas]) of Carr Vipont, and stalking away. 
 
 "Spare your regrets, my. dear Can-," said 
 Colonel ^lorley. ■•Darrell is not in England 
 — I rather believe he is in Verona." Therewith 
 the Colonel sauntered toward the group gathered 
 round the piano. A little time afterward Lady 
 Montfort escaped from the Duchess, and, min- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 139 
 
 gling courteously with her livcher guests, found 
 herself close to Colonel Morley. "Will you 
 give me my revenge at chess?" slie asked, with 
 Ler rare smile. The Colonel was charmed. 
 As they sat down and ranged their men, Lady 
 Montfort remarked, carelessly — 
 
 " I overheard you say you had lately received 
 a letter from Mr. Darrell. Does he write as if 
 well — cheerful ? You remember that I was 
 much with his daughter, mucli in his house, 
 when I was a child. He was ever most kind to 
 me." Lady Montfort's voice here faltered. 
 
 "He writes with no reference to himself, his 
 health or his spirits. But his young kinsman 
 described him to me as in good health — won- 
 derfully young-looking for his years. But 
 cheerful — no ! Darrell and I entered the world 
 together ; we were friends as much as a man so 
 busy and so eminent as he could be friends with 
 a man like myself — indolent by habit, and ob- 
 scure out of ^layfair. I know his nature ; we 
 botli know something of his family sorrows. lie 
 can not be happy! Impossible! — alone — child- 
 less — secluded. Poor Darrell, abroad now ; in 
 Verona, too ! — the dullest i)lace ! in mourning 
 still foi- Ivomeo and Juliet! — 'Tis your turn to 
 move. In his letter Darrell talked of going on 
 to Greece, Asia — jienetrating into the depths of 
 Africa — the wildest schemes ! Dear County 
 Guy, as we called him at Eton ! — what a career 
 his might have been I Don't let us talk of him, 
 it makes me mournful. Like Goethe, I avoid 
 painful subjects upon princiiile." 
 
 Lady Moktfokt. "No — we will not talk of 
 him. No — I take the Queen's pawn. Ko, we 
 will not talk of him! — no!" 
 
 The game proceeded ; the Colonel was with- 
 in three moves of checkmating his adversary. 
 Forgetting the resolution come to, he said, as 
 she paused, and seemed despondently medita- 
 ting a hopeless defense — 
 
 " Pray, my fiiir cousin, what makes Montfort 
 dislike my old friend Darrell ?" 
 
 "Dislike! Does he? I don't know. Van- 
 quished again. Colonel Morley!" She rose; 
 and, as he restored the chessmen to their box, 
 she leaned thoughtfully over the table. 
 
 " This young kinsman — will he not be a com- 
 fort to Mi-. Darrell?" 
 
 " He would be a comfort and a pride to a fa- 
 ther; but to Darrell, so distant a kinsman — 
 comfort I — why and how ? Darrell \\-ill provide 
 for him, that is all. A very gentlemanlike 
 young man — gone to Paris by my advice — wants 
 polish and knowledge of life. When he comes 
 back he must enter society ; 1 have put his name 
 up at Wiiite's ; irtay I introduce him to you?" 
 
 Lady Montfort hesitated, and, after a pause, 
 said, almost rudely, "No." 
 
 She left the Colonel, slightly shrugging his 
 shoulders, and passed into the billiard-room 
 with a quick step. Some ladies were already 
 there, looking at the players. Lord Montfort 
 was chalking his cue. Lady Montfort walked 
 straight up to him ; her color was heightened ; 
 her lip was quivering ; she placed her hand on 
 his shoulder with a wifelikc boldness. It seemed 
 as if she had come there to seek him from an 
 impulse of atiection. She asked with a hurried 
 fluttering kindness of voice, "If he had been 
 successful?" and called him by his Christian 
 name. Lord Montfort's countenance, before 
 
 merely apathetic, now assumed an expression 
 of extreme distaste. " Come to teach me to 
 make a cannon, I suppose!" he said, UKitter- 
 ingly, and turning from her, contemplated the 
 balls and missed the cannon. 
 
 "Bather in my way. Lady Montfort," said he 
 then, and retiring to a corner, said no more. 
 
 Lady Montfort's countenance became still 
 more flushed. She lingered a moment, re- 
 turned to the drawing-room, and for the rest of 
 the evening was uncommonly animated, gra- 
 cious, fascinating. As she retired with her ladj 
 guests for the night, she looked roimd, saw ( "ol- 
 onel Morley, and held out her hand to him. 
 "Your nephew comes here to-morrow," said 
 slie, "my old playfellow; inqiossible quite to 
 forget old friends — good-night," 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Lcs extremes sc tou client." 
 
 The next day the gentlemen were dispersed 
 out of doors — a large shooting party. Those 
 who did not shoot, walked forth to insjiect the 
 racing stud or the model farm. The ladies had 
 taken their walk ; some were in their own rooms, 
 some in the reception rooms, at work, or read- 
 ing, or listening to the piano — Honoria Carr Vi- 
 pont again performing. Lady Montfort was ab- 
 sent; Lady Selina kindly sup]ilicd the hostess's 
 place. Lady Selina was embroidering, with great 
 skill and taste, a pair of slippers for her eldest 
 bo)', who was just entered at Oxford, having left 
 Eton with a re]nitation of being the neatest dress- 
 er, and not the worst cricketer, of that renown- 
 ed educational institute. It is a mistake to sup- 
 pose that fine ladies are not sometimes very fond 
 mothers and affectionate wives. Lady Selina, 
 beyond her family circle, was trivial, nnsympa- 
 thizing, cold-hearted, supercilious by tem])era- 
 ment, never kind but through policy, artificial 
 as clock-work. But in her own home, to her 
 husband, her children. Lady Selina was a very 
 good sort of woman. Devotedly attached to Can* 
 Vipont, exaggerating his talents, thinking him 
 the first man in England, careful of his honor, 
 zealous for his interests, soothing in his cares, 
 tender in his ailments. To lier girls prudent 
 and watchful — to her boys indulgent and caress- 
 ing. INIinutely attentive to the education of the 
 first, aecording to her high-bred ideas of educa- 
 tion — and they really were " superior" girls, with 
 much instruction and w ell-balanced minds. Less 
 authoritative with the last, because boys being 
 not under her immediate control, her sense of 
 responsibility allowed her to display more fond- 
 ness and less dignity in her intercourse with 
 them than with young ladies who must learn 
 from her example, as well as her precepts, the 
 patrician decorum which becomes the smooth 
 result of impulse restrained and emotion check- 
 ed. Boys might make a noise in the world, girls 
 should make none. Lady Selina, then, was work- 
 ing the slippers for her absent son, her heart be- 
 ing full of him at that moment. She was de- 
 scribing his character, and expatiating on his 
 promise to two or three attentive listeners, all 
 interested, as being themselves of the Vipont 
 brood, in the probable destiny of the heir to the 
 Carr Viponts. 
 
140 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 " In short," said Lady Selina, winding up, " as 
 soon as Reginald is of age we sliall get him into 
 Parliament. Carr has always lamented that he 
 himself was not broken into office early ; Regi- 
 nald must be. Nothing so requisite for public 
 men as early training — makes them practical, 
 and not too sensitive to what those hoiTid news- 
 paper men say. That was Pitt's great advant- 
 age. Reginald has ambition ; he should have 
 occupation to keep him out of mischief. It is 
 an anxious thing for a mother, when a son is 
 good-looking — such danger of his being spoiled 
 by the women — yes. my dear, it is a small foot, 
 very small — his father's foot." 
 
 "If Lord Montfort should have no family," 
 said a somewhat distant and subaltern Yipont, 
 ■whisjieringly and hesitating, " does not the ti- 
 tle—" 
 
 "No, my dear," interrupted Lady Selina; 
 " no, the title does not come to us. It is a mel- 
 ancholy thought, but the marquisate, in that 
 case, is extinct. Xo other heir-male from Gil- 
 bert, the first Marquis. Carr says there is even 
 likely to be some dispute about the earldom. 
 The Barony, of course, is safe ; goes with the 
 Irish estates, and most of the English — and goes 
 (don't you know?) — to Sir James Yipont, the 
 last person who ought to have it ; the quietest, 
 stupidest creature ; not brought up to the sort 
 of thing — a mere gentleman farmer on a small 
 estate in Devonshire." 
 
 "He is not here?" 
 
 "No. Lord Montfort does not like him. 
 Very natural. Nobody does like his heir, if not 
 his own child, and some people don't even like 
 their own eldest sons ! Shocking ; but so it is. 
 Montfort is the kindest, most tractable being 
 that ever was, except where he takes a dislike. 
 He dislikes two or three people very much." 
 
 "True; how he did dislike poor Mrs. Lynd- 
 say !" said one of the listeners, smiling. 
 
 "Mrs. Lyndsay, yes — dear Lady Montfort's 
 mother. I can't say I pitied her, though I was 
 sorry for Lady Montfort. How Mrs. Lyndsay 
 ever took in Montfort for Caroline I can't con- 
 ceive I How she had the face to think of it ! 
 He, a mere youth at the time ! Kept secret 
 from all his family — even from his grandmother 
 — the darkest transaction. I don't wonder that 
 he never forgave it." 
 
 First Listener. " Caroline has beauty enough 
 to—" 
 
 Lady Selina (interrupting). " Beauty, of 
 course — no one can deny that. But not at all 
 suited to such a position ; not brought up to the 
 sort of thing. Poor Montfort I he should have 
 married a different kind of woman altogether — 
 a woman like his grandmother, the last Lady 
 Montfort. Caroline does nothing for the House 
 —^nothing — has not even a child — most unfor- 
 tunate affair." 
 
 Second Listener. " Mrs. Lyndsay was very 
 poor, was not she ? Caroline, I suppose, had no 
 opportunity of forming those tastes and habits 
 which are necessaiy for — for — " 
 
 Lady Selina (helping the listener). "For 
 such a position and such a fortune. You are 
 quite right, my dear. People brought up in one 
 way can not accommodate themselves to anoth- 
 er; and it is odd, but I have observed that peo- 
 ple brought up poor can accommodate them- 
 selves less to being very rich than people brought 
 
 up rich to accommodate themselves to being 
 very poor. As Carr says, in his pointed way, 
 'it is easier to stoop than to climb.' Yes ; Mrs. 
 Lyndsay was, you know, a daughter of Seymour 
 Yipont, who was for so many years in the Ad- 
 ministration, with a fair income from his salary, 
 and nothing out of it. She mairied one of the 
 Scotch Lyndsays — good family, of course — with 
 a very moderate property. She was left a wid- 
 ow young, with an only child, Caroline. Came 
 to town, with a small jointure. The late Lady 
 IMontfort was ver}^ kind to her. So were we all 
 — took her up — pretty woman — pretty manners 
 — worldly — oh, very ! I don't like worldly peo- 
 ple. Well, but all of a sudden, a dreadful thing 
 happened. The heir-at-law disputed tlie joint- 
 ure, denied that Lyndsay had any right to make 
 settlements on the Scotch property — very com- 
 plicated business. But, luckily for her, Yi- 
 pont Crooke's daughter, her cousin and inti- 
 mate friend, had married Dan-ell — the famous 
 Darrell — who was then at the bar. It is very 
 useful to have cousins maiTied to clever people. 
 He was interested in her case, took it up. I be- 
 lieve it did not come on in the courts in which 
 Darrell practiced. But he arranged all the ev- 
 idence, inspected the briefs, spent a great deal 
 of his own money in getting up the case — and, 
 in fact, he gained her cause, though he could 
 not be her counsel. People did say that she 
 was so grateful that after his wife's death she 
 had set her heart on becoming ^Irs. Darrell the 
 second. But Darrell was then quite wrapped up 
 in politics — the last man to fall in love — and 
 only looked bored when women fell in love with 
 him, which a good many did. Grand-looking 
 creature, my dear, and quite the rage for a year 
 or two. However, ^Irs. L}'ndsay all of a sud- 
 den went off to Paris, and there Montfort saw 
 Caroline, and was caught. Mrs. Lyndsay, no 
 doubt, calculated on living with her daughter, 
 having the run of Montfort House in town and 
 Montfort Court in the country. But Montfort 
 is deeper than people think for. No, he never 
 forgave her. She was never asked here — took 
 it to heart, went to Rome, and died." 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and George 
 Morley, now the Rev. George Morley, entered, 
 just arrived to join his cousins. 
 
 Some knew him, some did not. Lady Selina, 
 who made it a point to know all the cousins, 
 rose graciously, put aside the slippers, and gave 
 him two fingers. She was astonished to find 
 him not nearly so shy as he used to be — won- 
 derfully improved; at his ease, cheerful, ani- 
 mated. Tlie man now was in his right place, 
 and following hope on the bent of inclination. 
 Few men are shy when in their right places. 
 He asked after Lady Montfort. She was in her 
 own small sitting-room, writing letters — letters 
 that Carr Yipont had entreated her to write — 
 correspondence useful to the House of Yipont. 
 Before long, however, a servant entered to say 
 that Lady Montfort would be very happy to see 
 Mr. Morley. George followed the servant into 
 that unpretending sitting-room, with its simple 
 chintzes and quiet book-shelves — room that 
 would not have been too fine for a cottage. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Ul 
 
 CHAI^TER X. I 
 
 In every life, go it fast, go it slow, there are critical ; 
 pausing places. ^Vhen the journey is renewed, the j 
 face of the country is chimged. j 
 
 How well she suited that simple room — her- : 
 self so simply dressed — her marvelous beauty 
 so extiuisitely subdued. She looked at home 
 there, as if all of home that the house could 
 give wore there collected. 
 
 She had finished and sealed the momentous 
 letters, and had conio. with a sense of relief, 
 from tiie table at the farther end of the room, 
 on which those letters, ceremonious and con- 
 ventional, had been written — come to the win- 
 dow, which, thousjh mid-winter, was open, and 
 the red-breast, with whom slie had made friends, 
 hopped boldly almost within reach, looking; at 
 her with bright eyes, and head curiously aslant. 
 By the window a single chair and a small read- 
 ing-desk, with the book lying open. The short 
 day was not far from its close, but there was 
 ample light still in the skies, and a serene if 
 chilly stillness in the air without. 
 ' Though expecting the relation she had just 
 summoned to her )>resence, I fear she had half 
 forgotten him. !She was standing by the win- 
 dow deep in reverie as he entered, so deep tliat 
 she started when his voice struck her ear and 
 he stood before her. 8he recovered herself 
 quickly, however, and said with even more than 
 her ordinary kindliness of tone and manner to- 
 ward the scholar — " I am so glad to see and con- 
 gratulate you." 
 
 " And i so glad to receive your congratula- 
 tions," answered the scholar, in smooth, slow 
 voice, without a stutter. 
 
 "But, George, how is this?" asked Lady 
 Montfort. "Bring that chair, sit down here, 
 and tell me all about it. You wrote me word 
 you were cured, at least sufficiently to remove 
 your noble scruples. You did not say how. 
 Your uncle tells me by patient will and resolute 
 practice." 
 
 " Under good guidance. But I am going to 
 confide to you a secret, if you will promise to 
 keep it." 
 
 "Oh, you may trust me; I have no female 
 friends." 
 
 The clergyman smiled, and spoke at once of 
 the lessons he had received from the basket- 
 maker. 
 
 " I have his permission," he said, in conclu- 
 sion, "to confide the service he rendered me, 
 the intimacy that has sprung up between us, 
 but to you alone — not a word to your guests. 
 When you have once seen him, you will under- 
 stand why an eccentric man, who has known 
 better days, would shrink from the impertinent 
 curiosity of idle customers. Contented with 
 liis humble livelihood, he asks but liberty and 
 repose." 
 
 "That I already comprehend," said Lady 
 Montfort, half sighing, iialf smiling. "But my 
 curiosity shall not molest him, and when I visit 
 •the village, I will ]iass by iiis cottage." 
 
 " Nay, my dear Lady Montfort, that would be 
 to refuse the favor I am about to ask, which is 
 that you would come with me to that very cot- 
 t^e. It would so ])Iea.se him." 
 " Please him — why?" 
 
 "Because this poor man has a young female 
 grandchild, and he is so anxious that you should 
 
 see and be kind to her, and because, too, he 
 seems most tenacious to remain in his present 
 residence. The cottage, of course, belongs to 
 Lord Montfort, and is let to him by tlic bailiff', 
 and if you deign to feel interest in him, his 
 tenure is safe." 
 
 Lady Montfort looked down, and colored. 
 She thought, perhajts, how fal.<e a security her 
 protection, and how slight an influence her in- 
 terest would be, but she did not say so. George 
 went on ; and so eloquently and so toucliiiigly 
 did he describe both grandsire and grandchild, 
 so skillfully did he intimate the mystery which 
 hung over them, that Lady Montfort became 
 much moved by his narrative, and willingly 
 promised to accompany him across the ])ark to 
 tlic basket-maker's cottage the first oi)porltinity. 
 But when one has sixty guests in one's house, 
 one has to wait for an opportunity to escape 
 from them unremarked. And the opjiortuuity, 
 in fact, did not come for many days — not till 
 the party broke uj) — save one or two dowager 
 she-cousins who " gave no trouble," and one or 
 two bachelor hc-cousins whom my lord retained 
 to consummate the slaughter of pheasants, and 
 ]day at billiards in the dreary intervals between 
 sunset and dinner — dinner and bedtime. 
 
 Then one cheerful frosty noon George Morley 
 and his fair cousin walked boldly, en evidence, 
 before the prying ghostly windows, across the 
 broad gravel-walks — gained the secluded shrub- 
 bery, the solitary deeps of parkland — skirted the 
 wide sheet of water — and passing through a 
 private wicket in the paling, suddenly came 
 upon the ]natch of osier-ground and humble 
 garden, which were backed by the basket-mak- 
 er's cottage. 
 
 As they entered those lowly precincts a child's 
 laugh was borne to their cars — a child's silveiy, 
 musical, mirthful laugh ; it was long since the 
 great lady had heard a laugh like that — a happy 
 child's natural laugh. She paused and listen- 
 ed with a strange pleasure. "Yes," whispered 
 George Morley, "stojj — and hush! there they 
 are." 
 
 Waife was seated on the stump of a tree, ma- 
 terials for his handicraft lying beside, neglected. 
 Sophy was standing before him — he, raising his 
 finger as in reproof, and striving hard to frown. 
 As the intruders listened, they overlicard that 
 he was striving to teach her the rudiments of 
 French dialogue, and she was laughing merrily 
 at her own blunders and at the solemn affecta- 
 tion of the shocked schoolmaster. Lady INIont- 
 fort noted with no unnatural surprise the purity 
 of idiom and of accent with which this singular 
 basket-maker was unconsciously displaying his 
 perfect knowledge of a language which the best 
 educated English gentleman of that generation, 
 nay, even of this, rarely speaks with accuracy 
 and elegance. But her attention was diverted 
 immediately from the teacher to the face of the 
 sweet pupil. Women have a quick appreciation 
 of beauty in their own sex — and wo!i:en, who 
 are themselves beautiful, not the least. In-e- 
 sistibly Lady Montfort felt attracted towiird that 
 innocent countenance, so lively in its mirth, and 
 yet so softly gay. Sir Isaac, who had hitherto 
 lain perdu, watching the movements of a thrush 
 amidst a holly-bush, now started up with a hark. 
 Waife rose— Sophy turned half in flight. The 
 visitors approached. 
 
142 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 Here, slowly, lingeringly, let fall the curtain. 
 In the frank license of narrative, years will have 
 rolled away ere the curtain rise again. Events 
 that may influence a life often date from mo- 
 ments the most serene, from things that appear 
 as trivial and unnoticeable as the gi'eat lady's 
 visit to the basket-maker's cottage. Which of 
 those lives will that visit influence hereafter — 
 the woman's, the child's, the vagrant's? Whose ? 
 Probably little that passes now would aid con- 
 jecture, or be a \isible link in the chain of des- 
 tiny. A few desultory questions — a few guarded 
 answers — a look or so, a musical syllable or two 
 exchanged between the lady and the child — a 
 basket bought, or a promise to call again. No- 
 thing worth the telling. Be it then untold. 
 View only the scene itself as the curtain drops 
 reluctantly. The rustic cottage, its garden-door 
 open, and open its old-fashioned lattice case- 
 ments. You can see how neat and cleanly, how 
 eloquent of healthful poverty, how remote from 
 squalid penury, the whitewashed walls, the 
 homely furniture within. Creepers lately trained 
 around the door-waj^. Christmas holly, with 
 berries red against tlie window panes ; the bee- 
 hive yonder ; a starling, too, outside the thresh- 
 old, in its wicker cage. In the background 
 (all the I'est of tlie neighboring hamlet out of 
 sight), the church-spire tapering away into the 
 clear blue wintry sky. All has an air of re- 
 pose — of safety. Close beside you is the Pres- 
 ence of HOME — that ineffable, sheltering, loving 
 Presence — which, amidst solitude, murmurs 
 "not solitary;" a Presence unvouchsafed to the 
 great lady in the palace she has left. And the 
 lady herself ? She is resting on the rude gnarled 
 root-stump from which the vagrant had risen ; 
 she has drawn Sophy toward her ; she has taken 
 the child's hand; she is speaking now — now 
 listening ; and on her face kindness looks like 
 happiness. Perhaps she is happy at that mo- 
 ment. And Waife ? he is turning aside his 
 weather-beaten, mobile countenance, with his 
 hand anxiously trembling upon the young schol- 
 
 ar's arm. The scholar whispers, "Are you 
 satisfied with me ?" and Waife answers in a 
 voice as low but more broken, " God reward 
 you ! Oh, joy ! — if my pretty one has found at 
 last a woman friend !" Poor vagabond, he has 
 now a calm asylum — a fixed humble livelihood 
 — more than that, he has just achieved an ob- 
 ject fondly cherished. His past life — alas ! 
 what has he done with it? His actual life — 
 broken fragment though it be — is at rest now. 
 But still the everlasting question — mocking, 
 terrible question — with its phrasing of farce and 
 its enigmas of tragical sense — "What avill he 
 DO ■WITH IT ?" Do with what ? The all that 
 remains to him — the all he holds ! — the all 
 which man himself, betwixt free-will and pre- 
 deci-ee is permitted to do. Ask not the vagrant 
 alone — ask each of the four there assembled on 
 that flying bridge called the INIoment. Time 
 before thee — what Milt thou do with it? Ask 
 thyself: — ask the wisest! Out of effort to an- 
 swer that question, what dream-schools have 
 risen, never wholly to perish ! The science of 
 seers on the Chaldee's Pur-Tor, or in the rock- 
 caves of Delphi, gasped after and grasped at by 
 horn-handed mechanics to-day in their lanes 
 and alleys. To the heart of the populace sink 
 down the blurred relics of what once was the 
 lore of the secretest sages — hieroglyphical tat- 
 ters which the credulous -N-ulgai attempt to in- 
 tei-])ret — "What avill he no with it?" Ask 
 Merle and his Crystal! But the curtain de- 
 scends ! Yet a moment, there they are — age 
 and childhood — poverty, wealth, station, vaga- 
 bondage ; the preacher's sacred learning and 
 august ambition ; fancies of dawning reason ; 
 — hopes of intellect matured; — memories of 
 existence wrecked ; household sorrows — untold 
 regrets — elegy and epic in low, close, human 
 sighs, to which Poetry never yet gave voice — 
 all for the moment personified there before 
 you — a glimpse for the guess — no more. 
 Lower and lower falls the curtain! All is 
 blank! 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 143 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. I forethought, and fair opportunity for such revi- 
 
 I sions, as an architect, having prepared all his 
 Being an Address to the Kcader. | plans, must still admit to his building, should 
 
 Seeing the length to which this "Work has ^ dithculties, not foreseen, sharpen the invention 
 already run, and the space it must yet occujiy to render each variation in detail an improve- 
 in the columns of Maga, it is but fair to the j ment consistent to the original design. 
 Reader to correct any inconsiderate notion that Secondly. — May the Reader — accepting this 
 the Author does not know "what he will do | profession of the principles by which is con- 
 with it." Learn, then, O friendly reader, that structed the history that invites his attention, 
 no matter the number of months through which ; and receiving now the assurance that the Work 
 it mav glide its way to thine eyes — learn that : is actually passed out of the Author's hands, is 
 \vith the single exception of tlie chapter now j as much a thing done and settled as any book 
 respectfully addressed to thee, tue wnoLE of ; composed by him twenty years ago — banisk all 
 THIS WORK HAS BEEN LONG SINCE COMPLETED , fear Icst each Is umbcr should depend for its av- 
 AND TRANSFERRED FROJi THE DESK OF THE Ac- I erage merit on accidental circumstances — such 
 THOR TO THE HANDS OF THE Plblisher. '■ as impatient haste, or varying humor, or capri- 
 
 On the 22d of January last — let the day be ; cious health, or the demand of more absorbing 
 marked with a white stone I — the Author's la- and practical pursuits, in v.liich, during a con- 
 bors were brought to a close, and "What he j sidcrable portion of the year, it has long been 
 will do with it" is no longer a secret — at least to • the Author's lot to be actively engaged. Certes, 
 the Editor of Maga. I albeit in the course of his life he has got through 
 
 May this information establish, throughout ■ a reasonable degree of labor, and has habitually 
 the rest of the journey to be traveled together, relied on application to supply his defects in 
 that tacit confidence between Author and Read- I genius ; yet to do one thing at a time is the 
 crwiiich is so important to mutual satisfaction I | practical rule of those by whom, in the course 
 Firstly. — The Reader may thus have the com- of time, many things have been accomplished, 
 plaisance to look at each installment as the com- j And accordingly a work, even so trivial as this 
 ponent portion of a completed whole ; corapre- i may be deemed, is not composed in the turmoil 
 bending that it can not be within the scope of | of metropolitan life, nor when other occupations 
 the Author's design to aim at a separate effect | demand attention, but in the quiet leisure of 
 for each separate Number; but rather to carry ; rural shades, and in those portions of the year 
 on through each Number the effect which he ' which fellow-workmen devote to relaxation and 
 deems most appropriate to his composition when , amusement. For even in holidays, something 
 regarded as a whole. And here may it be per- ; of a holiday-task adds a zest to the hours of 
 mitted to dispel an erroneous idea which, to ease. 
 
 judge by current criticism, appears to be suffi- j Lastly. — Since this snn-ey of our modem 
 ciemlv prevalent to justify the egotism of com- i world requires a large and a crowded canvas, 
 ment." It seems to be supposed that, because I and would be incomplete did it not intimate 
 this work is published from month to month in ' those points of contact in which the private 
 successive installments, therefore it is %^Titten ; touches the public life of Social Man, so it is 
 from month to month, as a newspaper article ] well that the Reader should fully understand 
 mav be" dashed off from dav to day. Such a that all reference to such grand events, as polit- 
 sup'position is adverse to all the principles by | ical "crises" and changes of Government, were 
 which works that necessitate integrity of plan, I written many months ago, and have no refer- 
 and a certain harmony of proportion, are con- | ence whatever to the actual occurrences of the 
 structed ; more especially those works which ' passing day. Holding it, indeed, a golden max- 
 aim at artistic representations of human life ; im that practical politics and ideal art should 
 for, in human life, we must presume that no- be kept wholly distinct from each other, and 
 thing is left to chance, and chance must be no seeking in this Narrative to write that which 
 less rigidly banished from the art by which hu- may be read with unembittered and impartial 
 man life is depicted. That art admits no hap- pleasure by all classes and all parties—nay, per- 
 hazard chapters, no uncertainty as to the con- | chance, in years to come, by the children of 
 sequences that must ensue from the incidents it ! those whom he now addresses — the Author 
 decides on selecting. Would the artist, on aft- ' deems it indispensable to such ambition to pre- 
 er-thought, alter a consequence, he must recon- serve the neutral ground of imaginative creation, 
 sider the whole chain-work of incident which not only free from those personal portraitures 
 led to one inevitable result, and which would be which are fatal to comprehensive and typical de- 
 whoUy defective if it could be made to lead to ; lineations of character, but from all intentional 
 another. Hence, a work of this kind can not be appeals to an interest which can be but moment- 
 written currente calamo. from month to month ; ar}-, if given to subjects that best befit the lead- 
 the entire design must be broadly set forth be- ing articles of political journals. His realm, if 
 fore the first page goes to press ; and large sec- \ it hope to endure, is in the conditions, the hu- 
 tions of the whole must be always completed in j mors, the passions by which one general phase 
 advance, in order to allow time for deliberate 1 of society stands forth in the broad light of our 
 
Hi 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 commoa human nature, never to be cast aside, 
 as obsolete and out of fashion, " into the portion 
 of weeds and worn-out faces." 
 
 Reader! this exordium is intended, by way 
 of preface to that more important division of 
 this work, in wliich the one-half the circle 
 rounds itself slowly on to complete the whole. 
 Forgive the exordium ; for, rightly considered, 
 it is but an act of deference to thee. Didst thou 
 ever reflect, O Reader ! on what thou art to an 
 Author? Art thou aware of the character of 
 dignity and power with which he invests thee? 
 To thee the Author is but an unit in the great 
 sum of intellectual existence. To the Author, 
 thou, Reader I art the collective representa- 
 tive of a multifarious abiding audience. To 
 thee the Author is but the machine, more or 
 less defective, that throws oft' a kind of work 
 usually so ephemeral that seldom wilt thou even 
 pause to examine why it please or displease, for 
 a day, the taste tiiat may change with the mor- 
 row. But to him, the Author, thou art, O Read- 
 er! a confidant and a friend, often nearer and 
 dearer than any one else in the world. All 
 other friends are mortal as himself; they can 
 but survive for a few years the dust he must 
 yield to the grave. But there, in his eye, aloof 
 and aloft forever, stands the Reader, more and 
 more his friend as Time rolls on. 'Tis to thee 
 that he leaves his grandest human bequest, his 
 memory and his name. If secretly he deem 
 himself not appreciated in his own generation, 
 he hugs the belief, often chimerical and vain, 
 but ever sweet and consoling, that in some gen- 
 eration afar awaits the Reader destined at last 
 to do him justice. Wit4i thee, the Author is, of 
 all men, he to whom old age comes the soonest. 
 How quickly thou hastenest to say, "Not what 
 he wa5 I Vigor is waning — invention is flagging 
 — past is his day — push him aside, and make 
 room for the Fresh and the New." But the Au- 
 thor never admits that old age can fall on the 
 Reader. The Reader to him is a being in whom 
 youth is renewed through all cycles. Leaning 
 on his crutch, the Author still walks by the side 
 of that friendly Shadow as he walked on sum- 
 mer eves, with a school-friend of boyhood — 
 talking of the future with artless, hopeful lips I 
 Dreams he that a day may come when he will 
 have no Reader! O school-boy ! dost thou ever 
 dream that a day may come when thou wilt 
 have no friend? 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Etchings of Hyde Park in tlie month of June, which, if 
 this Histoiy escape those villains the trunk-makers, 
 may be of inestimable value to unborn antiquarians. 
 — Characters, long absent, reappear and give some ac- 
 count of themselves. 
 
 Five years have passed away since this His- 
 tory opened. It is the month of June, once 
 more — June, which clothes our London in all 
 its glory ; fills its languid ball-rooms with living 
 flowers, and its stony causeways with human 
 butterflies. It is about the hour of 6 p.m. The 
 lounge in Hyde Park is crowded ; along the 
 road that skirts the Serpentine crawl the car- 
 riages one after the other; congregate, by the 
 rails,Hhe lazy lookers-on — lazy in attitude, but 
 with active eyes, and tongues sharpened on the 
 
 whetstone of scandal; the Scaligers of Club 
 windows airing their vocabulary in the Park. 
 Slowly saunter on foot-idlers of all degrees in 
 the hierarchy of London id/esse ; dandies of es- 
 tablished fame — youthful tyros in their first 
 season. Yonder, in the Ride, forms less inani- 
 mate seem condemned to active exercise ; young 
 ladies doing penance in a canter; old beaux at 
 hard lalx)r in a trot. Sometimes, by a more 
 thoughtful brow, a still brisker pace, you rec- 
 ognize a busy member of the Imperial Parlia- 
 ment, who, advised by physicians to be as much 
 on horseback as possible, snatches an hour or so 
 in the interval between the close of his Com- 
 mittee and the interest of the Debate, and shirks 
 the opening speech of a well known bore. 
 Among such truant lawgivers (grief it is to say 
 it) may be seen that once model member. Sir 
 Jasper Stollhead. Grim dyspepsia seizing on 
 him at last, "relaxation from his duties" be- 
 comes the adequate punishment for all his sins. 
 Solitary he rides, and, communing with him- 
 self, yawns at every second. Upon chairs, be- 
 neficently located under the trees toward the 
 north side of the walk, are interspersed small 
 knots and coteries in repose. There, you might 
 see the Ladies Prymme, still the Ladies Pnmme 
 . — Janet and Wilhelmina ; Janet has gi-own fat, 
 Wilhelmina thin. But thin or fat, they are no 
 less Prymmes. They do not lack male attend- 
 ants ; they are pirls of high fashion, with whom 
 young men think it a distinction to be seen 
 talking ; of high principle, too, and high pre- 
 tensions (unhappily for themselves they are co- 
 heiresses), by whom young men under the rank 
 of earls need not fear to be artfully entrapped 
 into " honorable intentions." They coquet ma- 
 jestically, but they never flirt ; they exact devo- 
 tion, but they do not ask in each victim a sac- 
 rifice on the horns of the altar; they will never 
 give their hands where they do not give their 
 hearts ; and being ever afraid that they are 
 courted for their money, they will never give 
 their hearts save to wooers who have much 
 more money than themselves. Many young 
 men stop to do passing homage to the Ladies 
 Prymme ; some linger to converse — safe young 
 men, they are all younger sons. Farther on. 
 Lady Frost and Mr. Crampe the wit, sit amica- 
 bly side by side, pecking at each other with sar- 
 castic beaks ; occasionally desisting, to fasten 
 nip and claw upon that common enemy, the 
 passing friend I The Slowes, a numerous fam- 
 ily, but taciturn, sit by themselves — bowed to 
 much ; accosted rarely. 
 
 Xote that man of good presence, somewhere 
 about thirty, or a year or tn'o more, who, rec- 
 ognized by most of the loungers, seems not at 
 home in the lounge. He has passed by the va- 
 rious coteries just described, made his obeisance 
 to the Ladies Prymme, received an icy epigram 
 from Lady Frost, and a laconic sneer from Mr. 
 Crampe, and exchanged silent bows with seven 
 silent Slowes. He has wandered on, looking 
 high in the air, but still looking for some one, 
 not in the air, and, evidently disappointed in 
 his search, comes to a full stop at length, takes 
 oft' his hat, wipes his brow, utters a petulant 
 •'Prr — r — pshwl" and seeing, a little in the 
 background, the chairless shade of a thin, ema- 
 ciated, dusty tree, thither he retires, and seats 
 himself with as httle care whether there to seat 
 
WHAT AVILL HE DO WITH IT ? . 
 
 U5 
 
 himself be the right thing in the right place, as 
 if in the honey-suckle arbor of a village inn. 
 "It scnes me" right," said he, to himself, "a 
 precocious villain bursts in upon me, breaks nij 
 day, makes an appointment to meet here, in 
 these very walks, ten minutes before six ; de- 
 coys me with the promise of a dinner at Putney 
 — ^room looking on the river, and fried Hounders. 
 I have the credulity to yield ; I derange my 
 
 would be a great painter. And in five short 
 years you have soared high." 
 
 " I'ooh ;" answered Vance, indifferently. "No- 
 thing is pure and unadulterated in London use; 
 not cream, nor cayenne pepper — least of all, 
 Fame; mixed up with the most deleterious in- 
 gredients. Fame ! did you read the Times' cri- 
 tique on my ])icturcs in the present Exhibition ? 
 Fame, indeed! Change the subject. Nothing 
 
 habits — I leave my cool studio; I put otF my i so good as Hountlers. IIo! is that vour cab? 
 
 easy blouse ; I imprison my free-born throat in 
 a cravat invented by the Thugs ; the dog-days 
 are at hand, and I walk rashly over scorching 
 pavements in a black frock-coat, and a brimless 
 hat ; I annihilate 3s. (id. in a pair of kid gloves ; 
 I arrive at this haunt of spleen ; I run the gaunt- 
 let of Frosts, Slowes, and Prymmes ; — and my 
 traitor fails me! Half past six — not a sign of 
 him ! and the dinner at Futney — fried floun- 
 ders ? Dreams ! Patience, hvc minutes more ; 
 if then he conies not — breach for life between 
 him and me ! Ah, voild .' there he comes, the 
 laggard ! But how those fine folks are catching 
 at him I Has he asked them also to dinner at 
 Putney, and do they care for fried flounders ?" 
 
 The soliloquist's eye is on a young man, much 
 younger than himself, who is threading the mot- 
 ley crowd with a light quick steji, but is com- 
 pelled to stop at each moment to interchange a 
 word of welcome, a shake of the hand. Evi- 
 dently he has already a large acquaintance ; 
 evidently he is popular, on good terms with the 
 world and himself. What free grace in his 
 bearing! what gay good -humor in his smile! 
 Powers above ! Lady Wilhelmina surely blushes 
 as she retunis his bow. He has passed Lady 
 Frost unblighted; the Slowes evince emotion, 
 at least the female Slowes, as he shoots by them 
 with that sliding bow. He looks from side to 
 side, with a rapid glance of an eye in which 
 light seems all dance and sparkle ; he sees the 
 soliloquist under the meagre tree — the pace 
 quickens, the lips part, half laughing. 
 
 "Don't scold, Vance. I am late, I know; 
 
 but I did not make allowance for interceptions." 
 
 " Body o' me, interceptions ! For an absentee 
 
 just arrived in London, you seem to have no lack 
 
 of friends." 
 
 "Friends made in Paris, and found again 
 here at every comer, like jileasant surprises. 
 But no friend so welcome, and dear, as Frank 
 Vance." 
 
 " Sensible. of the honor, O Lionello the mag- 
 nificent. Verily you are hon Prince! The 
 Houses of Valois and of Medici were always 
 kind to artists. But whither would you lead 
 me? Back into that tread-mill ? Thank you, 
 humbly; no. A crowd in fine clothes is of all 
 mobs the dullest. I can look undismayed on 
 the many-headed monster, wild and rampant ; 
 but when the many-headed monster buys its hats 
 in Bond Street, and has an eye-glass at each of 
 its inquisitive eyes, I confess I take fright. Be- 
 sides, it is near seven o'clock ; Putney not visi- 
 ble, and the flounders not fried !" 
 
 "My cab is waiting yonder; we must walk to 
 it — we can keep on the turf, and avoid the 
 throng. But tell me honestly, Vance, do you 
 really dislike to mix in crowds — you, with your 
 fame, dislike the eyes that turn back to look 
 again, and the lips that respccifully murmur, 
 'Vance, the Painter?' Ah, I always said you 
 K 
 
 Superb! Car fit for the 'Grecian youth of 
 talents rare,' in Mr. Enfield's Speaker ; horse 
 that seems conjured out of the Elgin marbles. 
 Is he quiet?" 
 
 " Not very ; but trust to my driving. You 
 may well admire the horse — present from Dar- 
 rell, chosen by Colonel Morley." 
 
 When the young men had settled themselves 
 in the vehicle, Lionel dismissed his groom, and, 
 touching his horse, the animal trotted out briskly. 
 
 " Frank," said Lionel, shaking his dark curls 
 *with a petulant gravity, "Your cynical defini- 
 tions are unworthy that masculine beard. You 
 despise fame ! what sheer attectation ! 
 
 " Pulvereni Olymiijcum 
 Collegissc juvat ; metaque fer\idis 
 Evitata rotis ." 
 
 "Take care," cried Vance; "we shall be 
 over." For Lionel, growing excited, teased the 
 horse with his whiji ; and the horse bolting, took 
 the cab within an inch of a water-cart. 
 
 "Fame, Fame!" cried Lionel, unheeding the 
 interruption. " What would I not give to have 
 and to hold it for an hour!" 
 
 " Hold an eel, less sli])i)ery ; a scorpion, less 
 stinging ! But — " added Vance, observing his 
 companion's heightened color. " But," he add- 
 ed seriously, and with an honest compimction, 
 " I forgot, you are a soldier, you follow tlie 
 career of arms! Never heed what is said on 
 the subject by a querulous painter ! The desire 
 of fame may be folly in civilians, in soldiers it 
 is wisdom. Twin-born with the martial sense 
 of honor, it cheers the march, it warms the bi- 
 vouac ; it gives music to the whirr of the bullet, 
 the roar of the ball ; it plants hope in the thick of 
 peril ; knits rivals with the bond of brothers; com- 
 forts the survivor when the brother falls ; takes 
 from war its grim aspect of carnage ; and from 
 homicide itself extracts lessons that strengthen 
 the safeguards to humanity, and i)erpetuate life 
 to nations. Right — pant for fame ; you are a 
 soldier !" 
 
 This was one of those bursts of high sentiment 
 from Vance, which, as they were veiy rare with 
 him, had tlie dramatic cftect of surjirise. Lio- 
 nel listened to him with a thrilling delight. He 
 could not answer, he was too moved. The art- 
 ist resumed, as the cabriolet now cleared the 
 Park, and rolled safely and rajiidly along the 
 road. "I suppose, during the five years you 
 have spent abroad, completing your general ed- 
 ucation, you have made little study, or none, of 
 what specially appertains to the profession you 
 have so recently chosen." 
 
 "You are mistaken there, my dear Vance. 
 If a man's heart be set on a thing, he is always 
 studying it. The books I loved best, and most 
 pondered over, were such as, if they did not ad- 
 minister lessons, suggested hints that might turn 
 to lessons hereafter. In social intercourse, I 
 never was so pleased as when I could fasten my- 
 
UG 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 self to some practical veteran — question and 
 cross-examine him. One picks up more ideas 
 in conversation than from books ; at least I do. 
 Besides, my idea of a soldier who is to succeed 
 soma dav, is not that of a mere mechanician at 
 arms. See how accomplished most gi-eat cap- 
 tains have been. What obsei-vers of mankind ! 
 — What diplomatists — what reasoners ! what 
 men of action, because men to whom reflection 
 had been habitual before they acted! How 
 many stores of idea must have gone to the judg- 
 ment which hazards the sortie, or decides on the 
 retreat !" 
 
 " Gently, gently !" cried Vance. '-We shall 
 be into that omnibus ! Give me the whip — do ; 
 tliere— a little more to the left — so. Yes : I am 
 glad to see such euthusiasm in your profession 
 — 'tis half the battle. Hazlitt' said a capital 
 thing, ' the 'prentice who does not consider the 
 Lord Mayor in his gilt coach the greatest man 
 in the world will live to be hanged !' " 
 
 "Pish!" said Lionel, catching at the whip. ' 
 
 Vance (holding it back). "Xo. I apologize 
 instead. I retract the Lord Mayor; compari- 
 sons are odious. I agree with you, nothing like 
 leather — I mean nothing like a really great sol- 
 dier — Hannibal, and so forth. Cherish that 
 conviction, my boy ; meanwhile, respect human 
 hfe — there is another omnibus !" 
 
 The danger past, the artist thought it prudent 
 to divert the conversation into some channel less 
 exciting. 
 
 "Mr. DaiTell, of course, consents to your 
 choice of a profession ?" 
 
 "Consents — approves, encourages. Wrote 
 me such a beautiful letter — what a comprehen- 
 sive intelligence that man has !" 
 
 "Necessarily; since he agrees with you. 
 Where is he now ?" 
 
 " I have no notion ; it is some months since 
 I heard from him. He was then at Malta, on 
 his return from Asia Minor." 
 
 " So! you have never seen him since he bade 
 you farewell at his old ^Manor-House ?" 
 
 "Never. He has not, I believe, been in En- 
 gland." 
 
 ■' Nor in Paris, where you seem to have chief- 
 ly resided?" 
 
 "Nor in Paris. Ah, Vance, could I but be 
 of some comfort to him ! Now that I am older, 
 I think I understand in him much that perplex- 
 ed me as a boy, when we parted. Darrell is 
 one of those men who require a home. Between 
 the great world and solitude, he needs the inter- 
 mediate filling up which the life domestic alone 
 supplies : a wife to realize the sweet word help- 
 mate — children, with whose future he could knit 
 his own toils and his ancestral remembrances. 
 That intermediate space annihilated, the great 
 world and the solitude are left, each frowning 
 on the other." 
 
 " My dear Lionel, you must have lived with 
 very clever people ; you are talking far above 
 your years." 
 
 " Am I ? True, I have lived, if not with very 
 clever people, with people far above my years. 
 That is a secret I learned from Colonel Morley, 
 to whom I must present you — the subtlest intel- 
 lect under the quietest manner. Once he said 
 to me, 'Would you throughout life be up to the 
 height of your century — always in the prime of 
 man's reason — without crudeness and without 
 
 decline — live habitually, while young, with per- 
 sons older, and, when old, with persons younger 
 than yourself.' " 
 
 "Shrewdly said, indeed. I felicitate you on 
 the e\-ident result of the maxim. And so Dar- 
 rell has no home ; no wife, and no children?" 
 
 "He has long been a widower; he lost his 
 only son in boyhood, and his daughter — did you 
 never hear?" 
 
 "No — what — ?" 
 
 " Married so ill — a runaway match — and died 
 many years since, without issue." 
 
 "Poor man! It was these afflictions, then, 
 that soured his life, and made him the hermit 
 or the wanderer ?" 
 
 "There," said Lionel, "I am puzzled; for 
 I find that even after his son's death and his 
 daughter's unhappy marriage and estrangement 
 from him, he was still in Parliament, and in 
 full activity of career. But certainly he did not 
 long keep it up. It might have been an effort 
 to which, strong as he is, he felt himself une- 
 qual ; or, might he have known some fresh dis- 
 appointment, some new sorrow which the world 
 never guesses ? what I have said as to his fam- 
 ily afflictions the world knows. But I think he 
 will marry again. That idea seemed strong in 
 his own mind when we parted; he brought it 
 out bluntly, roughly. Colonel Morley is con- 
 vinced that he will many, if but for the sake of 
 an heir." 
 
 Vance. " And if so, my poor Lionel, you are 
 ousted of — " 
 
 Lionel (quickly inteirupting). "Hush! Do 
 not say, my dear Vance, do not you say — you I 
 — one of those low, mean things which, if said 
 to me even by men for whom I have no es- 
 teem, make my cars tingle and my cheek blush. 
 When I thinkof what Darrell has already done 
 for me — me who have no claim on him — it seems 
 to me as if I must hate the man who insinuates, 
 'Fear lest your benefactor find a smile at his 
 own hearth, a child of his own blood — ^for you 
 may be richer at his death in proportion as his 
 life is desolate." 
 
 Vanxe. "You are a fine young fellow, and I 
 beg your pardon. Take care of that milestone 
 — thank you. But I suspect that at least two- 
 thirds of "those friendly hands that detained you 
 on the way to me, were stretched out less to Li- 
 onel Haughton — a Cornet in the Guards — than 
 to Mr. Darrell's heir-presum])tive." 
 
 Lionel. "That thought sometimes galls me, 
 but it docs me good ; for it goads on my desire 
 to make myself some one whom the most world- 
 ly would not disdain to know for his own sake. 
 Oh for active service! — Oh for a sharp cam- 
 paign ! — Oh for fair trial how far a man in earn- 
 est can grapple Fortune to his breast with his 
 own strong hands ! You have done so, Vance ; 
 you had but your genius and your .painter's 
 "brush. I have no genius, but I have resolve, 
 and resolve is perhaps as sure of its ends as 
 genius. Genius and Resolve have three grand 
 elements in common — Patience, Hope, Concen- 
 tration." 
 
 Vance, more and more surprised, looked hard 
 at Lionel, without speaking. Five years of that 
 critical age, from seventeen to twenty-two, spent 
 in the great capital of Europe— kept from its 
 more dangerous vices partly by a proud sense 
 of personal dignity, partly by a temperament 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 147 
 
 which, re^^arding love as an kleal for all tender 
 and sublime emotion, recoiled from low jiroiii- 
 gacy as being to Love what tlie Yahoo of the 
 mocking satirist was to Jlan — absorbed much 
 by the brooding ambition that takes youtli out 
 of the frivolous present into the serious future, 
 and seeking companionship, not with contempo- 
 rary idlers, but with the highest and niaturest 
 intellects that the free commonwealth of good 
 society brought within his reach — Five years so 
 spent had developed a boy, nursing noble dreams, 
 into a man fit for noble action — retaining fresh- 
 est vouth in its enthusiasm, its elevation of sen- 
 timent, its daring, its energy, and divine credu- 
 lity in its own unexhausted resources; but bor- 
 rowing from maturity compactness and solidity 
 of idea — the link between speculation and jn-ac- 
 ticc — the power to impress on others a sense of 
 the superiority which has been scIf-cUiborated 
 by unconscious culture. 
 
 "So!" said Vance, after a prolonged pause, 
 "I don't know whether I have resolve or genius ; 
 but, certainly, if I have made my way to some 
 small reputation, patience, hope, and concentra- 
 tion of purpose must have the credit of it ; and 
 pnidcncc, too, which you have forgotten to name, 
 and certainly don't evince as a charioteer. I 
 hope, my dear fellow, you arc not extravagant. 
 No debts, eh? — why do you laugh?" 
 
 "The question is so like you, Frank — thrifty 
 as ever." 
 
 "Do you think I could have painted with a 
 calm mind, if I knew that at my door there was 
 a dun whom I could not pay ? Art needs seren- 
 ity ; and if an artist begin his career with as 
 few shirts to his back as I had, he mi:st place 
 economy among the rules of perspective." 
 
 Lionel laughed again, and made some com- 
 ments on economy which were certainly, if 
 smart, rather flippant, and tended not only to 
 lower the favorable estimate of his intellectual 
 improvement which Vance had just formed, but 
 seriously disquieted the kindly artist. Vance 
 knew the world — knew the peculiar temptations 
 to which a young man in Lionel's position would 
 be exposed — knew that contempt for economy 
 belongs to that school of Peripatetics which re- 
 serves its last lessons for finished disciples in 
 the sacred walks of the Queen's Bench. 
 
 However, that was no auspicious moment for 
 didactic warnings. 
 
 "Here we are!" cried Lionel — "Putney 
 Bridge." 
 
 They reached the little inn by the river-side, 
 and while dinner was getting ready, they hired 
 a boat. Vance took the oars. 
 
 Vaxce. ' ' Kot so pretty here as by those green 
 quiet banks along which we glided, at moon- 
 light, five years ago." 
 
 Lionel. "Ah, no. And that innocent, charm- 
 ing child, whose portrait you took — you have 
 never heard of her since ?" 
 
 Vanxe. " Never ! How should I ? Have 
 70U?" 
 
 Lionel. " Only what Darrell repeated to me. 
 His lawyer had ascertained that she and her 
 grandfather had gone to America. Darrell 
 gently implied that, from what he learned of 
 them, they scarcely merited the interest I felt 
 in their fate. But we were not deceived — were 
 we, Vance ?" 
 
 Vance. "No; the little girl — what was her 
 
 name ? Sukcy ? Sally ? — Sophy — true, Sophy — 
 had something about her extremely jjrepossess- 
 ing, besides her pretty face; and, in spite of 
 that horrid cotton print, I shall never forget 
 it." 
 
 Lionel. " Ilcr face ! Nor I. I see it still 
 before me !" 
 
 Vance. " Her cotton jjrintl I see it still be- 
 fore me! But I must not be ungrateful. Would 
 you believe it, that little jiortrait, which cost me 
 three pounds, has made, I don't say my fortune, 
 but my fashion?" 
 
 Lionel. " How ! You had the heart to sell 
 it?" 
 
 Vance. "No; I kept it as a study for young 
 female heads — ' with variations,' as they say in 
 music. It was by my female heads that I be- 
 came the fashion ; every order I have contains 
 the condition — 'But be sure, one of your sweet 
 female heads, Mr. Vance.' JSIy female heads 
 are as necessary to my canvas as a white horse 
 to Wouvermans'. Well, that child, who cost 
 me three pounds, is the original of them all. 
 Commencing as a Titania, she has been in turns 
 a 'Psyche,' a 'Beatrice Cenci,' a 'ilinna,' 'A 
 Portrait of a Nobleman's Daughter,' ' Burns's 
 ^Lary in Heaven,' 'The Young Gleaner,' and 
 ' Sabrina fair,' in Milton's Coinus. I have led 
 that child through all history, sacred and pro- 
 fane. I have painted her in all costumes (her 
 own cotton print excepted). My female heads 
 are mv glory — even the Times' critic allows that! 
 ' Mr. Vance, there, is inimitable ! a type of child- 
 like grace peculiarly his own, etc., etc' I'll 
 lend you the article." 
 
 Lionel. "And shall we never again see the 
 original darling Sophy ? Y'ou will laugh, Vance, 
 but I have been heart-proof against all young 
 ladies. If ever I marry, my wife must have 
 Sophy's eyes ! In America !" 
 
 Vance. "Let us hope by this time happily 
 married to a Yankee ! Y'ankees marry girls in 
 their teens, and don't ask for dowries. Married 
 to a Y'ankee ! not a doubt of it ! a Yankee who 
 chaws, whittles, and keeps a 'store!'" 
 
 Lionel. " Monster ! Hold your tongue ! 
 Apropos of marriage, why are you still single?" 
 
 Vance. " Because I have no wish to be doub- 
 led up! Moreover, man is like a napkin, the 
 more neatly the housewife doubles him, the 
 more carefully she lays him on the shelf. Nei- 
 ther can a man once doubled know how often 
 he may be doubled. Not only his wife folds 
 him in two, but every child quarters him into a 
 new double, till what was a wide and handsome 
 substance, large enough for any thing in reason, 
 dwindles into a pitiful square that will not cover 
 one platter — all puckers and creases — smaller 
 and smaller with every double — with every 
 double a new crease. Then, my friend, comes 
 the washing bill ! and, besides all the hurts one 
 receives in the mangle, consider the hourly 
 wear and tear of the linen-press! In short, 
 Shakspeare vindicates the single life, and de- 
 picts the double in the famous line— which is 
 no doubt intended to be allegorical of mar- 
 riage — 
 
 'Double, double, toil and trouble.' 
 
 Besides, no single man can be lairly called poor. 
 What double man can with certainty be called 
 rich ? A single man can lodge in a garret, and 
 dine on a herring ; nobody knows, nobody cares. 
 
148 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Let him marrr, and he invites the world to wit- 
 ness where he" lodges, and how he dines. The 
 first necessary a wife demands is the most ruin- 
 ous, the most indefinite superfluity ; it is Gen- 
 tility according to wliat her neighbors call gen- 
 teel". Gentility commences with the honey-moon ; 
 it is its shadow, and lengthens as the moon de- 
 clines. When the lioney is all gone, your bride 
 savs, ' We can have our tea without sugar when 
 quite alone, love ; but in case Gentility drop in, 
 here's a bill for silver sugar-tongs !' That's why 
 I'm single." 
 
 "Economy again, Vance." 
 
 " Prudence — dignity," answered Vance, se- 
 riously ; and sinking into a reverie that seemed 
 gloomy, he shot back to shore. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 Mr. Vance explains how he came to grind colors and 
 save half-pence. — -V sudden announcement 
 
 The meal was over — the table had been 
 spread by a window that looked upon the river. 
 The moijn was up ; the young men asked for 
 no other lights ; conversation betweea them — 
 often shifting, often pausing — had gradually be- 
 come grave, as it usually does, with two com- 
 panions in youth ; while yet long vistas in the 
 Future stretch before them deep in shadow, and 
 they fall into confiding talk on what they wish — 
 what they fear; making visionary maps in that 
 limitless Obscure. 
 
 "There is so much power in faith," said Li- 
 onel, "even when faith is applied but to things 
 human and earthly, that let a man be but firm- 
 ly persuaded that he is born to do, some day, 
 what at the moment seems impossible, and it is 
 fifty to one but what he does it before he dies. 
 Surely, when you were a child at school, you 
 felt convinced that thei'e was something in your 
 fate distinct from that of the other boys — whom 
 the master might call quite as clever — felt that 
 faith in yourself which made you sure that you 
 would be one day what you are." 
 
 "AYell, I suppose so; but vague aspirations 
 and self-conceits must be bound together by 
 some practical necessity — perhaps a very home- 
 ly and a very vulgar one — or they scatter and 
 evaporate. One would think that rich people 
 in high life ought to do more than poor folks in 
 humble life. More pains are taken with their 
 education ; they have more leisure for following 
 the bent of their genius ; yet it is the poor folks, 
 often half self-educated, and with pinched bel- 
 lies, that do three-fourths of the world's grand 
 labor. Poverty is the keenest stimulant, and 
 poverty made me not say, 'I icill do,' but 'I 
 must.^ " 
 
 " You knew real poverty in childhood, 
 Frank ?" 
 
 "Ileal poverty, covered over with sham afflu- 
 ence. My father was Genteel Poverty, and my 
 mother was Poor Gentility. The sham affluence 
 went when my father died. The real poverty 
 then came out in all its ugliness. I was taken 
 from a genteel school, at which, long afterward. 
 I genteelly paid the bills ; and I had to support 
 my mother somehow or other — somehow or oth- 
 er I succeeded. Alas, I fear not genteelly I 
 But before I lost her, which I did in a few years. 
 
 she had some comforts which were not appear- 
 ances ; and she kindly allowed, dear soul, that 
 gentility and shams do not go well together. 
 Oh ! beware of debt, LioneUo into ; and never 
 call that economy meanness which is but the 
 safeguard from mean degradation." 
 
 " I understand you at last, Vance ; shake 
 hands ; I know why you are saving." 
 
 " Habit now," answered Vance, repressing 
 praise of himself, as usual. "But I remember 
 so well when twopence was a sum to be respect- 
 ed, that to this day I would rather put it by 
 than spend it. All our ideas, like orange-plants, 
 spread out in proportion to the size of the box 
 which imprisons the roots. Then I had a sis- 
 ter." Vance paused a moment as if in pain, 
 but went on with seeming carelessness, leaning 
 over the window-sill, and turning his face from 
 his friend. " I had a sister older than myself, 
 handsome, gentle. I was so proud of her ! 
 Foolish girl ! my love was not enough for her. 
 Foolish girl ! she could not wait to see what I 
 might live to do for her. She married — oh I so 
 genteelly ! — a young man, very well born, who 
 had wooed her before my father died. He had 
 the villainy to remain constant when she had not 
 a farthing, and he was dependent on distant re- 
 lations and his- own domains in Parnassus. The 
 wretch was a poet ! So they married. They 
 spent their honey-moon genteelly, I dare say. 
 His relations cut him. Parnassus paid no rents. 
 He went abroad. Such heart-rending letters 
 from her I They were destitute. How I work- 
 ed! how I raged I But how could I maintain 
 her and her husband too, mere child that I was ? 
 No matter. They are dead now, both ; all dead 
 for whose sake I first ground colors and saved 
 half-pence. And Frank Vance is a stingy, self- 
 ish bachelor. Never revive this dull subject 
 again, or I shall borrow a crown from you, and 
 cut you dead. Waiter, ho ! — the bill. I'll just 
 go round to the stables, and see the horse put 
 to." 
 
 As the friends re-entered London Vance said, 
 "Put me down any where in Piccadilly; I will 
 walk home. You, I suppose, of course, are stay- 
 ing with your mother in Gloucester Place ?" 
 
 "No,'' said Lionel, rather emban-assed; " Col- 
 onel ]Morley, who acts for me as if he were my 
 guardian, took a lodging for me in Chesterfield 
 Street, Mayfair. ily hours, I fear, would ill 
 suit my dear mother. Only in town two days ; 
 and, thanks to IMorley, my table is already cov- 
 ered with invitations." 
 
 " Yet you gave me one day, generous friend I" 
 
 "You the second day — my mother the first. 
 But there ai-e three balls before me to-night. 
 Come home with me, and smoke your cigar 
 while I dress." 
 
 "No; but I will at least light my cigar in 
 your hall — prodigal I" 
 
 Lionel now stopped at his lodging. The 
 groom, who served him also as valet, was in 
 waiting at the door. "A note for you. Sir, 
 from Colonel Moidey — just come." Lionel hast- 
 ily opened it, and read : 
 
 " " ]Mt dear Haughton, — ilr. Dan-ell has sud- 
 denly arrived in London. Keep yourself free 
 all to-morrow, when, no doubt, he will see you. 
 I am hun-yiug off to him. Yours in haste, 
 A, V. M." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Oace more Guy DarrelL 
 
 GrT D.UIRELL was alone. A lofty room in 
 a large house, on the first floor. His own house 
 in Carlton Gardens, which he had occupied dur- 
 ing his brief and brilliant parliamentary career ; 
 since then, left contemptuously to the care of a 
 house-agent, to be let by year or by season, it 
 had known various tenants of an opulence and 
 station suitable to its space and site. Dinners 
 and concerts, routes and balls, had assembled 
 the friends and jaded the spirits of many a gra- 
 cious host and smiling hostess. The tenure of 
 one of these temporary occupants had recently 
 expired, and ere the agent had found another 
 the long-absent owner dropped down into its si- 
 lenced halls as from the clouds, without other 
 establishment than his old servant !Mills and the 
 woman in charge of the house. There, as in a 
 caravanserai, the traveler took his rest, stately 
 and desolate. Nothing so comfortless as one 
 of those large London houses all to one's self. 
 In long rows against the walls stood the empty 
 fauteuUs. Spectral from the gilded ceiling hung 
 lightless chandeliers. The furniture, pompous, 
 but worn by use and faded by time, seemed me- 
 mentoes of departed revels. When you return 
 to yoiu" own house in the country — no matter 
 how long the absence — no matter how decayed 
 by neglect the friendly chambers may be — if it 
 has only been deserted in the mean while (not 
 let to new races, who, by their own shifting dy- 
 nasties, have supplanted the rightful lord, and 
 half-efl'aced his memorials), the walls may still 
 greet you forgivingly, the character of Home be 
 still tiiere. You take up again the thread of as- 
 sociations which had been suspended, not snap- 
 ped. But it is otherwise with a house in cities, 
 especially in our fast-living London, where few 
 houses descend from father to son — where the 
 title-deeds are rarely more than those of a pur- 
 chased lease for a term of years, after which 
 your property quits you. A house in London, 
 which your father never entered, in which no 
 elbow-chair, no old-fashioned work-table, recalls 
 to you the kind smile of a mother — a house that 
 you have left as you leave an inn, let to people 
 whose names you scarce know, with as little re- 
 spect for your family records as you have for 
 theirs. \Mien you return after a long interval 
 of years to a house like that, you stand as stood 
 Darrell — a forlorn stranger under your own 
 roof-tree. What cared he for those who had 
 last gathered round those hearths with their 
 chilL steely grates — whose forms had reclined 
 on those formal couches — whose feet had worn 
 away the gloss from those costly carpets ? His- 
 tories in the lives of many might be recorded 
 within those walls. Lovers there had breathed 
 their first vows; bridal feasts had been held; 
 babes had crowed in the arms of proud young 
 mothers; politicians there had been raised into 
 ministers ; ministers there had fallen back into 
 "independent members;" through those doors 
 coryjses had been borne forth to relentless vaults. 
 For these races and their records what cared 
 the owner? Their writing was not on the walls. 
 Sponged out as from a slate, their reckonings 
 with Time, leaving dim, here and there, some 
 chance scratch of his own, blurred and by-gone. 
 Leaning against the mantle-piece, Darrell gazed 
 
 round the room with a vague, wistful look, as 
 if seeking to conjure up associations that might 
 link the present hour to that jjast life which had 
 slipped away elsewhere ; and his profile, reflect- 
 ed on the mirror behind, pale and mournful, 
 seemed like that ghost of himself which his 
 memorv' silently evoked. 
 
 The man is but little altered externally since 
 we saw him last, however inly changed since he 
 last stood on those unwelcoming floors ; the form 
 still retained the same vigor and symmetry — 
 the same unspeakable dignity of mien and bear- 
 ing — the same thoughtful bend of the proud 
 neck — so distinct, in its elastic rebound, from 
 the stoop of debility or age. Thick as ever the 
 rich mass of dark brown hair, though, when in 
 the impatience of some painful thought, his 
 hand swept the loose curls from his forehead, 
 the silver threads might now be seen shooting 
 here and there — vanishing almost as soon as 
 seen. Xo, whatever the baptismal register may 
 say to the contrary, that man is not old — not 
 even elderly ; in the deep of that clear gray eye 
 light may be calm, but in calm it is vivid; not 
 a ray; sent from brain or from heart, is yet flick- 
 ering down. On the whole, however, there is 
 less composure than of old in his mien and bear- 
 ing — less of that resignation which seemed to 
 say, "I have done with the substances of life." 
 Still there was gloom, but it was more broken 
 and restless. Evidently that human breast was 
 again admitting, or forcing itself to court, hu- 
 man hopes, human objects. Keturning to the 
 substances of life, their movement was seen in 
 the shadows which, when they wrap us round 
 at remoter distance, seem to lose their trouble 
 as they gain their width. He broke from his 
 musing attitude with an abrupt, angry move- 
 ment, as if shaking oft' thoughts which displeased 
 him, and gathering his arms tightly to his breast, 
 in a gesture peculiar to himself, walked to and 
 fro the room, murmuring inaudibly. The door 
 opened; he turned quickly, and with an evident 
 sense of relief, for his face brightened. "Al- 
 ban. my dear Alban I" 
 
 " Darrell — old friend — old school-friend — 
 dear, dear Guy Darrell !" The two Englishmen 
 stood, hands tightly clasped in each other, in 
 true English greeting — their eyes moistening 
 with remembrances that earned them back to 
 boyhood. 
 
 Alban was the first to recover self-possession ; 
 and when the friends had seated themselves, 
 he surveyed Darrell's countenance deliberate- 
 ly, and said: "So little change I — wonderful! 
 What is your secret ?" 
 
 " Suspense from life — hybernating. But you 
 beat me ; you have been spending life, yet seem 
 as rich in it as when we parted." 
 
 "Xo; I begin to decry the present and laud 
 the past — to read with glasses, to decide from 
 prejudice, to recoil from change, to find sense 
 in twaddle — to know the value of health from 
 the fear to lose it — feel an interest in rheuma- 
 tism, an awe of bronchitis — to tell anecdotes 
 and to wear flannel. To you in strict confidence 
 I disclose the truth — I am no longer twenty-five. 
 You laugh — this is civilized talk ; does it not re- 
 fresh you after the gibberish you must have chat- 
 tered in Asia Minor?" 
 
 Darrell might have answered in the affirma- 
 tive with truth. What man, after long years of 
 
150 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 solitude, is not refreshed by talk, however triv- 
 ial, that recalls to him the gay time of the world 
 he remembered in his young day — and recalls 
 it to him on the lips of a friend in youth ! But 
 Darrell said nothing; only he settled himself in 
 his chair with a more cheerful ease, and inclined 
 his relaxing brows with a nod of encouragement 
 or assent. 
 
 Colonel Morley continued. "But when did 
 you arrive? whence? How long do you stay 
 iiere ? What are your plans ?" 
 
 Darrell. "Cscsar could not be more lacon- 
 ic. When arrived? — this evening. Whence? 
 — Ouzelford. How long do I stay ? — uncer- 
 tain. What are my plans? — let us discuss 
 them." 
 
 Colonel Morley. "With all my heart. You 
 have plans, then? — a good sign. Animals in 
 hybernation form none." 
 
 Darrell (Putting aside tlic liglits on the ta- 
 ble, so as to leave his face in shade, and look- 
 ing toward the floor as he speaks). " For the last 
 five years I have struggled hard to renew inter- 
 est in mankind, reconnect myself with common 
 life and its healthful objects. Between Fawlcy 
 and London I desired to form a magnetic me- 
 dium. I took rather a vast one — nearly all the 
 rest of the known world. I have visited both 
 Americas — either Ind. All Asia have I ran- 
 sacked, and pierced as far into Africa as travel- 
 er ever went in search of Timbuctoo. But I 
 have sojourned also, at long intervals — at least 
 they seemed long to me — in the gay capitals of 
 Europe (Paris excepted); mixed, too, witli the 
 gayest — hired palaces, filled them with guests — 
 feasted and heard music. ' Guy Darrell,' said 
 I, ' shake oft' the rust of years — thou hadst no 
 youth while young. Be young now. A holiday 
 may restore thee to wholesome work, as a holi- 
 day restores the wearied school-boy.' " 
 
 Colonel Morley. " I comprehend ; the ex- 
 pei'iment succeeded ?" 
 
 Darrell. "I don't know — not yet — but it 
 may ; I am here, and I intend to stay. I would 
 not go to a hotel for a single day, lest my reso- 
 lution should fail me. I have thrown myself 
 into this castle of care without even a garrison. 
 I hope to hold it. Help me to man it. In a 
 word, and without metaphor, I am here with the 
 design of re-entering London life." 
 
 Colonel Morley. "I am so glad. Hearty 
 congratulations ! How rejoiced all the Viponts 
 will be! Another 'crisis' is at hand. You 
 have seen the newspapei's regularly, of course — 
 the state of the country interests you. You say 
 that you come from Ouzelford, the town you 
 once represented. I guess you will re-enter 
 Paidiament ; you have but to say the word." 
 
 Darrell. "Parliament! No. I received, 
 while abroad, so earnest a i-equest from my old 
 constituents to lay the foundation-stoneof a new 
 Town-hall, in which they are much interested, 
 and my obligations to them have been so great, 
 that I could not refuse. I wrote to fix the day 
 as soon as I had resolved to return to England, 
 making a condition that I should be spared the 
 infliction of a public dinner, and landed just in 
 time to keep my appointment — reached Ouzel- 
 ford early this morning, went through the cere- 
 mony, made a short speech, came on at once 
 to London, not venturing to diverge to Fawley 
 
 twllU^ti ;c not vt^r\- fiv f'-r.m On7Clf(n-d^, ICSt, OnCC 
 
 there again, I should not have strength to leave 
 it — and here I am." Darrell paused, then re- 
 peated, in brisk, emphatic tone: "Parliament? 
 No. Labor ? No. Fellow-man, I am about to 
 confess to you ; I would snatch back some days 
 of youth — a wintry likeness of youth — better 
 than none. Old friend, let us amuse ourselves ! 
 When I was working hard — hard — hard — it was 
 you who would say: 'Come forth, be amused' 
 — You happy butterfly that you were ! Now, I 
 say to you : ' Show me this flaunting town that 
 you know so well ; initiate me into the joy of 
 polite pleasures, social commune — 
 
 ' Dulce niihi furere est aiuico.' 
 You have amusements — let me share them." 
 
 " Faith," quoth the Colonel, crossing his legs, 
 ' ' you come late in the day ! Amusements cease 
 to amuse at last. I have tried all, and begin to 
 be tired. I have had my holiday, exhausted its 
 sports ; and you, coming from books and desk 
 fresh into the playground, say, ■' Football and 
 leapfrog.' Alas ! my poor friend, why did not 
 you come sooner?" 
 
 Darrell. "One word, one question. You 
 have made ease a philosophy and a system ; no 
 man ever did so with more felicitous grace ; nor, 
 in following pleasure, have you parted company 
 with conscience and shame. A fine gentleman 
 ever, in honor as in elegance. Well, are you 
 satisfied with your choice of life ? Are you hap- 
 py?" 
 
 " Happy — who is ? Satisfied — perhaps !" 
 
 "Is there any one you envy — whose choice, 
 other than your own, you would prefer ?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "You." 
 
 "I!" said Darrell, opening his eyes with 
 unaffected amaze. "I! envy me! prefer my 
 choice!" 
 
 Colonel Morley (peevishly). "Without 
 doubt. You have had-^gratified ambition — a 
 great career. Envy you ! who would not ? 
 Your own objects in life fulfilled ; you coveted 
 distinction — you won it ; fortune — your wealth 
 is immense ; the restoration of your name and 
 lineage from obscurity and humiliation — are 
 not name and lineage again written in the Li- 
 bra d'oro ? What king would not hail you as his 
 councilor ? what senate not open its ranks to 
 admit you as a chief ? what house, though the 
 haughtiest in the land, would not accept your 
 alliance ? And withal, you stand before me 
 stalwart and unbowed, young blood still in your 
 veins. Ungrateful man ! who would not change 
 lots with Guy Darrell ? Fame, fortune, health, 
 and, not to flatter you, a form and presence that 
 would be remarked, though you stood in that 
 black frock by the side of a monarch in his cor- 
 onation robes." 
 
 Darrell. " You have turned my questions 
 against myself with a kindliness of intention 
 that makes me forgive your belief in my vanity. 
 Pass on — or rather pass back ; you say you have 
 tried all in life that distracts or sweetens. Not 
 so ; lone bachelor, you have not tried wedlock. 
 Has not that been your mistake ?" 
 
 Colonel Morley. "Answer for yourself. 
 You have tried it." The words were scarce out 
 of his mouth ere he repented the retort. For 
 Darrell started as if stung to the quick ; and his 
 brow, before serene, his lip, before playful, grew, 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 151 
 
 the one darkly troubled, the other tightly com- 
 jiressed. " rardon mc," faltered out the friend. 
 
 Daurell. " Oh yes ; I bronprht it on myself. 
 What stuff we have" been talking ! Tell nic the 
 news — not political — any other. But first, your 
 report of young Ilaughton. Cordial thanks for 
 all vour kindness to him. You write me word 
 that he is much improved — most likeable ; you 
 add that at Paris he became the rage — that in 
 Loiulon you are sure he will be extremely pop- 
 ular. Be it so, if for his own sake. Are you 
 (juite sure that it is not for the expectations 
 which I come here to dissipate ?" 
 
 Coi.oNLL MoRLEY. " Much for himself, I am 
 certain ; a little, perhaps, because, whatever he 
 thinks and I say to the contrary — people seeing 
 no other heir to your property — " 
 
 " I understand," inten-upted Darrell, quickly. 
 " But he does not nurse those expectations? he 
 will not be disa])pointcd ?" 
 
 Colonel Morley. " Verily I believe that, 
 apart from his love for you, and a delicacy of 
 sentiment that would recoil from planting hopes 
 of wealth in the graves of benefactors, Lionel 
 Ilaughton would prefer can-ing his own fortunes 
 to all the ingots hewed out of California by an- 
 other's hand, and bequeathed by another's will." 
 
 "I am heartily glad to hear and to trust 
 yon." 
 
 " I gather from what you say that you are 
 here with the intention to — to — " 
 
 " JIarry again, " said Darrell, firmly. " Right. 
 I am." 
 
 " I always felt sure you would marry again. 
 Is the ladv here, too ?" 
 
 "What lady?" 
 
 " The lady you have chosen ?" 
 
 " Tush — I have chosen none. I come here 
 to choose ; and in this I ask advice from your 
 experience. I would marry again ! I — at my 
 age ! Ridiculous ! But so it is. You know all 
 the mothers and marriageable daughters that 
 London — ariJa iiutrix — rears for nuptial altars 
 — where, among them, shall I, Guy Darrell, the 
 man whom you think so enviable, find the safe 
 helj)mate whose love he may reward with mu- 
 nificent jointure, to whose child he may be- 
 queath the name that has now no successor, and 
 the wealth he has no heart to spend ?" 
 
 Colonel Morley — ^\•ho, as we know, is by hab- 
 it a match-maker, and likes the vocation — as- 
 sumes a placid but cogitative mien, rubs his 
 brow gently, and says, in his softest, best-bred 
 accents, " You would not marry a mere girl ? 
 some one of suitable age ? I know several most 
 superior young women on the other side of thir- 
 ty — Wilhelmina Prymme, for instance, or Ja- 
 net — " 
 
 Darrell. "Old maids. No — decidedly no I" 
 
 Colonel Morley (suspiciously). " But you 
 would not risk the peace of your old age with a 
 girl of eighteen, or else I do know a very ac- 
 complished, well-brought-up girl ; just eighteen 
 — who — " 
 
 Darrell. " Re-enter life by the side of 
 Eighteen ! Am I a madman ?" 
 
 Colonel Morley. " Neither old maids, nor 
 young maids ; the choice becomes narrowed. 
 You would prefer a widow. Ila I I have thought 
 of one I a prize, indeed, could j'ou but win her 
 — the widow of — " 
 
 Darrell. " Ephesus ! Bah ! suggest no ^^•id- 
 
 ow to me. A widow, with her affections buried 
 in the grave !" 
 
 M(jRLEY. " Not necessarily. And in this 
 I case — " 
 
 Darrell (interrupting, and with warmth). 
 " In every case, I tell you, no widow shall doff 
 her weeds for me. Did she love the first man? 
 fickle is the woman who can love twice. Did 
 she not love him? why did she maiTy him? 
 perhaps she sold herself to a rent-roll ? Shall 
 she sell herself again to me, for a jointure? 
 Heaven forbid I Talk not of widows. No dain- 
 ty so flavorless as a Jjeart warmed uji again." 
 
 Colonel Morley. " Neither maids, be they 
 old or young, nor widows. Possibly you want 
 an angel. London is not the place for angels." 
 
 Darrell. " I grant that the choice sccnis in- 
 volved in per])lexity. Ilowcan it be otherwise, 
 if one's self is perjjlexed ? And yet, Alban, I am 
 serious; and I do not jjresume to be so exact- 
 ing as my words have implied. I ask not for- 
 tune, nor rank beyond gentle blood, nor youth, 
 nor beauty, nor accomplishments, nor fashion ; 
 but I do ask one thing, and one thing only." 
 
 "What is that ? yon have left nothing worth 
 the having to ask for." 
 
 " Nothing ! I have left all. I ask some one 
 whom I can love — love better than all the world 
 — not the vtariage de convenance, not the maringe 
 de raison, but the mariage d'amou?-. All other 
 marriage, with vows of love so solemn, with in- 
 timacy of commune so close — all other mar- 
 riage, in my eyes, is an acted falsehood — a var- 
 nished sin. Ah! if I had thought so always) 
 But away, regret and repentance ! The Future 
 alone is now before me. Alban Morley, I would 
 sign away all I have in the world (save the old 
 house at Fawley), ay, and after signing, cut ofl', 
 to boot, this right hand, could I but once fall in 
 love ; love, and be loved again, as any two of 
 Heaven's simplest human creatures may love 
 each other while life is fresh ! Strange, strange 
 — look out into the world ; mark the man of our 
 years who shall be most courted, most adulated, 
 or admired. Give him all the attributes of pow- 
 er, wealth, royalty, genius, fame. See all the 
 younger generations bow before him with hope 
 or awe ; his word can make their fortune ; at 
 his smile a reputation dawns. Well ; now let 
 that man say to the young, ' Room among your- 
 selves — all that wins me this homage I would 
 lay at the feet of Beauty. I enter the lists of 
 love,' and straightway his power vanishes, the 
 poorest booby of twenty-four can jostle him 
 aside ; before the object of reverence he is now 
 the butt of ridicule. The instant lie asks right 
 to win the heart of woman, a boy whom, in all 
 else, he could rule as a lackey, cries, ' Oft", Gray- 
 beard ! t/iat realm at least is mine I' " 
 
 " Tliis were but eloquent extravagance, even 
 if your beard were gi'ay. ^len older than you, 
 and with half your pretensions, even of outward 
 form, have carried away hearts from boys like 
 Adonis. Only choose well ; that's the dithculty 
 — if it was not difficult who would be a bach- 
 elor !" 
 
 " Guide my choice. Pilot me to the haven." 
 
 "Accepted ! But you must remount a suit- 
 able establishment ; reopen your way to the 
 great world, and penetrate those sacred recesses 
 where awaiting sjiinsters weave the fatal web. 
 Leave all to me. Let Mills (I see you have him 
 
152 
 
 . WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 still) call on me to-morrow about your menage. 
 You will give dinners, of course ?" 
 
 " Oh, of cours?. Must I dine at them my- 
 self?" 
 
 Morley laughed softly, and took up his hat. 
 
 " So soon," cried Darrell. " If I fatigue you 
 already, what chance shall I have with new 
 friends ?" 
 
 " So soon ! it is past eleven. And it is you 
 who must be fatigued." 
 
 " No such good luck ; were I fatigued, I might 
 hope to sleep. I will walk back with you. Leave 
 me not alone in this room — alone in the jaws of 
 a Fish ; swallowed up by a creature whose blood 
 is cold." 
 
 "You have something still to say to me," 
 said Alban, when they were in the open air; 
 "I detect it in your manner — ivhat is it ?" 
 
 "I know not. But you have told me no 
 news ; these streets are grown strange to me. 
 Who live now in yonder houses ? once the dwell- 
 ers were my friends." 
 
 " In that house — oh, new people ; I forget 
 their names — but rich — in a year or two, with 
 luck, they may be exclusives, and forget my 
 name. In the other house, Carr Vipont, still." 
 
 "Vipont; those dear Viponts ! what of them 
 all ? crawl they ? sting they ? Bask they in the 
 sun ? or are they in anxious process of a change 
 of skin?" 
 
 " Hush, my dear friend ; no satire on your 
 own connections ; nothing so injudicious. I am 
 a Vipont, too, and all for the family maxim — 
 'Vipont with Vipont, and come what may!'" 
 
 "I stand rebuked. But I am no Vipont. I 
 married, it is true, into their house, and they 
 married, ages ago, into mine ; but no drop in 
 the blood of time-servers flows through the veins 
 of the last childless Darrell. Fardon. I allow 
 the merit of the Vipont race ; no family more 
 excites my respectful interest. What of their 
 births, deaths, and marriages?" 
 
 Colonel MoiiLEY. "As to births, Carr has 
 just welcomed the birth of a grandson ; the first- 
 born of his eldest son (who married last year a 
 daughter of the Duke of Halifax) — a ]»romising 
 young man, a Lord in the Admiralty. Carr 
 
 has a second son in the Hussars ; has just 
 
 purchased his step : the other boys are still at 
 school. He has three daughters too, fine girls, 
 admirably brought up ; indeed, now I think of 
 it, the eldest, Honoria, might suit you ; highly 
 accomplished — well read, interests herself in 
 politics — a great admirer of intellect — of a very 
 serious turn of mind, too." 
 
 Daerell. " A female politician with a seri- 
 ous turn of mind — a farthing rushlight in a 
 London fog ! Hasten on to subjects less gloomy. 
 Whose funeral Achievement is that yonder?" 
 
 Colonel Mokley. " The late Lord Niton's, 
 father to Lady Montfort." 
 
 Dakuell. •" Lady JNIontfort ! Her father was 
 a Lyndsay, and died before the Flood. A del- 
 uge, at least, has gone over me and my world 
 since I looked on the face of his widow." 
 
 Colonel Mokley. "I speak of the present 
 Lord Montfort's wife — the Earl's. You of the 
 poor Marquis's — the last Marquis — the mar- 
 quisate is extinct. Surely, whatever your wan- 
 derings, you must have heard of the death of 
 the last Marquis of Montfort?" 
 
 "Yes, I heard of that," answered Darrell, in 
 a somewhat husky and muttered voice. " So he 
 is dead, the young man ! — What killed him ?" 
 
 Colonel Moeley. "A violent attack of 
 croup — quite sudden. He was staying at Carr's 
 at the time. I suspect that Carr made him 
 talk I a thing he was not accustomed to do : 
 deranged his system altogether. But don't let 
 us revive painful subjects." 
 
 Daeeell. " Was she with him at the time ?" 
 
 Colonel Morley. " Lady Montfort ? — 'No ; 
 they were very seldom together." 
 
 Daeeell. " She is not married again yet?" 
 
 Colonel Moeley. " No, but still young, and 
 so beautiful, she will have many offers. I know 
 those who are waiting to propose. Montfort has 
 been only dead eighteen months — died just be- 
 fore young Carr's marriage. His widow lives, 
 in complete seclusion, at her jointure-house near 
 Twickenham. She has only seen even me once 
 since her loss." 
 
 Darrell. " When was that ?" 
 
 Morley'. " About six or seven months ago ; 
 she asked after you with much interest." 
 
 Darrell. "After me!" 
 
 Colonel Morley'. " To be sure. Don't I 
 remember how constantly she and her mother 
 were at your house? Is it strange that she 
 should ask after you? Y'ou ought to know her 
 better — the most affectionate, grateful charac- 
 ter." 
 
 Darrell. "I dare say. But at the time you 
 refer to I was too occupied to acquire much ac- 
 curate knowledge of a young lady's character. 
 I should have kno^vn her mother's character 
 better, yet I mistook even that." 
 
 Colonel Morley. " Mrs. Lyndsay's charac- 
 ter j-ou might well mistake — charming but ar- 
 tificial : Lady Montfort is natural. Indeed, if 
 you had not that liberal prejudice against wid- 
 ows, she was the very person I was about to sug- 
 gest to you." 
 
 Darrell. " A fashionable beauty, and young 
 enough to be my daughter! Such is human 
 friendship ! So the marquisate is extinct, and 
 Sir James Vipont, whom I remember in the 
 House of Commons — respectable man — great 
 authority on cattle — timid, and always saying, 
 '■Did you read that article in to-day's paper?' 
 — has the estates and the earldom." 
 
 Colonel Morley. "Yes. There was some 
 fear of a disputed succession, but Sir James 
 made his claim very clear. Between you and 
 me, the change has been a serious affliction to 
 the Viponts. The late Lord was not wise, but 
 on State occasions he looked his part — tres 
 Grand Seigneur — and Carr managed the family 
 influence with admirable tact. The present 
 Lord has the habits of a yeoman ; his wife shares 
 his tastes. He has taken the management not 
 only of the property, but of its influence, out of 
 Carr's hands, and will make a sad mess of it, for 
 he is an impracticable, obsolete politician. He 
 will never keep the family together — impossible 
 — a sad thing. I remember how our last muster, 
 five years ago next Christmas, struck terror 
 
 into Lord 's Cabinet ; the mere report of 
 
 it in the newspapers set all people talking and 
 thinking. The result was, that, two weeks 
 after, proper overtures were made to Carr — he 
 consented to assist the Ministers — and the 
 Country was saved ! Now, thanks to this stu- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 153 
 
 pid new Earl, in eighteen months we have lost ' 
 ground wliich it took at least a century and a 
 half to gain. Our votes are divided, our intlu- 
 enoe frittered away ; Montfort House is shut u]), I 
 and Carr, grown quite thin, says that, in the j 
 coming ' crisis' a Cabinet will not only be form- 
 ed, but will also last— last time enough for ir- i 
 reparable mischief — without a single Vipont iu 
 office." I 
 
 Thus Colonel Morley continued in mournful I 
 strain, Darrell silent by his side, till the Colonel 
 reached his own door. There, while applying 
 his latch-key to the lock, Alban's mind return- 
 ed from the perils that threatened the House 
 of Vipont and the Star of Brunswick to the 
 pcttv cliiims of private friendship. But even 
 these last were now blended with those grander 
 interests, due care for which every true patriot 
 of the House of Vipont imbibed with his mo- 
 ther's milk. 
 
 " Your appearance in town, my dear Darrell, 
 is most opportune. It will be an object with the 
 whole family to make the most of you at this 
 coming ' ckisis' — I say coming, for I believe it 
 nmst come. Your name is still frcslily remem- 
 bered — your position greater for having been 
 out of all the scrapes of the party the last si.v.- 
 teen or seventeen years ; your house should be 
 the nucleus of new combinations. Don't forget 
 to send Mills to me ; I will engage your c/icf 
 and your house-steward to-morrow. I know 
 just the men to suit yon. Y''our intention to 
 marry, too, just at this moment, is most season- 
 able ; it will increase the family interest. I may 
 give out that you intend to marry ?" 
 
 "Oil, certainly — cry it at Charing Cross." 
 
 " A club-room will do as well. T beg ten 
 thousanil pardons ; but peo])lc will talk about 
 money whenever they talk about marriage. L 
 should not like to exaggerate your fortune — I 
 know it must be very large, and all at your own 
 disposal — eh ?" 
 
 " Every shilling." 
 
 " You 'must have saved a great deal since you 
 retired into jirivate life ?" 
 
 " Take that for granted. Dick Fairthom re- 
 ceives my rents, and looks to my various invest- 
 ments ; and I take him as my indisputable au- 
 thority when I say that, what with the rental of 
 lands I purchased in my poor boy's lifetime, and 
 the interest on my much more lucrative money- 
 ed capital, you may safely wiiisjier to all ladies 
 likely to feel interest in that ditt'usion of knowl- 
 edge, ' Thirty-five thousand a year, and an old 
 fool.' " 
 
 " I certainly shall not say an old fool, for I am 
 the same age as yourself; and if I had £155,000 
 a year I would marry too." 
 
 " You would ! Old fool !" said Darrell, turn- 
 ing away. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IJere.iling glimpses of Guy DarreU's past in his envied 
 prime. I >iK but deep enough, nnd under all earth runs 
 water, undiT all life runs grief. 
 
 Alonk in the streets, the vivacity which had 
 characterized DarreU's countenance as well as 
 his words, while with his old school friend, 
 changed as suddenly and as completely into 
 pensive abstracted gloom as if he had been act- 
 
 ing a part, and with the exit the acting ceased. 
 Disinclined to return yet to the solitude of his 
 home, he walked on, at first mechanically, in 
 the restless desire of movement, he cared not 
 whither. But, as thus chance-led, he found 
 himself in tlie centre of that long straight 
 thoroughfare which connects what once were 
 the seijaratc villages of Tyburn and Holborn, 
 something in the desultory links of reverie sug- 
 gested an object to his devious feet. He had 
 but to follow that street to his right hand to 
 gain, in a fpiarter of an hour, a sight of the 
 humble dwelling-house in which he had first 
 settled down, after his early marriage, to tho 
 arid labors of the bar. Hew ould go, now that, 
 wealthy and renowned, he was revisiting the 
 long deserted focus of English energies, and . 
 contemplate the obscure abode in which his 
 powers had been first concentred on the pursuit 
 of renown and wealth. Who among my read- 
 ers that may have risen on the glittering steep 
 ("Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb?"*) 
 has not been similarly attracted toward the roof, 
 at the craggy foot of the ascent, under which 
 golden dreams refreshed his straining sinews? 
 Somewhat quickening his stejis, now that a 
 bourne was assigned to them, the man growing 
 old in years, but, unhappily for himself, too 
 tenacious of youth in its grand discontent, and 
 keen susceptibilities to pain, strode noiselessly 
 on, under the gaslights, under the stars ; gas- 
 lights primly marshaled at equidistance ; stars 
 that seem, to the naked eye, dotted over space 
 without symmetry or method — Man's order, 
 near and finite, is so distinct; the Maker's or- 
 der, remote, infinite, is so beyond ]\Ian's com- 
 prehension even of irhat is order! 
 
 Darrell paused, hesitating. He had now gain- 
 ed a spot in which improvement had altered the 
 landmarks. The superb broad thoroughfare con- 
 tinued where once it had vanished abrupt in a 
 labyrinth of courts and alleys. But the way was 
 not hard to find. He turned a little toward the 
 left, recognizing, with admiring interest, in the 
 gay white would-be Grecian edifice, with its 
 French ffrille, bronzed, gilded, the transformed 
 Museum, in the still libraries of which he had 
 sometimes snatched a brief and ghostly respite 
 from books of law. Onward yet through lifeless 
 Bloomsbury, not so far toward the last bounds 
 of Atlas asthe desolation of Todden Place, but 
 the solitude deepening as he passed. There 
 it is, a quiet street indeed! not a soul on its 
 gloomy pavements — not even a policeman's soul. 
 Naught stirring save a stealthy, profiigate, good- 
 for-nothing cat, flitting fine through yon area 
 bars. Down that street had he come, I trow, 
 with a livelier, quicker step the day when, by 
 the strange good luck which had uniformly at- 
 tended his worldly career of honors, he had l)een 
 suddenly called upon to supply the place of an 
 absent senior, and, in almost his earliest brief, 
 the Courts of Westminster had recognized a 
 master ; come, I trow, with a livelier stc]>, knock- 
 ed at that very door whereat he is halting now; 
 entered the room where the young wife sat, and 
 at sight of her querulous peevish face, and at 
 sound of her unsympathizing languid voice, fled 
 into his cupboard-like back-parlor— and mutter- 
 
 • "Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb 
 
 The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afarr 
 
 Beattie. 
 
154 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 ed " courage" — courage to endure the home he 
 had entered longing for a voice which should 
 invite and respond to a crv of joj. 
 
 How closed up, dumb, and blind, looked the 
 small mean house, with its small mean door, its 
 small mean rayless windows. Yet a Fame had 
 been born there I Who are the residents now? 
 Buried in slumber, have tJtey anv " golden 
 dreams ?"' Works therein any struggling brain, 
 to which the prosperous man might whisper 
 " courage ;" or beats, there, any troubled heart 
 to which faithful woman should murmur "joy?" 
 Who knows ? London is a wondrous poem, but 
 each page of it is written in a different language ; 
 no lexicon yet composed for any. 
 
 Back through the street, under the gaslights, 
 under the stars went Guy Darrell, more slow 
 and more thoughtful. Did the comparison be- \ 
 tween what he had been, what he was, the mean 
 home just revisited, the stately home to which 
 he would return, suggest thoughts of natural 
 pride ? it would not seem so ; no pride in those 
 close-shut lips, in that melancholy stoop. 
 
 He came into a quiet square — still Blooms- 
 bury — and right before him was a large respect- 
 able mansion, almost as large as that one in 
 courtlier quarters, to which he loiteringly de- 
 layed the lone return. There, too, had been, 
 for a time, the dwelling which was called his 
 home — there, when gold was rolling in like a 
 tide, distinction won, position assured, there — 
 not yet in Parliament, but foremost at the bar — 
 already pi-essed by constituencies, already wooed 
 by ministers — there, still young (oh, luckiest of 
 lawyei-s I) — there had he moved his household 
 gods. Fit residence for a Prince of the Gown. 
 Is it when living there that you would envy the ! 
 prosperous man ? Yes, the moment his step <?i«V.-; 
 that door; but envy him when he enters its 
 threshold? — nay, envy rather that roofless Sa- , 
 voyard who has crept under yonder portico, 
 asleep with his ragged arm round the cage of | 
 his stupid dormice ! There, in that great bar- \ 
 ren drawing-room, sits a 
 
 '■Pale and elegant Aspasia." 
 Well, but the wife's face is not querulous now. j 
 Look again — anxious, fearful, secret, sly. Oh, ' 
 that fine lady, a Vipont Crooke, is not content- 
 ed to be wife to the wealthy, great Mr. Darrell. 
 What wants she ? that he should be spouse to 
 the fashionable fine Mrs. Darrell? Pride in 
 him! not a jot of it; such pride were unchris- j 
 tian. Were he proud of her, as a Chiistian 
 husband ought to be of so elegant a wife, would 
 he still be in Bloomsburr ? Envy him ! the high 
 gentleman, so true to his blood, all galled and 
 blistered by the moral vulgarities of a tuft-hunt- 
 ing, toad-eating mimic of the Lady Selinas. 
 En\-y him ! well, why not ? All women have ' 
 their foibles. Wise husbands must bear and 
 forbear. Is that all ? wherefore, then, is her i 
 aspect so furtive, wherefore on his a wild, vigi- i 
 lant sternness ? Tut, what so brings into cov- ! 
 eted fashion a fiiir lady exiled to Bloomsbnry 
 as the marked adoration of a lord, not her own, '. 
 who gives law to St. James's 1 Untempted by 
 passion, cold as ice to affection, if thawed to the 
 gush of a sentiment, secretly preferring the hus- 
 band she chose, wooed, and won, to idlers less 
 gifted even in outward attractions ; all this, yet 
 seeking, coquetting for, the eckit of dishonor I 
 To elope ! Oh, no, too wary for that, but to be 
 
 gazed at and talked of, as the fair ]Mrs. Darrell, 
 to whom the Lovelace of London was so fondly 
 devoted. Walk in, haughty son of the Dare-all, 
 Darest thou ask who has just left thy house? 
 Darest thou ask what and whence is the note 
 that sly hand has secreted? Darest thou? — 
 perhaps yes : what then ? canst thou lock up 
 thy wife ? canst thou poniard the Lovelace ? 
 Lock up the air ; poniard all whose light word 
 in St. James's can bring into fashion the matron 
 of Bloomsburyl Go, lawyer, go, study briefs, 
 and be parchment. 
 
 Agonies — agonies — shot again through Guy 
 Darrell's breast, as he looked on that large, most 
 respectable house, and remembered his hourly 
 campaign against disgrace ! He has triumph- 
 ed. Death fights for him : on the very brink 
 of the last scandal, a cold, caught at some Vi- 
 pont's ball, became fever ; and so from that door 
 the Black Horses bore away the Bloomsbury 
 Dame, ere she was yet — the fashion I Happy 
 in grief the widower who may, with confiding 
 hand, ransack the lost wife's harmless desk, sure 
 that no thought concealed from him in hfe will 
 rise accusing from the treasured papers I But 
 that pale, proud mourner, hurrying the eye over 
 sweet-scented billets, compelled, in very justice 
 to the dead, to convince himself that the mo- 
 ther of his children was corrupt only at heart — 
 that the Black Horses had couic to the door in 
 time — and, wretchedly consoled by that nig- 
 gardly conviction, flinging into the flames the 
 last flimsy tatters on which his honor (rock-like 
 in his own keeping) had been fluttering to and 
 fro in the charge of a vain, treacherous fool ! 
 Envy you that mourner ? No ! not even in his 
 rel.ease. ilemory is not nailed down in the vel- 
 vet coffin; and to great loyal natures, less bit- 
 ter is the memory of the lost when hallowed by 
 tender sadness, than when coujiled with scorn 
 and shame. 
 
 The wife is dead. Dead, too, long years ago, 
 the Lothario I The world has forgotten them ; 
 they fade out of this very record when ye turn 
 the page ; no influence, no bearing have they 
 on such future events as may mark what yet 
 rests of life to Guy Darrell. But as he there 
 stands and gazes into space, the two forms are 
 before his eye as distinct as if living still. Slow- 
 ly, slowly he gazes them down ; the false smiles 
 flicker away from their feeble lineaments ; woe 
 and terror on their aspects — they sink, they 
 shrivel, they dissolve ! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The wreck cast back from Charybdis. 
 Souviens-toi de ta Gabrielle. 
 
 Gut Darkell turned hurriedly from the large 
 house in the great square, and, more and more 
 absorbed in reverie, he wandered out of his di- 
 rect way homeward, clear and broad though it 
 was, and did not rouse himself till he felt, as it 
 were, that the air had grown darker ; and look- 
 ing vaguely round, he saw that he had strayed 
 into a dim maze of lanes and passages. He 
 paused under one of the rare lamp-posts, gath- 
 ering up his recollections of the London he had 
 so long quitted, and doubtful for a moment or 
 two which turn to take. Just then, up from an 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 i; 
 
 allev fronting him at right angles, came sullen- 
 ly, warily, a tall, sinewy, ill-boding tatterdema- 
 lion figure, and seeing DarrcU's face under the 
 lamp, "halted abrupt at the mouth of the narrow 
 jiassage from which it had emerged — a dark 
 form filling up the dark aperture. Does that I 
 ragged wayfarer recognize a foe by the imper- 
 fect ray ofthe lamplight? or is he a mere vul- j 
 rrsLT footpad, who is doubting whether he should | 
 spring upon a prey ? Hostile his look — his ges- , 
 ture— the sudden" cowering down of the strong 
 frame, as if for a bound ; but still he is irreso- j 
 lute. What awes him ? What awes the tiger, ! 
 who would obey his blood-instinct without fear, 
 in his rush on the Negro — the Hindoo — but who 
 halts and hesitates at sight of the white man — t 
 the lordly son of Europe ? Darreli's eye was 
 turned toward the dark passage — toward the 
 dark figure — carelessly, neither recognizing, nor 
 fearing, nor defying — carelessly, as at any harm- 
 less object in crowded streets, and at broad day. 
 But while that eye was on him, the tatterdema- 
 lion halted ; and, indeed, whatever his hostility, 
 or whatever his daring, the sight of Darrell took 
 him by so sudden a sui-prise, that he could not 
 at once re-collect his thoughts, and determine 
 how to approach the quiet, unconscious man 
 who, in reach of his spring, fronted his over- 
 whelmin#c physical strength with the habitual 
 air of di^Tiified command. His first impulse 
 was that of violence ; his second impulse curb- 
 ed the first. But Dan-ell now turns quickly, 
 and walks straight on ; the figure quits the 
 mouth of the passage, and follows with a long 
 and noiseless stride. It has nearly gained Dar- 
 rell. With what intent ? A fierce one, per- 
 haps — for the man's face is sinister, and his 
 state evidently desperate — when there emerges 
 unexpectedly from an ugly-looking court or cul 
 lie sac, just between Dan-ell and his pursuer, a 
 slim, long-backed, buttoned-up, weasel-faced 
 policeman. The policeman eyes the tatterde- 
 malion instinctively, then turns his glance to- 
 ward the soUtary, defenseless gentleman in ad- 
 vance, and walks on, keeping himself between 
 the two. The tatterdemalion stifles an impa- 
 tient curse. Be his purpose force, be it only 
 supplication, be it colloquy of any kind, impos- 
 ■• sible to fulfill it while that policeman is there. 
 True, that in his powerful hands he could have 
 clutched that slim, long-backed officer, and bro- 
 ken him in two as a willow wand. But that of- 
 ficer is the Personation of Law, and can stalk 
 through a legion of tatterdemalions as a ferret 
 may glide through a barn full of rats. The 
 prowler feels he is suspected. L'nknown as yet 
 to the London police, he has no desire to invite 
 their scrutiny. He crosses the way ; he falls 
 back ; he follows from afar. The policeman 
 may yet turn away before the safer streets of 
 the metropolis be gained. No ; the cursed In- 
 carnation of Law, with eyes in its slim back, 
 continues its slow stride at the heels of the un- 
 suspicious Darrell. The more solitary defiles 
 are alreadv passed — now that dim lane, with its 
 dead wall on one side. By the dead wall skulks 
 the prowler; on the other side still walks The 
 Law. Now — alas for the prowler I — shine out 
 the thoroughfares, no longer dim nor deserted 
 — Leicester Square, the Haymarket, Pall Mall, 
 Carlton Gardens ; Darrell is at his door. The 
 policeman turns sharply round. There, at the 
 
 comer near the learned Club-house, halts the 
 tatterdemalion. Toward the tatterdemalion the 
 policeman now advances quickly. The tatter- 
 demalion is quicker still — fled like a guilty 
 thought. 
 
 Back — back — back into that maze of passages 
 and courts — back to the mouth of that black al- 
 ley. There he halts again. Look at him. He 
 has arrived in London but that very night, aft- 
 er an absence of more than four years. He has 
 arrived from the sea-side on foot ; see, his shoes 
 are worn into holes. He has not yet found a 
 shelter for the night. He had been directed to- 
 ward that quarter, thronged with adventurers, 
 native and foreign, for a shelter, safe, if squalid. 
 It is somewhere near that court, at the mouth 
 of which he stands. He looks i-ound, the po- 
 liceman is bafrled, the coast clear. He steals 
 forth, and pauses under the same gaslight as 
 that under which Guy Darrell had paused be- 
 fore — under the same gaslight, under the same 
 stars. From some recess in his rags he draws 
 forth a large, distained, distended pocket-book 
 — last relic of sprucer days — leather of dainty 
 morocco, once elaborately tooled, patent springs, 
 fairy lock, fit receptacle for bank-notes, billets- 
 doux, memoranda of debts of honor, or jileasur- 
 able engagements. Now how worn, tarnished, 
 greasy, rapscallion-like, the costly bauble ! Fill- 
 ed with what motley, unlovable contents — stalp 
 pawn-tickets of foreign inonts de jtiete, pledges 
 never henceforth to be redeemed ; scrawls by 
 villainous hands in thievish hieroglyphics ; ugly 
 implements replacing the malachite penknife, 
 the golden tooth-pick, the jeweled pencil-case, 
 once so neatly set within their satin lappets. 
 L'gly implements, indeed — a file, a gimlet, load- 
 ed dice. Pell-mell, with such more hideous and 
 recent contents, dishonored evidences of gaudi- 
 er summer life — locks of ladies' hair, love-notes 
 treasured mechanically, not from amorous sen- 
 timent, but perhaps from some vague idea that 
 they might be of use if those who gave the 
 locks or wrote the notes should be raised in for- 
 tune, and could buy back the memorials of 
 shame. Diving amidst these miscellaneous 
 documents and treasures, the j)rowler's hand 
 rested on some old letters in clerk-like fair ca- 
 ligraphy, tied round with a dirty string, and on 
 them, in another and fresher writing, a scrap 
 that contained an address — " tSamucl Adoli)hus 
 Poole, Esq.,- Alhambra Villa, Regent's Park." 
 " To-morrow, Nix my Dolly ; to-morrow," mut- 
 tered the tatterdemalion ; "but to-night — plague 
 on it, where is the other blackguard's direction ? 
 Ah, here — " And he extracted from the thiev- 
 ish scrawls a peadiarlj thievish-looking hiero- 
 glvph. Now, as he lifts it up to read by the gas- 
 light, survey him well. Do you not know him? 
 Is°it possible? What! the" brilliant sharper! 
 The ruffian exquisite ! Jasper Losely ! Can it 
 be ? Once before, in the fields of Fawlcy, we 
 beheld him out of elbows, seedy, shabby, ragged. 
 But then it was the decay of" a foppish spend- 
 thrift — clothes distained," ill-assorted, yet still 
 of fine cloth; shoes in holes, yet still pearl-col- 
 ored brodequins. But now it is the decay of no 
 foppish spendthrift ; the rags arc not of fine 
 ' cloth ; the tattered shoes are not brodequins. 
 j The man has fallen far below the polifer grades 
 j of knavery, in which the sharper aflects the 
 i beau. Aiid the countenance, as we last saw it, 
 
15G 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 if it had lost mncli of its earlier beauty, was still 
 incontestably handsome. What with vigor, and 
 health, and animal spirits, then on the aspect 
 still lingered light ; nou\ from corruption, the 
 light itself was gone. In that Herculean con- 
 stitution excess of all kinds had at length forced 
 its ravage, and the ravage was \-isible in the ru- 
 ined face. The once sparkling eye was dull and 
 bloodshot. The colors of the cheek, once clear 
 and vivid, to which fiery diink had only sent the 
 blood in a warmer glow, were now of a leaden 
 dullness, relieved but by broken streaks of angiy 
 red — like gleams of flame struggling through 
 gathered smoke. The profile, once sharp and 
 delicate like Apollo's, was now confused in its 
 swollen outline ; a few years more, and it would 
 be gross as that of Silenus — the nostrils, dis- 
 tended with incipient carbuncles, which betray 
 the gnawing fang that alcohol fastens into the 
 liver. Evil passions had destroyed the outline 
 of the once beautiful lips, arched as a Cupid's 
 bow. The sideling, lowering, villainous ex- 1 
 pression which had formerly been but occasion- ' 
 al, was now habitual and heightened. It was 
 the look of the bison before it gores. It is true, 
 however, that even yet on the countenance there 
 lingered the trace of that lavish favor bestowed 
 on it by nature. An artist would still have said, 
 " How handsome that ruggamufiin must have 
 been I" And true is it, also, that there was yet i 
 that about the bearing of the man which con- 
 trasted his squalor, and seemed to say that he 
 had not been born to wear rags, and loiter at [ 
 midnight among the haunts of thieves. Nay, I 
 am not sui-e that you would have been as incred- : 
 ulous now, if told that the wild outlaw before i 
 you had some claim by birth or by nurture to ' 
 the rank of gentleman, as you would had yoii 
 seen the gay spendthrift in his gaudy day. For 
 then he seemed below, and now he seemed 
 above, the grade in which he took place. And 
 all this made his aspect yet more sinister, and 
 the impression that he was dangerous yet more 
 profound. Muscular strength often remains to 
 a powerful frame long after the constitution is 
 undermined, and Jasper's Losely's frame was 
 still that of a formidable athlete ; nay, its 
 strength was yet more apparent now that the 
 shoulders and limbs had increased in bulk, than 
 when it was half-disguised in the lissom sym- 
 metry of exquisite proportion — less active, less 
 supple, less capable of endurance, but with more 
 crushing weight in its rush or its blow. It was 
 the figure in which brute force seems so to pre- 
 dominate that in a savage state it would have 
 worn a crown — the figure which secures com- 
 mand and authority in all societies where force 
 alone gives the law. Thus, under the gaslight 
 and under the stars, stood the terrible animal — 
 a strong man imbruted — " Souviens-toi l»e ta 
 Gabhielle." There, still uneffaced, though the 
 gold-threads are all tarnished and ragged, are 
 the ominous words on the silk of the she-devil's 
 love-token ! But Jasper has now inspected the 
 direction on the paper he held to the lamp- 
 light, and, satisfying himself that he was in the 
 right quarter, restored the paper to the bulky, 
 distended pocket-book, and walked sullenly on 
 toward the court from which had emerged the 
 policeman who had crossed his prowling chase. 
 " It is tlie most infernal shame," said Losely, 
 between his grinded teeth, " that I should be 
 
 driven to these wretched dens for a lodging, 
 while that man who ought to feel bound to main- 
 tain me should be rolling in wealth, and cotton- 
 ed up in a palace. But he shall fork out. So- 
 phy must be hunted up. I will clothe her in 
 rags like these. She shall sit at his street-door. 
 I will shame the miserly hunks. But how track 
 the girl ? Have I no other hold over him ? Can 
 I send Dolly Poole to him? How addled my 
 brains are! — want of food — want of sleep. Is 
 this the place ? Peuh!" 
 
 Thus murmuring he now reached the arch of 
 the court, and was swallowed up in its gloom. 
 A few strides, and he came into a square open 
 space, only lighted by the skies. A house, larg- 
 er than the rest, which were of the meanest or- 
 der, stood somewhat back, occupying nearly one 
 side of the quadrangle — old, dingy, dilapidated. 
 At the door of this house stood another man, 
 applying his latch-key to the lock. As Losely 
 approached, the man turned quickly, half in fear, 
 half in menace — a small, very thin, impish-look- 
 ing man, with peculiarly restless features that 
 seemed trying to run away from his face. Thin 
 as he was, he looked all skin and no bones — a 
 gobhn of a man whom it would not astonish you 
 to hear could creep through a keyhole. Seem- 
 ing still more shadowy and impalpable by his 
 slight, thin, sable dress, not of cloth, but a sort 
 of stuff like alpaca. Xor was that dress ragged, 
 nor, as seen but in starlight, did it look worn or 
 shabby ; still you had but to glance at the creat- 
 ure to feel that it was a child in the same Fam- 
 ily of Xight as the ragged felon that towered by 
 its side. The two outlaws stared at each other. 
 "Cutts I" said Losely, in the old rollicking voice, 
 but in a hoarser, rougher key — " Cutts, my boy, 
 here I am, welcome me !" 
 
 " What ! General Jas. I" retnrned Cutts, in a 
 tone which was not without a certain respectful 
 awe, and then proceeded to pour out a series of 
 questions in a mysterious language, which may 
 be thus translated and abridged : " How Icng 
 have you been in England? how has it fared 
 with you? you seem very badly oft? coming 
 here to hide ? nothing very bad, I hope ? what 
 is it?" 
 
 Jasper answered in the same language, though 
 with less practiced mastery of it — and with that 
 constitutional levity which, whatever the time or 
 circumstance, occasionally gave a strange sort 
 of wit, or queer, uncanny, devd-me-care vein of 
 drollery, to his modes of expression. 
 
 "Three months of the worst luck man ever 
 had — a row vrith. the gens-iTarmes — long story 
 — three of our pals seized — affair of the galleys 
 for them, I suspect — French frogs can't seize 
 me — fricasseed one or two of them — broke away 
 — crossed the countr}- — reached the coast — found 
 an honest smuggler — landed ofi" Sussex with a 
 few other kegs of brandy — remembered you — 
 preserved the address you gave me — and conde- 
 scend to this rat-hole for a night or so. Let me 
 in — knock up somebody — break open the larder 
 — I want to eat — I am famished — I should have 
 eaten you by this time, only there's nothing on 
 your bones." 
 
 The little man opened the door — a passage 
 black as Erebus. " Give me your hand. Gener- 
 al." Jasper was led through the pitchy gloom 
 for a few yards ; then the guide found a gas- 
 cock, and the place broke suddenly into light. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 157 
 
 A dirty narrow stair-case on one side ; facing it, 
 a sort "of lobby, in which an open door showed a 
 long, sanded parlor, like that in public-houses — 
 several tables, benches, the walls whitewashed, 
 but adorned with sundry ingenious designs made 
 by charcoal or the smoked ends of clay-pipes. 
 A strong smell of stale tobacco and of gin and 
 rum. Another gaslight, swinging from the cen- 
 tre of the ceiling, sprang into light as Cutts 
 touched the tap-cock. 
 
 '« Wait here, " said the guide. " I will go and 
 get you some supper." 
 
 "And some brandy," said Jasper. 
 " Of course." 
 
 The bravo threw himself at length on one of 
 the tables, and, closing his eyes, moaned. His 
 vast strength had become acquainted with phys- 
 ical pain. In its stout knots and fibres, aches 
 and sharp twinges, the dragon-teeth of which 
 had been sown years ago in revels or brawls, 
 which then seemed to bring but innocuous joy 
 and easy triumph, now began to gnaw and grind. 
 But when Cutts reappeared with coarse viands 
 and the brandy-bottle, Jasper shook off the sense 
 of pain, as does a wounded wild beast that can 
 still devour ; and after regaling fast and raven- 
 ously, he emptied half the bottle at a draught, 
 and felt himself restored and fresh. 
 
 " Shall you fling yourself among the swell fel- 
 lows who iiold their club here. General?" asked 
 Cutts ; " 'tis a bad trade, every year it gets worse. 
 Or have you not some higher game in your 
 eye ?" 
 
 " I have higher game in my eye. One bird I 
 marked down this very night. But that may be 
 slow work, and uncertain. I have in this pocket- 
 book a bank to draw upon meanwhile." 
 
 "How? — forged French billets de banque — 
 dangerous." 
 
 "Pooh ! better than that ; letters which prove 
 theft against a respectable rich man." 
 "Ah, you expect hush-money?" 
 " Exactly so. I have good friends in Lon- 
 don." 
 
 "Among them, I suppose, that affectionate 
 ' adopted mother' who would have kept you in 
 such order." 
 
 "Thousand thundei-s! I hope not. I am not 
 a superstitious man, but I fear that woman as if 
 she were a witch, and I believe she is one. You 
 remember black Jean, whom we called Sans cu- 
 lotte. He would have filled a church-yard with 
 his own brats for a five-franc piece ; but he 
 would not have crossed a church-yard alone at 
 night for a thousand Naps. Well, that woman 
 to me is what a church-yard was to black Jean. 
 No ; if she is in London, I have but to go to her 
 house and say, ' Food, shelter, money ;' and I 
 would rather ask Jack Ketch for a rope." 
 
 "How do you account for it, General? She 
 does not beat you — she is not your wife. I have 
 seen many a stout fellow, who would stand fire 
 without blinking, show the white feather at a 
 scold's tongue. But then he must be spliced to 
 her — " 
 
 "Cutts, that grifiin does not scold — she 
 preaches. She wants to make me spooney, 
 Cutts — she talks of my young days, Cutts — she 
 wants to blight me into what she calls an hon- 
 est man, Cutts ; — the virtuous dodge ! She snubs 
 and cows me, and frightens me out of my wits, 
 Catts. For I do believe that the witch is de- 
 
 termined to have me, body and soul, and to 
 marry me some day in spite of myself, Cutts. 
 And if ever you see me about to be clutched in 
 those horrible paws, poison me with ratsbane, 
 or knock me on the head, Cutts." 
 
 The little man laughed a little laugh, sharp 
 and eldritch, at the strange cowardice of the 
 stalwart dare-devil. But Jasper did hot echo the 
 laugh. 
 
 "Hush !" he said, timidly, "and let me have 
 a bed, if you can ; I have not slept in one for a 
 week, and my nerves are shaky." 
 
 The imp lighted a candle-end at the gas-lamp, 
 and conducted Losely up the stairs to his o^^^l 
 sleeping-room, which was less comfortless than 
 might be supposed. He resigned his bed to the 
 wanderer, who flung himself on it, rags and all. 
 But sleep was no more at his command than it 
 is at a king's. 
 
 " Why the did you talk of that witch?" 
 
 he cried, jieevishly, to Cutts, who was composing 
 himself to rest on the floor. " I swear I fsmcy 
 I feel her sitting on my chest like a nightmare." 
 He turned with a vehemence which shook the 
 walls, and wrapped the coverlid round him, 
 plunging his head into its folds. Strange though 
 it seem to the novice in human nature — to Jas- 
 per Losely the woman who had so long lived but 
 for one object — viz., to save him from the gibbet, 
 was as his evil genius, his haunting fiend. He 
 had conceived a prof^ound terror of her, from 
 the moment he perceived that she was resolutely 
 bent upon making him honest. He had broken 
 from her years ago — fled — resumed his evil 
 courses — hid himself from her — in vain. Wher- 
 ever he went, there went she. He might baftle 
 the police, not her. Hunger had often forced 
 him to accept her aid. As soon as he received 
 it, he hid from her again, burying himself deeper 
 and deeper in the mud, like a persecuted tench. 
 He associated her idea with all the ill-luck that 
 had befallen him. Several times some villainous 
 scheme on which he had counted to make his 
 fortune had been baffled in the most mysteri- 
 ous way ; and just when baffled — and there 
 seemed no choice but to cut his own throat or 
 some one else's — up turned grim Arabella Crane, 
 in the iron-gray go^Ti, and with the iron-gray 
 ringlets — hatefully, awfully beneficent — offering 
 food, shelter, gold — and some demoniacal, hon- 
 orable work. Often had he been in imminent 
 peril from watchful law or treacherous accom- 
 plice. She had warned and saved him as she 
 had saved him from the fell Gabrielle Desmarets, 
 who, unable to bear the sentence of penal servi- 
 tude, after a long process defended with aston- 
 ishing skill, and enlisting the romantic sympa- 
 thies of young France, had contrived to escape 
 into another -(TOrld by means of a subtle poison 
 concealed about her distinguee person, and which 
 she had prepared years ago with her own blood- 
 less hands, and no doubt scientifically tested its 
 eft'ect on others. The cobra capella is gone at 
 last! '' Souviens-toi de ta Gabrielle" O Jasper 
 j Losely ! But why Arabella Crane should thus 
 I continue to watch over him whom she no longer 
 professed to love— how she should thus have ac- 
 quired the gift of ubiquity and the power to save 
 him— Jasp'er Losely could not conjecture. The 
 whole thing seexne"d to him weird and super- 
 natural. Most truly did he say that she had 
 cowed him. He had often longed to strangle 
 
158 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 her ; when absent from her, had often resolved 
 Upon that act of gratitude. The moment he 
 came in sight of her stern, haggard face — her 
 piercing lurid eves — the moment he heard her 
 slow, dry voice in some such sentences as these, 
 "Again you come to me in your trouble, and 
 ever shall. Am I not still as your mother, but 
 with a wife's fidelity, till death us do part. 
 There is the portrait of what you were — look at 
 it, Jasper. Xow turn to the glass — see what 
 you are. Think of the fate of Gabrielle Des- 
 marets I But for me what, long since, had been 
 your own ? But I will save you — I have sworn 
 it. You shall be wax in these hands at last ;" 
 the moment that voice thus claimed and insisted 
 on redeeming him, the ruflnan felt a cold shud- 
 der — his courage oozed — he could no more have 
 nerved his arm against her than a Thug would 
 have lifted his against the dire goddess of his 
 murderous superstition. Jasper could not resist 
 a belief that the life of this dreadful protectress 
 was, somehow or other, made essential to his — 
 that, were she to die, he should perish in some 
 ghastly and preternatural expiation. But for 
 the last few months he had, at length, esca{^d 
 from her — diving so low, so deep into the mud, 
 that even her net could not mesh him. Hence, 
 perhaps, the imminence of the perils from which 
 he had so narrowly escaped — hence the utter- 
 ness of his present destitution. But man, how- 
 ever vile, whatever his peril, whatever his desti- 
 tution, was born free, and loves liberty. Liberty 
 to go to Satan in his own way was to Jasper 
 Losely a supreme blessing compared to that be- 
 nignant compassionate espionaye, with its relent- 
 less eye and restraining hand. Alas arid alas ! 
 deem not this perversity unnatural in that head- 
 strong self-destroyer I How many are there 
 whom not a grim hard-featured Arabella Crane, 
 but the long-suflFering, dinne, omniscient, gen- 
 tle Providence itself, seeks to warn, to aid, to 
 save — and is shunned, and loathed, and fled 
 from, as if it were an e\-il genius I How manv 
 are there who fear nothing so much as tlie being 
 made good in spite of themselves ? — how many ? 
 — who can count them? 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The public man needs but o:ii! patron — vi/^, the lucky 
 
 MOMENT. 
 
 "At his house in Carlton Gardens, Guy Dar- 
 rell, Esq., for the season." 
 
 Simple insertion in the pompous list of Fash- 
 ionable Arrivals ! — the name of a plain com- 
 moner imbedded in the amber which glitters 
 with so many coronets and stars! Yet such is 
 England, with all its veneration for titles, that 
 the eyes of the public passed indifferently over 
 the rest of that chronicle of illustrious "where- 
 abouts," to rest with interest, curiosity, specu- 
 lation, on the unemblazoncd name which but a 
 day before had seemed slipped out of date — ob- 
 solete as that of an actor who figures no more 
 in play-bills. Unquestionably the sensation ex- 
 cited was due, in much, to tiie " ambiguous 
 voices" which Colonel Morley had disseminated 
 throughout the genial atmosphere of Club-rooms. 
 "Arrived in London for the season I" he, the 
 orator, once so famous, long so forgotten, who 
 
 had been out of the London world for the space 
 of more than half a generation. "Why now? 
 why for the season?" quoth the Colonel. "He 
 is still in the prime of life as a public man, and 
 — a CRISIS is at hand I" 
 
 But that which gave weight and significance 
 to Alban Morley's hints, was the report in the 
 newspapers of Guy Darrell's visit to his old con- 
 stituents, and of the short speech he had ad- 
 dressed to them, to which he had so slightly re- 
 ferred in his conversation with Alban. True, 
 the speech teas short : true, it touched but little 
 on passing topics of political interest — rather 
 alluding, with modesty and terseness, to the con- 
 tests and victories of a former day. But still, 
 in the few words there was the swell of the old 
 clarion — the wind of the Paladin's horn which 
 woke Fontarabian echoes. 
 
 It is astonishing how capricious, how sudden 
 are the changes in value of a public man. All 
 depends upon whether the public want, or be- 
 lieve they want, the man ; and that is a ques- 
 tion upon which the pubUc do not know their 
 own minds a week before ; nor do they always 
 keep in the same mind, when made up, for a 
 week together. If they do not want a man — if 
 he do not hit the taste, nor respond to the exi- 
 gency of the time — whatever his eloquence, his 
 abilities, his virtues, they push him aside, or cry 
 him down. Is he wanted? — does the min-or of 
 the moment reflect his image ? — that mirror is 
 an intense magnifier; his proportions swell — 
 they become gigantic. At that moment the pub- 
 lic wanted some man ; and the instant the hint 
 v.-as given, "Why not Guy Darrell?" Guy Dar- 
 rell was seized upon as the man wanted. It was 
 one of those times in our Pari iamentaiy history 
 when the public are out of temper with all par- 
 ties — when recognized leaders have contrived to 
 damage themselves — when a Cabinet is shak- 
 ing, and the public neither care to destroy nor to 
 keep it ; a time, too, when the country seemed 
 in some danger, and when, mere men of busi- 
 ness held unequal to the emergency, whatever 
 name suggested associations of vigor, eloquence, 
 genius, rose to a premium above its market- 
 price in times of tranquillity- and tape. With- 
 out effort of his own — by the mere force of the 
 under-current — Guy Darrell was thrown up from 
 oblivion into note. He could not form a cabinet 
 — certainly not ; but he might help to bring a 
 cabinet together, reconcile jarring elements, ad- 
 just disputed questions, take in such government 
 some high place, influence its councils, and de- 
 
 i light a public weary of the oratory of the day 
 with the eloquence of a former race. For the 
 public is ever a laudator temporis acti, and what- 
 ever the authors or the orators immediately be- 
 fore it, were those authors and orators Homers 
 and Ciceros, would still shake a disparaging 
 
 j head, and talk of these degenerate days, as Ho- 
 mer himself talked ages before Leonidas stood 
 in the Pass of Thermopylae, or Miltiades routed 
 Asian armaments at Marathon. Guy Darrell 
 
 ; belonged to a former race. The fathers of those 
 young Members rising now into fame, had quot- 
 
 ' ed to their sons his pithy sentences, his virid im- 
 ages ; and added, as Fox added when quoting 
 Burke, " but you should have heard and seen 
 the man!" 
 
 Heard and seen the man! But there he was 
 again ! — come up as from a grave — come up to 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 159 
 
 the public just when such a man was wanted. 
 Wanted how ? wanted where ? Oh. somehow 
 and somewhere I There he is I make the most 
 of him. 
 
 The house in Carlton Gardens is prepared, 
 the establishment mounted. Thither flock all 
 the Viponts — nor they alone ; all the chiefs of 
 all parties — nor they alone ; all the notabilities 
 of our grand metropolis. Guy Darrell might be 
 startled at his own position ; but he compre- 
 hended its nature, and it did not discompose 
 his ner^•es. He knew public life well enough 
 to be aware how much the popular favor is the 
 creature of an accident. By chance he had 
 nicked the time ; had he thus come to town the 
 season before, he might have continued obscure ; 
 a man like Guy Darrell not being wanted then. 
 Whether with or without design, his bearing 
 confirmed and extended the effect produced by 
 his reappearance. Gracious, but modestly re- 
 served — he spoke little, listened beautifully. 
 Many of the questions which agitated all around 
 him had grown up into importance since his dav 
 of action ; nor in his retirement had he traced 
 their progressive development, with their change- 
 ful effects upon men and parties. But a man 
 who has once gone deeply into practical politics 
 might sleep in the cave of Trophonius for twen- 
 ty years, and find, on waking, veri' httle to learn. 
 Darrell regained the level of the day, and seized 
 upon all the strong points on which men were 
 divided, whh the rapidity of a prompt and com- 
 prehensive intellect — his judgment perhaps the 
 clearer from the freshness oi' long repose, and 
 the composure of dispassionate survey. "\\*hen 
 partisans ^Tangled as to what should have been 
 done, Darrell was silent ; when they asked what 
 should be done, out came one of his terse sen- 
 tences, and a knot was cut. Meanwhile it is 
 true this man, round whom expectations group- 
 ed and rumor buzzed, was in neither House of 
 Parliament ; but that was rather a delay to his 
 energies than a detriment to his consequence. 
 Important constituencies, anticipating a vacan- 
 cy, were already on the look-out for him ; a 
 smaller constituency, in the interim, CarrYipont 
 undei-took to procure him any day. There was 
 always a Vipont ready to accept something — 
 even the Chiltem Hundreds. But Darrell, not 
 without reason, demurred at re-entering the 
 House of Commons after an absence of seven- 
 teen years. He had left it with one of those 
 rare reputations which no wise man likes rash- 
 ly to imperih The Yiponts sighed. He would 
 certainly be more useful in the Commons than 
 the Lords, but still in the Lords he would be of 
 great use. They would want a debating lord, 
 perhaps a lord acquainted with law in the com- 
 ing CRISIS ; — if he preferred the peerage ? Dar- 
 rell demurred still. The man's modesty was 
 insufferable — his style of speaking might not 
 suit that august assembly ; and as to law — he 
 could never now be a law lord — he should be 
 but a ci-devant advocate, affecting the part of a 
 judicial amateur. 
 
 In short, without declining to re-enter public 
 life, seeming, on the contrary, to resume all his 
 interest in it, Darrell contrived with admirable 
 dexterity to elude for the present all overtures 
 pressed upon hira. and even to convince his ad- 
 mirers, not only of his wisdom but of his patri- 
 otism in that reticence. For certainly he thus 
 
 managed to exercise a very considerable influ- 
 ence — his advice was more sought, his sugges- 
 tions more heeded, and his power in reconciling 
 certain rival jealousies was perhaps greater than 
 would have been the case if he had actually en- 
 tered either House of Parliament, and thrown 
 himself exclusively into the ranks, not only of 
 one party, but of one section of a party. Nev- 
 ertheless, such suspense could not last very long; 
 he must decide at all events before the next ses- 
 sion. Once he was seen in the arena of his old 
 ; triumphs, on the benches devoted to strangers 
 1 distinguished by the Speaker's order. There, 
 recognized by the older members, eagerlv gazed 
 at by the younger, Guy Darrell listened calmly, 
 throughout a long field night, to voices that 
 must have roused from forgotten graves, kin- 
 dhng and glorious memories ; voices of those — 
 veterans now — by whose side he had once strug- 
 gled for some cause which he had then, in the 
 necessary exaggeration of all honest enthusiasm, 
 identified with a nation's life-blood. Yoices too 
 of the old antagonists, over whose routed argu- 
 ments he had marched triumphant amidst ap- 
 plauses that the next day rang again through 
 England from side to side. Hark,^he very man 
 with whom, in the old battle-days, he had been 
 the most habitually pitted, is speaking now. 
 His tones are embarrassed — his argument con- 
 fused. Does he know who listens yonder? Old 
 members think so — smile, whisper each ether, 
 and glance significantly Mhere DaiTell sits. 
 
 gits, as became him, tranquil, respectful, in- 
 tent, seemingly, perhaps really, unconscious of 
 the sensation he excites. What an eye for an 
 orator I how like the eye in a portrait I it seems 
 to fix on each other eye that seeks it — steady, 
 fascinating. Yon distant members behind the 
 Speaker's chair, at the far distance, feel the light 
 of that eye travel toward them. How lofty and 
 massive among all those rows of human heads 
 seems that forehead, bending slightly dovna, with 
 the dark, strong line of the weighty eyebrow! 
 But what is passing within that secret mind? 
 Is there mournfulness in the retrospect? Is 
 there eagerness to renew the strife? Is that 
 interest in the Hour's debate feigned or real? 
 Impossible for him who gazed upon that face to 
 say. And that eye would have seemed to the 
 gazer to read himself through and through to 
 the heart's core, long ere the gazer could haz- 
 ard a single guess as to the thoughts beneath 
 that marble forehead, as to the emotions Mithin 
 the heart over which, in old senatorial fashion, 
 the arms were folded with so conventional an 
 ease. 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 Darrell and Lionel. 
 
 Daeeell had received Lionel with some evi- 
 dent embarrassment, which soon yielded to af- 
 fectionate warmth. He took to the young man 
 whose fortunes he had so improved : he felt that 
 with the improved fortunes the young man's 
 whole being was improved ; — assured position, 
 early commune with the best social circles, in 
 which the equality of fashion smooths away all 
 disparities in rank, had softened in Lionel much 
 of the wayward and morbid irritability of his 
 boyish pride ; but the high spirit, the generous 
 
IGO 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 love of independence, the scorn of mei-cenary 
 calculation, were strong as ever ; these were in 
 the grain of his nature. In common with all 
 who in youth aspire to be one day noted from 
 "the undistinguishable many," Lionel had form- 
 ed to himself a certain ideal standard, above 
 the ordinary level of what the world is content- 
 ed to call honest, or esteem clever. He admit- 
 ted into his estimate of life the heroic element, 
 not undesirable even in tlie most practical point 
 of view, for the world is so in the habit of de- 
 crying — of disbelieving in high motives and pure 
 emotions — of daguerreotyping itself with all its 
 ugliest wrinkles, stripped of the true bloom that 
 brightens, of the true expression that redeems, 
 those defects which it invites the sun to limn, 
 that we shall never judge human nature aright, 
 if we do not set out in life with our gaze on its 
 fairest beauties, and our belief in its latent good. 
 In a word, we should begin with the Heroic, if 
 we would learn the Human. But though to 
 himself Lionel thus secretly prescribed a certain 
 superiority of type, to be sedulously aimed at, 
 even if never actually attained, he was wholly 
 without pedantry and arrogance toward his own 
 contemporaries. From this he was saved not 
 only by good-nature, animal spirits, frank hard- 
 ihood, but by the very affluence of ideas which 
 animated his tongue, colored his language, and 
 whether to young or old, wise or dull, made his 
 conversation racy and original. He was a de- 
 lightful companion; and if he had taken much 
 instruction from those older and wiser than 
 himself, he so bathed that instruction in the 
 fresh fountain of his own lively intelligence, so 
 warmed it at his own beating, impulsive heart, 
 that he could make an old man's gleanings from 
 experience seem a young man's guesses into 
 truth. Faults he had, of coui-se — chiefly the 
 faults common at his age ; among them, per- 
 haps, the most dangerous were — Firstly, care- 
 lessness in money matters ; secondly, a distaste 
 for advice in which prudence was visibly pre- 
 dominant. His tastes were not in reality ex- 
 travagant ; but money slipped through his hands, 
 leaving little to show for it ; and when his quar- 
 terly allowance became due, ami)le though it 
 was — too ample, perhaps — debts wholly forgot- 
 ten started up to seize hold of it. And debts, 
 as yet being manageable, were not regarded with 
 sufficient horror. Faid or put aside, as the case 
 might be, they were merely looked u])on as bores. 
 Youth is in danger till it learu to look upon 
 them as furies. For advice, he took it with 
 pleasure, when clothed with elegance and art — 
 when it addressed ambition — when it exalted 
 the loftier virtues. But advice, practical and 
 prosy, went in at one ear and out at the other. 
 In fact, with many talents, he had yet no ade- 
 quate ballast of common sense ; and if ever he 
 get enough to steady his bark through life's try- 
 ing voyage, the necessity of so much dull weight 
 must be forcibly striken home less to his reason 
 than his imagination or his heart. Bnt if, some- 
 how or other, he get it not, I will not insure his 
 vessel. 
 
 I know not if Lionel Haughton had genius ; 
 he never assumed that he had ; l)ut he had 
 something more like genius than tiiat in'ototy])e 
 — iiEsoLVE — of which lie boasted to the artist. 
 He had youth — real youth — youth of nrind, 
 youth of heart, youth of soul. Lithe and supple 
 
 as he moved before you, with the eye to which 
 light or dew sprung at once from a nature vi- 
 brating to every lofty, every tender thought, he 
 seemed more than young — the incarnation of 
 youth. 
 
 Darrell took to him at once. Amidst all the 
 engagements crowded on the important man, 
 he contrived to see Lionel daily. And what 
 may seem strange, Guy Darrell felt more at 
 home with Lionel Haughton than with any of 
 his own contemporaries — than even with Alban 
 jVIorley. To the last, indeed, he opened speech 
 with less reserve of certain portions of the past, 
 or of certain projects in the future. But still, 
 even there, he adopted a tone of half-playful, 
 half-mournful satire, which might be in itself 
 disguise. Alban Morley, with all his good qual- 
 ities, was a man of the world ; as a man of the 
 world, Guy Darrell talked to him. But it was 
 only a very small part of Guy Darrell the man 
 of which the world could say "mine." 
 
 To Lionel he let out, as if involuntarily, the 
 more amiable, tender, poetic attributes of his 
 varying, complex, uncompreheuded character; 
 not professedly confiding, but not taking pains 
 to conceal. Hearing what worldlings would call 
 " Sentiment" in Lionel, he seemed to glide soft- 
 ly down to Lionel's own years, and talk " senti- 
 ment" in return. After all, this skilled lawyer, 
 this noted politician, had a great dash of the boy 
 still in him. Reader, did you ever. meet a re- 
 ally clever man who had not ? 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Saith a very homely proverb (pardon its vulgarity), 
 "You can not make a silk purse out of a sow's ear." 
 But a sow's ear is a much finer work of art than a silk 
 purse. And grand, indeed, the mechanician who could 
 make a sow's ear out of a silk purse, or conjure into 
 creatures of flesh and blood the sarcenet and tulle of a 
 Loudon drawing-room. 
 
 ' ' Mamma," asked Honoria Carr Vipont, " what 
 sort of a person was Mrs. Darrell ?" 
 
 " She was not in our set, my dear," answered 
 Lady Selina. "The Vipont Crookes are just 
 one of those connections in which, though, of 
 course, one is civil to all connections, one is 
 more or less intimate, according as they take 
 after the Viponts or after the Crookes. Poor 
 woman ! she died just before Mr. Darrell entered 
 Parliament, and appeared in society. But I 
 should say she was not an agreeable pei'son. 
 Not nice," added Lady Selina, after a pause, 
 and conveying a M'orld of meaning in that con- 
 ventional monosyllable. 
 
 "I suppose she was very accomplished — very 
 clever?" 
 
 " Quite the reverse, my dear. Mr. Darrell was 
 exceedingly young when he married — scarcely 
 of age. She was not the sort of woman to suit 
 him." 
 
 " But at least she must have been very much 
 attached to him — very proud of him?" 
 
 Lady Selina glanced aside from her work, 
 and observed her daughter's face, which evinced 
 an animation not usual to a young lady of a 
 breeding so lofty, and a mind so well disci- 
 plined. 
 
 "I don't think," said Lady Selina, "that she 
 was proud of him. She would have been proud 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 161 
 
 of his station, or rather of that to which his fame 
 and fortune would have raised her, had she 
 lived to enjoy it. But for a few years after her 
 marriage they were very poor ; and though his 
 rise at the bar was sudden and brilliant, he was 
 lone wholly absorbed in his profession, and lived 
 in Bloomsbury. Mrs. Darrell was not proud of 
 that. The Crookes are generally fine — give 
 themselves airs — marry into great houses if they 
 can — but we can't naturalize them — they always 
 remain Crookes — useful connections, veiy I Carr 
 says we have not a mox'e useful — but third-rate, 
 my dear. All the Crookes are bad wives, be- 
 cause they are never satisfied with their own 
 homes, but are always trying to get into great 
 people's homes. Not very long before she died, 1 
 Mrs. Darrell took her friend and relation, Mrs. 
 Lyndsay, to live with her. I suspect it was not 
 from affection, or any great consideration for 
 Mrs. Lyndsay's circumstances (which were in- 
 dee'd those of actual destitution, till — thanks to 
 Mr. DaiTell — she won her lawsuit), but simply 
 because she looked to Mrs. Lyndsay to get her 
 into our set. Mrs. Lyndsay was a great favorite 
 with all of us, charming manners — perfectly cor- 
 rect, too — thorough Vipont — thorough gentle- 
 woman — but artful! Oh, so artful I She hu- 
 mored poor Mrs. Darrell's absurd vanity ; but 
 she took care not to injure herself. Of course, 
 Darrell's wife, and a Vipont — though only a 
 Vipont Crooke — had free passport into the out- 
 skirts of good society, the great parties, and so 
 forth. But there it stopped ; even I should have 
 been compromised if I had admitted into our set 
 a woman who was bent on compromising her- 
 self. Handsome — in a bad style — not the Vi- 
 pont tournure ; and not only silly and flirting, 
 but — (we are alone, keep the secret) — decided- 
 ly vulgar, my dear." 
 
 " You amaze me ! How such a man — " Ho- 
 noria stopped, coloring up to the temples. 
 
 "Clever men," said LadySelina, "as a gen- 
 eral rule, do choose the oddest wives ! The clev- 
 erer a man is, the more easily, I do believe, a 
 woman can take him in. However, to do Mr. 
 Darrell justice, he has been taken in only once. 
 After Mrs. Darrell's death, Jlrs. Lyndsay, I 
 suspect, tried her chance, but failed. Of course, 
 she could not actually stay ia the same house 
 with a widower who was then young, and who 
 had only to get rid of a wife to whom one was 
 forced to be shy, in order to be received into our 
 set with open arms ; and, in short, to be of the 
 very best monde. Mr. Darrell came into Parlia- 
 ment immensely rich (a legacy from an old East 
 Indian, besides his own professional savings) — 
 took the house he has now, close by us. Mrs. 
 Lyndsay was obliged to retire to a cottage at Ful- 
 ham. But as she professed to be a second mo- 
 ther to poor Matilda Darrell, she contrived to 
 be very much at Carlton Gardens ; her daughter 
 Caroline was nearly always there, profiting by 
 Matilda's masters ; and I did think that Mrs. 
 Lyndsay would have caught Darrell — but your 
 papa said 'No,' and he was right, as he always 
 is. Nevertheless, Mrs. Lyndsay would have been 
 an excellent wife to a public man — so popular — 
 knew the world so well — never made enemies 
 till she made an enemy of poor dear Montfort ; 
 but that was natural. By-the-by, I must write 
 to Caroline. Sweet creature ! but how absurd, 
 shutting herself up as if she were fretting for 
 
 Montfort! That's so like her mother — heart- 
 less — but full of propriety." 
 
 Here Carr Vipont and Colonel Morley entered 
 the room. "We have just left Darrell," said 
 Carr; "he will dine here to-day, to meet our 
 cousin Alban. I have asked his cousin, young 
 Haughton, and * * * *^ and * * * *^ your 
 cousins, Selina — (a small party of cousins) — so 
 lucky to find Darrell disengaged." 
 
 " I ventured to promise," said the Colonel, 
 addressing Honoria in an under voice, "that 
 Darrell should hear you play Beethoven." 
 
 HoxoRiA. " Is Mr. Darrell so fond of music, 
 then?" 
 
 Colonel Morlet. "One would not have 
 thought it. He keeps a secretary at Fawley who 
 plays the flute. There's something very inter- 
 esting about Dan'ell. I wish you could hear 
 his ideas on marriage and domestic life — more 
 freshness of heart than in the young men one 
 meets nowadays. It may be prejudice ; but it 
 seems to me that the young fellows of the pres- 
 ent race, if more sober and staid than we were, 
 are sadly wanting in character and spirit — no 
 warm blood in their veins. But I should not 
 talk thus to a demoiselle who has all those young 
 fellows at her feet." 
 
 "Oh," said Lady Selina, overhearing, and 
 with a half-laugh, " Honoria thinks much as you 
 do ; she finds the young men so insipid — all like 
 one another — the same set phrases." 
 
 "The same stereotyped ideas," added Hono- 
 ria, moving away with a gesture of calm disdain. 
 [ "Avery superior mind hers," whispered the 
 I Colonel to Carr Vipont. " She'll never marry 
 j a fool." 
 
 j Guy Darrell was very pleasant at "the small 
 family dinner-party." Carr was afways popular 
 I in his manners — the true old House of Com- 
 1 mons manner, which was very like that of a 
 I gentlemanlike public school. Lady Selina, as 
 has been said before, in her own family circle 
 I was natural and genial. Young Carr, there, 
 without his wife, moi'e pretentious than his 
 ! father — being a Lord of the Admiralty — felt a 
 I certain awe of Darrell, and spoke little, which 
 was much to his own credit, and to the general 
 conviviality. The other members of the sym- 
 posium, besides Lady Selina, Honoria, and a 
 younger sister, were but Darrell, Lionel, and 
 Lady Selina's two cousins; elderly peers — one 
 with the garter, the other in the cabinet — ^jovial 
 men, who had been wild fellows once in the same 
 mess-room, and still joked at each other when- 
 ever they met as they met now. Lionel, who 
 remembered Vance's description of Lady Selina, 
 and who had since heard her spoken of in so- 
 ciety as a female despot who can-ied to perfec- 
 tion the arts by which despots flourish, with 
 majesty to impose, and caresses to deceive — an 
 Aurungzebe in petticoats — was sadly at a loss 
 to reconcile such portraiture with the good-hu- 
 mored, motherly woman who talked to liim of 
 her hotne, her husband, her children, with open 
 fondness and becoming pride, and who, far from 
 being so formidably clever as the world cruel- 
 ly gave out, seemed to Lionel rather below par 
 in her understanding ; strike from her talk its 
 kindliness, and the residue was very like twad- 
 dle. After dinner, various members of the Vi- 
 pont family dropped in — asked impromptu by 
 Carr or by Lady Selina, in hasty three-cornered 
 
1G2 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 notes, to take that occasion of renewing their 
 acquaintance with their distinguished connec- 
 tion. By some accident, among those invited 
 there were but few young single ladies ; and by 
 some other accident, those few were all plain. 
 Honoria Vipont was unequivocally the belle of 
 the room. It could not but be observed that 
 Darrell seemed struck with her — talked with her 
 more than with any other lady ; and when she 
 went to the piano, and played that great air of 
 Beethoven's, in which music seems to have got 
 into a knot that only fingers the most artful can 
 unravel, Darrell remained in his seat aloof and 
 alone, listening, no doubt, with ravished atten- 
 tion. But just as the air ended, and Honoria 
 turned round to look for him, he was gone. 
 
 Lionel did not linger long after him. The 
 gay young man went, thence, to one of those 
 vast crowds which seem convened for a practi- 
 cal parody of Mr. Bentham's famous proposi- 
 tion — contriving the smallest happiness for the 
 greatest number. 
 
 It was a very great house, belonging to a very 
 great person. Colonel Morley had procured an 
 invitation for Lionel, and said, " Go ; you should 
 be seen there." Colonel Morley had passed the 
 age of growing-into society — no such cares for 
 the morrow could add a cubit to his convention- 
 al stature. One among a group of other young 
 men by the door-way, Lionel beheld Darrell, 
 who had arrived before him, listening to a very 
 handsome young lady, with an attention quite 
 as earnest as that which had gratified the supe- 
 rior mind of the well-educated Honoria. A very 
 handsome young lady certainly, but not with a 
 superior mind, nor supposed hitherto to have 
 found young gentlemen " insipid." Doubtless 
 she would henceforth do so. A few minutes 
 after, Darrell was listening again — this time to 
 another young lady, generally called "fast." 
 If his attentions to her were not marked, hers 
 to him were. She rattled on to him volubly, 
 laughed, pretty hoyden, at her own sallies, and 
 seemed at last so to fascinate him by her gay 
 spirits that he sate down by her side ; and the 
 playful smile on his lips — lips that had learned 
 to be so gravely firm — -showed that he could 
 enter still into the mirth of childhood ; for sure- 
 ly to the time-worn man the fast young lady 
 must have seemed but a giddy child. Lionel 
 was amused. Could this be the austere recluse 
 whom he had left in the shades of Fawlej'? 
 Guy Darrell, at his years, with his dignified 
 rejjute, the object of so many nods, and becks, 
 and wreathed smiles — could he descend to be 
 that most frivolous of characters, a male co- 
 quette? Was he in earnest — was his vanity 
 duped ? Looking again, Lionel saw in his kins- 
 man's fiice a sudden return of the sad despond- 
 ent expression which had moved his own young 
 pity in the solitudes of Fawley. But in a mo- 
 ment the man roused himself — the sad expres- 
 sion was gone. Had the girl's merry laugh 
 again chased it away ? But Lionel's attention 
 was now drawn from Darrell himself to the ob- 
 servations murmured round him, of which Dar- 
 rell was the theme. 
 
 " Yes, he is bent on marrying again ! I have 
 it from Alban Morley — immense fortune — and 
 so young-looking, any girl might fall in love 
 with such eyes and forehead ; besides, what a 
 jointure he could settle ! . . . Do look at 
 
 that girl, Flora Vyvyan, trying to make a fool 
 of him. .She can't appreciate that kind of man, 
 and she would not be caught by his money — 
 does not want it. ... I wonder she is not 
 afraid of him. He is certainly quizzing her. 
 . . . The men think her pretty — I don't. 
 . . . They say he is to return to Parliament, 
 and have a place in the Cabinet. . . . Xo ! 
 he has no children living — very natural he should 
 marry again. ... A nephew I — you are 
 quite mistaken. Young Haughton is no nephew 
 — a very distant connection — could not expect 
 to be the heir. ... It was given out though, 
 at Paris. The Duchess thought, so, and so did 
 Lady Jane. They'll not be so civil to young 
 Haughton now. . . . Hush — " 
 
 Lionel, wishing to hear no more, glided by, 
 and penetrated farther into the throng. And 
 then, as he proceeded, with those last words on 
 his ear, the consciousness came upon him that 
 his position had undergone a change. Difficult 
 to define it ; to an ordinary by-stander, people 
 would have seemed to welcome him cordially 
 as ever. The gradations of respect in polite so- 
 ciety are so exquisitely delicate, that it seems 
 only by a sort of magnetism that one knows 
 from day to day whether one has risen -or de- 
 clined. A man has lost high ofiice, patronage, 
 power, never, perhaps, to regain them. Peo- 
 ple don't turn their backs on him ; their smiles 
 are as gracious, their hands as flatteringly ex- 
 tended. But that man would be dull as a rhi- 
 noceros if he did not feel as every one who ac- 
 costs him feels — that he has descended in the 
 ladder. So with all else. Lose even your for- 
 tune, it is not the next day in a London drawing- 
 room that your friends look f.s if you were go- 
 iug to ask them for five pounds. Wait a year 
 or so for that. But if they have jiist heard you 
 are ruined, you will feel that they have heai-d 
 it, let them how ever so courteously, smile ever 
 so kindly. Lionel at Paris, in the last year or 
 so, had been more than fashionable : he had 
 been the fashion — courted, run after, petted, 
 quoted, imitated. That evening he felt as an 
 author may feel who has been the rage, and, 
 without fault of his own, is so no more. The 
 rays that had gilt him had gone back to the oi'b 
 that lent. And they who were most genial stiU 
 to Lionel Haughton, were those who still most 
 respected thirty-five thousand pounds a year — 
 in Guy Darrell ! 
 
 Lionel was angry with himself that he felt 
 galled. But in his wounded pride there was no 
 mercenary regret — only that sort of sickness 
 which comes to youth when the hoUowness of 
 worldly life is first made clear to it. From the 
 faces round him there fell that glamour by which 
 the amour j>ropre is held captive in large as- 
 semblies, where the amour propre is flattered. 
 "Magnificent, intelligent audience," thinks the 
 applauded actor. "Delightful party," murmurs 
 the worshiped beauty. Glamour I glamour ! Let 
 the audience yawn while the actor mouths ; let 
 the party neglect the beauty to adore another, 
 and straightway the " magnificent audience" is 
 an " ignorant public," and " the delightful par- 
 ty" a " heartless world." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 163 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Escaped from a London Drawing-Eoonj, flesh once more 
 tingles, and blood flo«s — Guy Darrell explains to Lionel 
 Haughton why he holds it a duty to be — an old fool. 
 
 Lionel Haughton glided through the dis- 
 enchanted rooms, and breathed a long breath 
 of relief when he found himself in the friendless 
 streets. 
 
 As he walked slow and thoughtful on, he sud- 
 denly felt a hand upon his shoulder, tm-ned, and 
 saw Darrell. 
 
 "Give me your arm, my dear Lionel; I am 
 tired out. What a lovely night! What sweet 
 scorn in the eyes of those stars that we have 
 • neglected for yon flaring lights!" 
 
 Lionel. "Is it scorn — is it pity? Is it but 
 serene indifference?" 
 
 Dareell. "As we ourselves interpret; if 
 scorn be present in our own hearts, it will be 
 seen in the disc of Jupiter. Man, egoist though 
 he be, exacts sympathy from all the universe. 
 Joyous, he says to the sun, 'Life-giver, rejoice 
 with me.' Grieving, he says to the moon, ' Pen- 
 sive one, thou sharest my sorrow.' Hope for 
 fame ; a star is its promise ! Mourn for the 
 dead ; a star is the land of reunion ! Say to 
 Earth, ' I have done with thee ;' to Time, ' Thou 
 hast naught to bestow ;' and all Space cries aloud, 
 ' The earth is a speck, thine inheritance infinity. 
 Time melts Avhile thou sighest. The discontent 
 of a mortal is the instinct that proves thee im- 
 mortal.' Thus construing Xature, Nature is our 
 companion, our consoler. Benign as the play- 
 mate, she lends herself to our shifting humors. 
 Serious as the teacher, she responds to the 
 steadier inquiries of reason. Mystic and hal- 
 lowed as the priestess, she keeps alive by dim 
 oracles that spiritual yearning within us, in 
 which, from savage to sage— through all dreams, 
 through all creeds — thrills the sense of a link 
 with Divinity. Never, therefore, while confer- 
 ring with Nature, is Man wholly alone, nor is 
 she a single companion with uniform shape. 
 Ever n£w, ever various, she can pass from gay to 
 severe — from fancy to science — quick as thought 
 passes from the dance of a leaf, from the tintof 
 a rainbow, to the theory of motion, the problem 
 of light. But lose Nature — forget or dismiss 
 her — make companions, by hundreds, of men 
 who ignore her, and I will not say with the poet, 
 'This is solitude.' But in the commune, what 
 stale monotony, what weary sameness I" 
 
 Thus Darrell continued to weave together sen- 
 tence with sentence, the intermediate connec- 
 tion of meaning often so subtle, that when put 
 down on paper it requires effort to discern it. 
 But it was his peculiar gift to make clear when 
 spoken what in writing would seem obscure. 
 Look, manner, each delicate accent in a voice 
 wonderfully distinct in its unrivaled melodv, all 
 so aided the sense of mere words, that "it is 
 scarcely extravagant to say he might have talked 
 an unknown language, and a listener would have 
 understood. But, understood or not, those sweet 
 intonations it was such delight to hear, that anv ' 
 one with nerves alive to music would have mur- 
 mured, " Talk on forever." And in this gift lav 
 one main secret of the man's strange influence 
 over all who came familiarly into his intercourse • 
 so that if Darrell had ever bestowed confidential 
 intimacy on any one not by some antagonistic 
 idiosyncracy steeled against its charm, and that I 
 
 intimacy had been withdrawn, a void never to 
 be refilled must have been left in the life thus 
 robbed. 
 
 Stopping at his door, as Lionel, rapt by the 
 music, had forgotten the pain of the reverie so 
 bewitohingly broken, Darrell detained the hand 
 held out to him, and said, " No, not yet — I have 
 something to say to you: come in; "let me say 
 it now." 
 
 Lionel bowed his head, and in surprised con- 
 jecture followed his kinsman up the lofty stairs 
 into the same comfortless stately room t"hat has 
 been already described. When the sen-ant closed 
 the door, Darrell sank into a chair. Fixing his 
 eyes upon Lionel with almost parental kindness, 
 and motioning his young cousin to sit by his side, 
 close, he thus began : 
 
 " Lionel, before I was your age I was married 
 — I was a father. I am lonely and childless 
 now. My life has been moulded by a solemn 
 obligation which so few could comprehend, that 
 I scarce know a man living beside yourself to 
 whom I would frankly confide it. Pride of fam- 
 ily is a common infirmity — often petulant with 
 the poor, often insolent with the rich ; but rare- 
 ly, perhaps, out of that pride do men construct 
 a positive binding duty, which at all self-sacri- 
 fice should influence the practical choice of life. 
 As a child, before my judgment could discern 
 how much of vain superstition may lurk in our 
 reverence for the dead, my whole heart was en- 
 gaged in a passionate dream, which my waking 
 ■ existence became vowed to realize. My father! 
 — my lip quivers, my eyes moisten as I recall 
 j him, even now — my father !— I loved him so in- 
 ! tensely ! — the love of childhood how fearfully 
 strong it is! All in him was so gentle, yet so 
 sensitive — chivalry without its armor. I was 
 his constant companion : he spoke to me unre- 
 servedly, as a poet to his muse. I wept at his 
 sorrows — I chafed at his humiliations. He 
 talked of ancestors as he thought of them ; to 
 him they were beings like the old Lares — not 
 dead in graves, but images ever present on 
 household hearths. Doubtless he exaggerated 
 their worth — as their old importance. Obscure, 
 indeed, in the annals of empire, their deeds and 
 their power, their decline and fall. Not so 
 thought he; they were to his eyes the moon 
 track in the ocean of history — light on the waves 
 over which they had gleamed — all the ocean 
 elsewhere dark ! With him thought I ; as my 
 father spoke, his child believed. But what to 
 the eyes of the world was this inheritor of a 
 vaunted name? — a threadbare, slighted, rustic 
 pedent — no station in the very province in which 
 mouldered away the last lowly dwelling-place 
 of his line. By lineage high above most nobles, 
 in position below most yeomen. He had learn- 
 ing, he had genius ; but the studies to which 
 they were devoted only served yet more to im- 
 poverish his scanty means, and led rather to 
 ridicule than to honor. Not a day but v.hat I 
 saw on his soft features the smart of a fresh 
 sting, the gnawing of a new care. Thus, as a 
 boy, feeling in myself a strength inspired by 
 afl^ection, I came to him, one day as he sate 
 grieving, and kneeling to him, said, 'Father, 
 courage yet a little while ; I shall soon be man, 
 and I swear to devote myself as man to revive 
 the old fading race so prized by you ; to rebuild 
 the House that, by you so loved, is loftier in my 
 
164 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 eyes than all the heraldry of Idngs.' And my 
 father's face brightened, and his voice blessed 
 me ; and I rose up ambitious !" Darrell paused, 
 heaved a short, quick sigh, and then rapidly 
 continued : 
 
 "I was fortunate at the university. That 
 was a day when chiefs of party looked for re- 
 cruits among young men who had given the 
 proofs, and won the first fruits of emulation 
 and assiduity. For statesmanship then was 
 deemed an art which, like that of war, needs 
 early discipline. I had scarcely left college 
 when I was offered a seat in Parliament by the 
 head of the Viponts, an old Lord Montfort. I 
 was dazzled but for one moment — I declined 
 the next. The fallen House of Darrell needed 
 wealth, and Parliamentary success, in its higher 
 honors, often requires wealth — never gives it. 
 It chanced that I had a college acquaintance 
 with a young man named Vipont Crooke. His 
 grandfather, one of the numberless Viponts, had 
 been compelled to add the name of Crooke to 
 his own on succeeding to the property of some 
 rich uncle, who was one of the numberless 
 Crookes. I went with this college acquaintance 
 to visit the old Lord Montfort, at his villa near 
 London, and thence to the country house of the 
 Vipont Crookes. I staid at the last two or three 
 weeks. While there, I received a letter from 
 the elder Fairthorn, my father's bailiff, entreat- 
 ing me to come immediately to Fawley, hinting 
 at some great calamity. On taking leave of my 
 friend and his family, something in the manner 
 of his sister startled and pained me — an evident 
 confusion, a burst of tears — I know not what. 
 I had never sought to win her affections. I had 
 an ideal of the woman I could love. It did not 
 resemble her. On reaching Fawley, conceive the 
 shock that awaited me. My fiither was like one 
 heart-stricken. The principal mortgagee was 
 about to foreclose — Fawley about to pass forever 
 from the race of the Darrells. I saw that the 
 day my father was driven from the old house 
 would be his last on earth. What means to 
 save him ? — how raise the pitiful sum — but a 
 few thousands — by which to release from the 
 spoiler's gripe those barren acres which all the 
 lands of the Seymour or the Gower could never 
 replace in my poor father's eyes? My sole in- 
 come was a college fellowship, adequate to all 
 my wants, but useless for sale or loan. I spent 
 the night in vain consultation with Fairthorn. 
 There seemed not a hope. Next morning came 
 a letter from young Vipont Crooke. It was 
 manly and fi'ank, tliough somewhat coarse. 
 With the consent of his parents he offered me 
 his sister's hand, and a dowry of £10,000. He 
 hinted, in excuse for his bluntness, that, per- 
 haps from motives of delicacy, if I felt a jn-ef- 
 erence for his sister, I might not deem myself 
 rich enough to ))ropose, and — but it matters not 
 what else he said. You foresee the rest. My 
 father's life could be saved from despair — his 
 beloved home be his shelter to the last. That 
 dowry would more than cover the paltry debt 
 upon the lands. I gave myself not an hour to 
 pause. I hastened back to the house to which 
 fate had led me. But," said Darrell, proudly, 
 " do not think I was base enough, even with 
 such excuses, to deceive the young lady. I told 
 her what was true ; that I could not profess to 
 her the love painted by romance-writers and 
 
 poets ; but that I loved no other, and that, if 
 she deigned to accept my hand, I should studi- 
 ously consult her happiness, and gratefully con- 
 fide to her my own. I said also, what was true, 
 that, if she married me, ours must be for some 
 years a life of privation and struggle ; that even 
 the interest of her fortune must be devoted to 
 my father while he lived, though every shilling 
 of its capital would be settled on herself and her 
 children. How I blessed her when she accept- 
 ed me, despite my candor! — how earnestly I 
 prayed that I might love, and cherish, and re- 
 quite her !" Darrell paused, in evident suffer- 
 ing. " And, thank Heaven! I have nothing on 
 that score wherewith to reproach myself. And 
 the strength of that memory enabled me to bear 
 and forbear more than otherwise would have 
 been possible to my quick spirit, and my man's 
 heart. My dear father ! his death was happy — 
 his home was saved — he never knew at what 
 sacrifice to his son ! He was gladdened by the 
 first honors my youth achieved. He was re- 
 signed to my choice of a profession, which, 
 though contrary to his antique prejudices, that 
 allowed to the representative of the Darrells no 
 profession but the sword, still promised the 
 wealth which would secure his name from per- 
 ishing. He was credulous of my futui'e, as if I 
 had uttered, not a vow, but a prediction. He 
 had blessed my union, without foreseeing its 
 sorrows. He had embraced my first-born — true, 
 it was a girl, but it was one link onward from 
 ancestors to posterity. And almost his last 
 words were these : ' You icill restore the race — 
 you icill revive the name ! and my son's children 
 will visit the antiquary's grave, and learn grat- 
 itude to him for all that his idle lessons taught 
 to your healthier vigor.' And I answered : ' Fa- 
 ther, your line shall not perish from the land ; 
 and when I am rich and great, and lordships 
 spread far round the lowly hall that your life 
 ennobled, I will say to your grandchildren, 
 " Honor ye and your son's sons, while a Darrell 
 yet treads the earth — honor him to whom I owe 
 every thought which nerved me to toil for what 
 you who come after me may enjoy."' 
 
 "And so the old man, whose life had been so 
 smileless, died smiling." 
 
 By this time Lionel had stolen Darrell's hand 
 into his own — his heart swelling with childlike 
 tenderness, and the tears rolling down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 Darrell gently kissed his young kinsman's 
 forehead, and, extricating himself from Lionel's 
 clasp, paced the room, and spoke on while pac- 
 ing it. 
 
 "I made, then, a promise; it is not kept. 
 No child of mine survives to be taught reverence 
 to my father's grave. My wedded life was not 
 happy: its record needs no words. Of two 
 children born to me, both are gone. My son 
 went first. I had thrown my life's life into him 
 — a boy of energy, of noble promise. 'Twas for 
 him I began to build that baffled fabric — ' Se- 
 piikhri iminetnor.' For him I bought, acre on 
 acre, all the land within reach of Fawley — lands 
 twelve miles distant. I had meant to fill uj) the 
 intervening space — to buy out a mushroom Earl, 
 whose woods and corn-fields lie between. I was 
 scheming the purchase — scrawling on the coun- 
 ty map — when they brought the news that the 
 boy I had just taken back to school was dead — 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 drowned bathing on a calm summer eve ! Xo, 
 Lionel. I must go on. That grief I have wres- 
 tled with — conquered. I was widowed then. 
 A daughter still left — the first-born, whom mv 
 father had blessed on his death-bed. I trans- 
 ferred all my love, all my hopes, to her. I had 
 no vain preference for male heirs. Is a race 
 less pure thrt runs on through the female line? 
 Well, my son's death was merciful compared 
 to — " Again Darrell stopped — again hurried 
 on. "Enough! all is forgiven in the gi-ave I I 
 was then still in the noon of man's life, free to 
 form new ties. Another grief that I can not tell 
 you ; it is not all conquered yet. And by that 
 grief the last verdure of existence was so blight- 
 ed, that — that — in sliort, I had no heart for nup- 
 tial altars — for the social world. Years went bv. 
 Each year I said, 'Next year the wound will be 
 healed ; I have time yet.' Xow age is near, the 
 grave not far ; now, if ever, I must fulfiU the 
 promise that cheered my father's death-bed. 
 Xor does that duty comprise all my motives. If 
 I would regain healthful thought,"manly action, 
 for my remaining years, I must feel "that one 
 
 165 
 
 ■ haunting memory is exorcised, and forever laid 
 
 at rest. It can be so only — whatever my i-isk 
 
 of new cares— whatever the folly of the hazard 
 
 at my age— be so only by— by— " Once more 
 
 , Darrell paused, fixed his eyes "steadily on Lionel, 
 
 j and, opening his arms, cried out, " Forgive me, 
 
 I my noble Lionel, that I am not contented with 
 
 an heir like you ; and do not you mock at the 
 
 old man who dreams that woman may love him 
 
 yet, and that his own children may inherit his 
 
 father's home." 
 
 i Lionel sprang to the breast that opened to 
 
 \ him; and if Darrell had planned how best tc 
 
 ! remove from the young man's mind forever the 
 
 J possibility of one selfish pang, no craft could 
 
 i have attained his object like that touching con- 
 
 I fidence before which the disparities between 
 
 youth and age literally vanished. And, both 
 
 made equal, both elevated alike, verily I know 
 
 not which at the moment felt the elder or the 
 
 , younger I Two noble hearts, intermingled in 
 
 : one emotion, are set free from all time save the 
 
 present ; par each with each, they meet as broth- 
 
 ! ers tnin-bom. 
 
 BOOK Y I I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 Vignettes for the next Book of Beauty. 
 
 "I QnTE agree with you, Alban; Honoria 
 Vipont is a very superior young lady." 
 
 " I knew you would think so I" cried the Col- 
 onel, with more warmth than usual to him. 
 
 " Many years since," resumed Darrell, with 
 reflective air, " I read Miss Edgeworth's novels ; 
 and in conversing with Miss Honoria Vipont, 
 methinks I confer with one of ^Miss Edgeworth's 
 heroines — so rational, so prudent, so well-be- 
 haved — so free from silly romantic notions — so 
 replete with solid information, moral philoso- 
 phy, and natural history — so sure to regulate 
 her watch and her heart to the precise moment, 
 for the one to strike, and the other to throb — 
 and to marry at last a respectable steady hus- 
 band, whom she will win with dignity, and would 
 lose with — decorum ! A veiy superior girl, in- 
 deed."* 
 
 '•Though your description of Miss Vipont is 
 satirical," said Alban Morley, smiling, in spite 
 of some irritation, " yet I will accept it as pane- 
 gyric ; for it conveys, unintentionally, a just idea 
 of the qualities that make an intelligent com- 
 panion and a safe wife. And those are the 
 qualities we must look to, if we marrv at our 
 age. We are no longer boys," added t'he Colo- 
 nel, sententiously. 
 
 Darrell. " Alas, no ! I wish we were. Bat , 
 the truth of your remark is indisputable. Ah, | 
 look ! Is not that a face which might make an 
 
 * Darrell speaks — not the author. Darrell is unjust to • 
 the more exquisite female characters of a Novelist, ad- 
 mirable for strength of sense, correctness of delineation, 
 terseness of narrative, and lucidity of style — nor less ad- ! 
 Hiirable for the unexaggerated nobleness of sentiment by ; 
 which some of her heroines are notably distingoished. i 
 
 octogenarian forget that he is not a boy ? — what 
 regular features ! and what a blush !" 
 
 The friends were riding in the park ; and as 
 Darrell spoke, he bowed to a young lady, who, 
 with one or two others, passe"d rapidly by in a 
 barouche. It was that verj- handsome "young 
 lady to whom Lionel had seen him listening so 
 attentively in the great crowd, for which Carr 
 Vipont's family party had been deserted. 
 
 "Yes; Lady Adela is one of the loveliest 
 girls in London," said the Colonel, who had also 
 lifted his hat as the barouche whirled by, " and 
 amiable too : I have known her ever since she 
 was bom. Her father and I are great friends — 
 an excellent man, but stingy. I had much diflS- 
 culty in arranging the eldest girl's marriage with 
 Lord Bolton, and am a trustee in the settlements. 
 If you feel a preference for Lady Adela, though 
 I don't think she would suit you so well as Miss 
 Vipont, I will answer for her father's encour- 
 agement and her consent. 'Tis no drawback to 
 you, though it is to most of her admirers, when 
 I add, ' There's nothing with her I' " 
 
 "And nothing in her! which is worse," said 
 Darrell. " Still, it is pleasant to gaze on a 
 beautiful landscape, even though the soil be 
 barren." 
 
 Colo>t:l Morley. "That depends upon 
 whether you are merely the artistic spectator 
 of the landscape, or the disappointed proprietor 
 of the soil." 
 
 "Admirable!" said Darrell; "you have dis- 
 posed of Lady Adela. So ho! so ho!" Dar- 
 rell's horse (his old high-mettled horse, freshly 
 sent to him from Fawley, and in spite of the 
 five years that had added to its age, of spirit 
 made friskier by long repose) here put down its 
 ears — lashed out — and indulged in a bound 
 
166 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 which would have unseated many a London 
 rider. A young Amazon, followed hard by some 
 two or three young gentlemen and their grooms, 
 shot by, swift and reckless as a hero at Balakla- 
 va. But with equal suddenness, as she caught 
 sight of Darrell — whose liand and voice had al- 
 ready soothed the excited nerves of his steed — 
 the Amazon wheeled round and gained his side. 
 Throwing up her vail, she revealed a face so 
 prettily arch — so perversely gay — with eye pi' 
 radiant hazel, and fair locks half loosened from 
 their formal braid — that it would have beguiled 
 resentment from the most insensible — reconciled 
 to danger the most timid. And yet there was 
 really a grace of humility in the apologies she 
 tendered for her discourtesy and thoughtless- 
 ness. As the girl reined her light palfrey by 
 Darrell's side — turning from the young compan- 
 ions who had now joined her, their hackneys in 
 a foam — and devoting to his ear all her lively 
 overflow of happy spirits, not untempered by a 
 certain deference, but still appai'ently free from 
 dissimulation — Darrell's grand face lighted up 
 — his mellow laugh, unrestrained, though low, 
 echoed her sportive tones ; her youth, her joy- 
 ousness were irresistibly contagious. Alban 
 Morley watched observant, while interchanging 
 talk with her attendant comrades, young men 
 of high ton, but who belonged to that jeunesse 
 doree, with which the surface of life patrician is 
 frittered over — young men with few ideas, few- 
 er duties — but with plenty of leisure — plenty of 
 health — plenty of money in their pockets — plen- 
 ty of debts to their tradesmen — daring at Mel- 
 ton — scheming at Tattersall's — ])ride to maiden 
 aunts — plague to thrifty fathers — fickle lovers, 
 but solid matches — in brief, fast livers, who get 
 through their youth betimes, and who, for the 
 most part, middle-aged before they are thirty — 
 tamed by wedlock — sobered by the responsibili- 
 ties that come with the cares of property and 
 the dignities of rank — undergo abrupt metamor- 
 phosis into chairmen of quarter sessions — coun- 
 ty members, or decorous peers — their ideas en- 
 riched as their duties grow — their opinions, once 
 loose as willows to the wind, stiffening into the 
 palisades of fenced propriety — valuable, busy 
 men, changed as Henry V., when, coming into 
 the cares of state, he said to the Chief Justice, 
 "There is my hand;" and to Sir John Falstaflf, 
 "I know thee not, old man; 
 Fall to thy prayers!" 
 
 But, meanwhile, the elite of this jeunesse doi-ee 
 glittered round Flora Vyvyan: not a regular 
 beauty like Lady Adela — not a fine girl like 
 Miss Vipont, but such a light, faultless figure — 
 such a pretty, radiant face — more womanly for 
 affecting to be manlike — Hebe a])ingThalestris. 
 Flora, too, was an heiress — an only child — spoil- 
 ed, willful — not at all accomplished (my belief is 
 that accomplisiiments are thought great bores 
 by the jeunesse doree) — no accomplishment ex- 
 cept horsemanship, with a slight knack at bill- 
 iards, and the capacity to take three whiffs from 
 a Spanish cigarette. That last was adorable — 
 four offers had been advanced to her hand on 
 that merit alone. (N.B. Young ladies do them- 
 selves no good with the jeu7iesse dor^e, which, in 
 our time, is a lover that rather smokes than 
 "sighs like furnace," by advertising their horror 
 of cigars.) You would suppose that Flora Vy- 
 vyan must be coarse — vulgar perhaps ; not at all ; 
 
 she was piqnante — original ; and did the oddest 
 things with the air and look of the highest breed- 
 ing. Fairies can not be vulgar, no matter what 
 they do; they may take the strangest liberties 
 — pinch tlie maids, turn the liouse topsy-turvy ; 
 but they are ever the darlings of grace and po- 
 etry. Flora Vyvyan was a fairy. Not peculiar- 
 ly intellectual herself, she had a veneration for 
 intellect ; those fast young men were the last 
 persons likely to fascinate that fast young lady. 
 Women are so perverse ; they always prefer the 
 very people you would least suspect — the antith- 
 eses to themselves. Y^et is it possible that Flo- 
 ra Vyvyan can have carried her crotchets to so 
 extravagant a degree as to have designed the 
 conquest of Guy Darrell — ten years older than 
 her own father ? She, too, an heiress — certain- 
 ly not mercenary ; she who had already refused 
 better worldly matches than Darrell himself was 
 — young men, handsome men, with coronets on 
 the margin of their note-paper and the panels 
 of their broughams ? The idea seemed prepos- 
 terous ; nevertheless, Alban Morley, a shrewd 
 observer, conceived that idea, and trembled for 
 his friend. 
 
 At last the yoiing lady and her satellites shot 
 off, and the Colonel said, cautiously, " Miss Vy- 
 vyan is — alarming." 
 
 Dabrell. "Alarming! the epithet requires 
 construing." 
 
 Colonel Morley. "The sort of girl who 
 might make a man of our years really and liter- 
 ally — an old fool !" 
 
 Darrell. "Old fool such a man must be if 
 girls of any sort are permitted to make him a 
 greater fool than he was before. But I think 
 that, with those pretty hands resting on one's 
 arm-cliair, or that sunny face shining into one's 
 study windows, one might be a Aery happy old 
 fool — and that is the most one can expect!" 
 
 Colonel Morley (checking an anxious 
 groan). " I am afraid, my poor friend, j'ou arc 
 far gone already. No wonder Honoria Vipont 
 fails to be appreciated. But Lady Selina has 
 a maxim — the truth of which my experience at- 
 tests — 'tlie moment it comes to women, the 
 most sensible men are the — ' " 
 
 "Oldest fools!" put in Darrell. "If Mark 
 Antony made such a goose of himself for that 
 ])ainted harridan Cleopatra, what would he have 
 done for a blooming Juliet? Youth and high 
 spirits ! Alas ! why are these to be unsuitable 
 companions for us, as we reach that climax in 
 time and sorrow — when to the one we are grown 
 the most indulgent, and of the other have the 
 most need? Alban, that girl, if her heart were 
 really won — her wild nature wisely mastered — 
 gently guided — would make a true, prudent, 
 loving, admirable wife — " 
 
 " Heavens !" cried Alban Morley. 
 "To such a husband," pursued Darrell, un- 
 heeding the ejaculation, "as — Lionel Haugh- 
 ton. What say you?" 
 
 "Lionel — oh, I have no objection at all to 
 that ; but he's too young yet to think of marriage 
 — a mere boy. Besides, if you yourself marry, 
 Lionel could scarcely aspire to a girl of Miss 
 Vyvyan's birth and fortune." 
 
 "Ho, not aspire! That boy, at least, shall 
 not have to woo in vain from the want of for- 
 tune. The day I marry — if ever that day come 
 — I settle on Lionel Haughton and his heirs 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 167 
 
 five thousand a year; and if, with gentle blood, 
 vouth, good looks, and a heart of gold, that for- 
 tune does not allow him to aspire to any girl 
 whose hand he covets, I can double it, and stiU 
 be rich enoiagh to buy a superior companion in j 
 Honoria Vipont — " j 
 
 MoRLET. '• Don't say buy — " i 
 
 Darrell. " Ay, and still be young enough to 
 catch a butterfly in Lady Adela — sdll be bold 
 enough to cliain a panther in Flora Yyv}-an. 
 Let the world know — your world in each nook 
 of its gaudy auction mart — that Lionel Haugh- 
 ton is no pauper cousin — no penniless fortune- 
 hunter. I wish that world to be kind to him 
 while he is yet young, and can enjoy it. Ah, 
 Morlev, Pleasure, like Punishment, hobbles aft- 
 er us, 'pede claudo. What would have delighted 
 us yesterday does not catch us up till to-morrow, 
 and yesterday's pleasure is not the morrow's. 
 A pennvworth of sugar-plums would have made 
 our eyes sparkle when we were scrawling pot- 
 hooks' at a prepai-ator}- school, but no one gave 
 us sugar-plums then. Now, every day at dessert 
 France heaps before us her daintiest sugar-plums 
 in gilt bonhonnieres. Do you ever covet them? 
 I never do. Let Lionel "have his sugar-plunis 
 in time. And as we talk, there he comes. Li- 
 onel, how are you ?" 
 
 "I resign you to Lionel's charge now," said 
 the Colonel, glancing at his watch. '■ I have an 
 engagement — troublesome. Two silly friends 
 of mine have been quarreling — high words — in 
 an age when duels are out of the question. I 
 have promised to meet another man, and draw 
 up the form for a mutual apology. High words 
 are so stupid nowadays. Xo option but to 
 swallow them up again if they were as high as 
 steeples. Adieu for the present. We meet to- 
 night at Lady Dulcett's concert ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Darrell ; " I promised Miss Vy- 
 vyan to be there, and keep her from disturbing 
 the congregation. You, Lionel, will come with 
 me." 
 
 Lionel (embarrassed). "Xo; you must ex- 
 cuse me. I have long been engaged elsewhere." 
 "That's a pity," said the Colonel, gravely. 
 " Lady Dulcett'sconcert is just one of the places 
 where a young man should — be seen." Colonel 
 Morley waved his hand mth his usual languid 
 elegance, and his hack cantered off with him, 
 stately as a charger, easy as a rocking-horse. 
 
 "Unalterable man," said Darrell, as his 
 eye followed the horseman's receding figure. 
 ''Through all the mutations on Time's dusty 
 high road — stable as a milestone. Just what 
 Alban Morley was as a school-boy he is now; 
 and if mortal span were extended to the age of 
 the patriarchs, just what Alban Morley is now 
 Alban Morley would be a thousand years hence. 
 I don't mean externally, of course ; wrinkles will 
 come — cheeks will fade. But these are trifles ; 
 man's body is a garment, as Socrates said before 
 me, and every seven years, according to the 
 physiologists, man has a new suit, fibre and cu- 
 ticle, from top to toe. The interior being that 
 wears the clothes is the same in Alban Morley. 
 Has he loved, hated, rejoiced, suffered ? Where 
 is the sign ? Not one. At school, as in life, do- 
 ing nothing, but decidedly somebody — respected 
 by small boys, petted by big boys — an authority 
 with all. Never getting honors — arm and arm 
 with those who did ; never in scrapes— advising 
 
 those who were; imperturbable, immovable, 
 calm above mortal cares as an Epicurean deitv. 
 What can wealth give that he has not got ? In 
 the houses of the richest he chooses his room. 
 Talk of ambition, talk of power — he has their re- 
 wards without an eftbrt. True prime minister 
 of all the realm he cares for ; Good Society has 
 not a vote against him — he transacts its affairs, 
 he knows its secrets — he wields its patronage. 
 Ever requested to do a favor — no man great 
 enough to do him one. Incorruptible, yet versed 
 to a fraction in each man's price ; impeccable, 
 yet confident in each man's foibles ; smooth as 
 silk, hard as adamant ; impossible to wound, 
 vex, annoy him — but not insensible ; thorough- 
 ly kind. Dear, dear Alban I Nature never pol- 
 ished a finer gentleman out of a solider block 
 of man I" Darrell's voice quivered a little as he 
 completed in earnest affection the sketch begun 
 in playful irony, and then, with a sudden change 
 of thought, he resumed lightly, 
 
 "But I wish you to do me a favor, Lionel. 
 Aid me to repair a fault in good breeding, of 
 which Alban Morley would never have been 
 guilty. I have been several days in London, 
 and not yet called on your mother. Will you 
 accompany me now to her house and present 
 me?" 
 
 "Thank you, thank you! you will make her 
 so proud and happy ; but may I ride on and pre- 
 pare her for your visit?" 
 
 " Certainly ; her address is — " 
 
 " Gloucester Place, No. — ." 
 
 " I will meet vou there in half an hour." 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 "Let Observation, wi:h expansive view, 
 Survey mankind from China to Pern," 
 
 and Observation will every where find, indispensable 
 
 to the happiness of woman, A Visitisg Acqcaixta>-ce. 
 
 Lionel knew that Mrs. Haughton would that 
 day need more than usual forewarning of a visit 
 from Mr. Darrell. For the evening of that day 
 Mrs. Haughton proposed "to give a party." 
 When ilrs. Haughton gave a party, it was a se- 
 rious affair. A notable and bustling honse^sife, 
 she attended herself to each preparatory detail. 
 It was to assist at this party that Lionel had re- 
 signed Lady Dulcett's concert. The young man, 
 reluctantly'acquiescing in the arrangements by 
 which Alban Morley had engaged him a lodging 
 of his own, seldom or never let a day pass with- 
 out gratifying his mother's proud heart by an 
 hour or two spent in Gloucester Place, often to 
 the forfeiture of a pleasant ride, or other tempt- 
 ing excursion, with gay comrades. Difficult in 
 London life, and at the fuU of its season, to de- 
 vote an hour or two to visits, apart from the track 
 chalked out bv one's very mode of existence — 
 difficult to cut off an hour so as not to cut up a day. 
 And Mrs. Haughton was exacting— nice in her 
 choice as to the exact sfice in the day. She 
 took the primeof the joint. She liked her neigh- 
 bors to see the handsome, elegant, young man 
 dismount from his charger, or descend from his 
 cabriolet, just at the witching hour when Glouces- 
 ter Place was fullest. Did he go to a levee, he 
 must be sure to come to her before he changed 
 his dress, that she and Gloucester Place might 
 admire him in uniform. Was he going to dine 
 
168 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 at some very great house, he must take her in 
 his way (though no street could be more out of 
 his way), that she might be enabled to say in 
 the parties to which she herself repaiied, ''There 
 is a orreat dinner at Lord So-and-so's to-day; 
 mv son called on me before he went there. If 
 he had been disengaged, I should have asked 
 permission to bring him here." 
 
 Not that Mrs. Haughton honestly designed, 
 nor even wished, to draw the young man from 
 the dazzling vortex of high life into her own lit- 
 tle currents of dissipation. She was much too 
 proud of Lionel to think that her friends were 
 grand enough for him to honor tlieir houses by 
 his presence. She had in this, too, a lively rec- 
 ollection of her lost Captain's doctrinal views of 
 the great world's creed. The Captain had flour- 
 ished in the time when Impertinence, installed 
 by Brummell, though her influence was waning, 
 still schooled her oligarchs, and maintained the 
 etiquette of her court; and even when his me- 
 salliance and his debts had cast him out of his 
 native sj;here, he lost not all the original bright- 
 ness of an exclusive. In moments of connubial 
 confidence, when owning his past errors, and 
 tracing to his sympathizing Jessie the causes of 
 his decline, he would say, '"Tis not a man's 
 birth, nor his fortune, that gives him his place 
 in society — it depends on his conduct, Jessie. 
 He must not be seen bowing to snobs, nor should 
 his enemies track him to the haunts of vulgari- 
 ans. I date my fall in life to dining with a hor- 
 rid man who lent me £100, and lived in L^pper 
 Baker Street. His wife took my arm from a 
 place they called a drawing-room (the Captain 
 as he spoke was on a fourth floor), to share some 
 unknown food which they called a dinner (the 
 Captain at that moment would have welcomed a 
 rasher). The woman went about blabbing — the 
 thing got wind — for the first time my character 
 received a soil. A\niat is a man without char- 
 acter? and character once sullied, Jessie, a man 
 becomes reckless. Teach my boy to beware of 
 the first false step — no association with /jar t-enas. 
 Don't cry, Jessie — I don't mean that he is to 
 cut you — relations are quite different from other 
 people — nothing so low as cutting relations. I 
 continued, for instance, to visit Guy Darrell, 
 though he lived at the back of Holborn, and I 
 actually saw him once in brown beaver gloves. 
 But he was a relation. I have even dined at 
 his house, and met odd people there — people 
 who lived also at the back of Holbora. But he 
 did not ask me to go to their houses, and if he 
 had, I must have cut him." 
 
 By reminiscences of this kind of talk Lionel 
 was saved from any design of ]Mrs. Haughton's 
 to attract his orbit into tlie circle within which 
 she herself moved. He must come to the par- 
 ties she gave — illumine or awe odd people there. 
 That was a proper tribute to maternal pride. 
 But had they asked him to their parties, she 
 would have been the first to resent such a lib- 
 erty. 
 
 Lionel found Mrs. Haughton in great bustle. 
 A gardener's cart was before the street-door. 
 Men were bringing in a grove of evergreens, in- 
 tended to border the stair-case, and make its ex- 
 iguous ascent still more difficult. Tlie refresh- 
 ments were already laid out in the dining-room. 
 Mrs. Haughton, with scissors in hand, was cut- 
 ting flowers to fill the eperyne, but darling to 
 
 and fro, like a dragon-fly, from the dining-room 
 to the hall, from the flowers to the evergi-eens. 
 
 " Dear me, Lionel, is that you ? Just tell me, 
 you who go to all those grandees, whether the 
 ratafia-cakes should be opposite to the sponge- 
 cakes, or whether they would not go better — 
 thus — at cross-corners?" 
 
 "My dear mother, I never observed — I don't 
 know. But make haste — take oft" that apron — 
 have these doors shut — come up stairs. IVIr. 
 Darrell will be here very shortly. I have ridden 
 on to prepare you." 
 
 "Mr. Dan-ell — to-datI — How could yon let 
 him come? Oh, Lionel, how thoughtless you 
 are ! You should have some respect for your 
 mother — I am your mother. Sir." 
 
 "Yes, my own dear mother — don't scold — I 
 could not help it. He is so engaged, so sought 
 after ; if I had put him oft' to-day he might 
 never have come, and — " 
 
 " Never have come ! Who is Mr. Darrell, to 
 give himself such airs ? — Only a lawyer, after 
 all," said Mrs. Haughton, with majesty. 
 
 '• Oh, mother, that speech is not Mke you. He 
 is our benefactor — our — " 
 
 " Don't, don't say more — I was verv wrong — 
 quite wicked — only my temper, Lionel dear. 
 Good Mr. Darrell I I shall be so happy to see 
 him — see him, too, in this house that I owe to 
 him — see him by your side I I think I shall fall 
 down on my knees to him." 
 
 And her eyes began to stream. 
 
 Lionel kissed the tears away fondly. '• That's 
 my own mother now indeed — now I am proud 
 of you, mother ; and how well you look I — I am 
 proud of that too." 
 
 "Look well I — I am not fit to be seen, this 
 figure — though perhajjs an elderly quiet gentle- 
 man like good Mr. Darrell does not notice ladies 
 much. John, John, make haste with those 
 plants. Gracious me ! you've got your coat otf! 
 — put it on — I expect a gentleman — I'm at 
 home, in the front drawing-room — no — that's 
 all set out — the back drawing-room, John. Send 
 Susan to me. Lionel, do just look at the sup- 
 per-table ; and what is to be done with the 
 flowers, and — " 
 
 The rest of ]Mrs. Haughton's voice, owing to 
 the rapidity of her ascent, which aflPected the 
 distinctness of her utterance, was lost in air. 
 She vanished at culminating point — within her 
 chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 Mrs. Haughton at home to Guy DarrelL 
 
 TnA>-K.s to Lionel's actinty, the hall was dis- 
 encumbered — the plants hastily stmved away — 
 the parlor closed on the festive preparations — 
 and the footman in his livery waiting at the door 
 — when Mr. Darrell anived. Lionel himself 
 came out and welcomed his benefactor's footstep 
 across the threshold of the home which the gen- 
 erous man had provided for the widow. 
 
 If Lionel had some secret misgivings as to the 
 result of this interview, they were soon and most 
 happily dispelled. For, at the sight of Guy 
 Darrell leaning so affectionately on her son's 
 arm, jMrs. Haughton mechanically gave herself 
 up to the impulse of her own warm, grateful, 
 true woman's heart. And her bound forward 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 169 
 
 — her seizure of Darrell's hand — her first fer- 
 vent blessing — her after words, simple but elo- 
 quent with feeling — made that heart so trans- 
 parent, that Darrell looked it through with re- 
 spectful eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Haughton was still a pretty woman, and 
 with much of that delicacy of form and outline 
 which constitutes the gentility of person. She 
 had a sweet voice too, except when angry. Her 
 defects of education, of temper, or of conven- 
 tional polish, were not discernible in the over- 
 flow of natural emotion. Darrell had come re- 
 solved to be pleased, if possible. Pleased he 
 was, much more than he had expected. He 
 even inly accepted for the deceased Captain ex- 
 cuses which he had never before admitted to 
 himself. The linen-draper's daughter was no 
 coarse presuming dowdy, and in her candid rush 
 of gratitude there was not that underbred ser- 
 vility "which Darrell had thought perceptible in 
 her epistolary compositions. There was elegance 
 too, void both of gaudy ostentation and penuri- 
 ous thrift, in the furniture and arrangements of 
 the room. The income he gave to her was not 
 spent with slatternly waste or on tawdry gew- 
 gaws. To ladies in general, Darrell's manner 
 was extremely attractive — not the less winning 
 because of a certain gentle shyness which, im- 
 plying respect for those he addressed, and a 
 mode-t undervaluing of his o\vn merit, conveyed 
 compliment and soothed self-love. And to that 
 lady in especial such gentle shyness was the 
 happiest good-breeding. 
 
 In short, all went off without a hitch, till, as 
 Darrell was taking leave, Mrs. Haughton was 
 remin -ed by some evil genius of her evening 
 party, and her very gratitude, longing for some 
 opportunity to requite obligation, prompted her 
 to invite the kind man to whom the facility of 
 giving parties was justly due. She had never 
 realized to herself, despite all that Lionel could 
 say, the idea of Darrell's station in the world 
 — a lawyer who had spent his youth at the 
 back of Holborn, whom the stylish Captain had 
 deemed it a condescension not to cut, m.ight in- 
 deed become very rich ; but he could never be 
 the fashion. "Poor man," she thought, "he 
 must be very lonely. He is not, like Lionel, a 
 young dancing man. A quiet little party, with 
 people of his own early rank and habits," would 
 be more in- his way than those grand places to 
 which Lionel goes. I can but ask him — I ought 
 to ask him. What would he say if I did not ask 
 him ? Black ingratitude indeed, if he were not 
 asked:" All these ideas rushed through her 
 ipind in a breath, and as she clasped Darrell's 
 extended hand in both her own, she said — "I 
 have a little party to-night!" And paused — 
 Darrell remaining mute," and Lionel not sus- 
 pecting what was to ensue, she continued: 
 "There may be some good music — yonn"- 
 friends of mine — sing charmingly — Italian 1"' 
 
 Dan-ell bowed. Lionel began to shudder. 
 
 " And if I might presume to think it would 
 amuse you, :Mr. Darrell, oh, I should be so 
 happy to see you 1 — so happy I" 
 
 " Would you?" said Darrell, briefly. " Then 
 I should be a churl if I did not come. Lionel 
 will escort me. Of course, you expect him 
 too." 
 
 '• Yes, indeed. Though he has so many fine 
 places to go to — and it can't be exactly what 
 
 i he is used to — yet he is such a dear good bov' 
 , that he gives up all to gratify his mother." 
 j Lionel, in agonies, turned an uniilial back, 
 I and looked steadily out of the window ; but 
 Darrell, far too august to take offense where 
 I none was meant, only smiled at the implied 
 i reference to Lionel's superior demand in the 
 fashionable world, and replied, without even a 
 touch of his accustomed ironv — " And to grati- 
 fy his mother is a pleasure l" thank vou for in- 
 viting me to share with him." 
 
 More and more at her ease, and charmed 
 with having obeyed her hospitable impulse, 
 Mrs. Haughton, following Darrell to the land- 
 ing-place, added — 
 
 •' And if yon like to play a quiet rubber — " 
 
 '• I never touch cards. I abhor the verv name 
 of them, ma'am," intemipted Darrell," some- 
 what less gracious in his tones. 
 
 He mounted his horse ; and Lionel, breaking 
 from Mrs. Haughton, who was assurinir him 
 that ^Ir. Darrell was not at all what she ex- 
 pected, but really quite the gentleman — nay, a 
 much grander gentleman than even Colonel 
 Morley — regained his kinsman's side, looking 
 abashed and discomfited. Dan-ell, with the 
 kindness which his fine quick intellect enabled 
 him so felicitously to apply, hastened to reUeve 
 the young guardsman's mind. 
 
 "I like your mother much — very much." said 
 he, in his most melodious accents. '-Good 
 boy ! I see now why you gave up Lady Dulcett. 
 Go and take a canter by yourself, or with youn- 
 ger friends, and be sure that you call on me, so 
 that we may be both at Mrs. Haughton's bv ten 
 o'clock. I can go later to the concen if I feel 
 inclined." 
 
 He waved his hand, wheeled his horse, and 
 trotted off toward the fair suburban lanes that 
 still proffer to the denizens of London glimpses 
 of niral fields, and shadows from quiet hedge- 
 rows. He wished to be alone; the sight of 
 ^Irs. Haughton had revived recollections of by- 
 gone days — memory linking memory in painful 
 chain — gay talk with his younger school-fellow 
 — that wild Charlie now in his grave — his ovra 
 laborious youth, resolute aspirings, secret sor- 
 rows — and the strong man felt the want of that 
 solitary self-comipune, without which self-con- 
 quest is unattainable. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Mrs. Haughton at horne miscellaneously. Little partie* 
 are useful in bringing people together. One never 
 knows whom one may meet. 
 
 Great kingdoms grow out of small begin- 
 nings. Mrs. Haughton's social circle was de- 
 scribed from a humble centre. On coming into 
 possession of her easy income, and her house in 
 Gloucester Place, she was naturally seized with 
 the desire of an appropriate "visiting acquaint- 
 ance." The accomplishment of that desire had 
 been deferred a while by the excitement of 
 Lionel's departure for Paris, and the immense 
 TEMPTATiox to whicli the attentions of the spu- 
 rious Mr. Courtenay Smith had exposed her 
 widowed solitude; but no sooner had she re- 
 covered from the shame and anger with which 
 she had discarded that showy impostor, happily 
 
170 
 
 WHAT WTXL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 in time, than the desire became tlie more keen ; 
 because the good lady felt that, with a mind so 
 active and restless as hers, a visiting acquaint- | 
 ance might be her best preservative from that 
 sense of loneliness which disposes widows to 
 lend the incautious ear to adventurous wooers. 
 After her experience of her own weakness in 
 listening to a sharper, and with a shudder at 
 her escape, Mrs. Haughton made a firm resolve 
 never to give her beloved son a father-in-law. 
 No, she would distract her thoughts — she would 
 have a visiting acqcaintance. She com- 
 menced by singling out such families as at 
 various times had been her genteelest lodgers — 
 now lodging elsewhere. She informed them by 
 polite notes of her accession of consequence and 
 fortune, which she was sure they would be hap- 
 py to hear ; and these notes, left with the card 
 of " Mrs. Houghton, Gloucester Place," neces- 
 sarily produced respondent notes and corre- 
 spondent cards. Gloucester Place then pre- 
 pared itself for a party. The ci-devant lodgers 
 urbanely attended the summons. In their turn 
 they gave parties. Mrs. Haughton was invited. 
 Fi'om eacli such party she bore back a new 
 draught into her " social circle." Thus, long 
 before the end of five years, Mrs. Haughton had 
 attained her object. She had a " visiting ac- 
 quaintance !" It is true that she was not par- 
 ticular ; so that there was a new somebody at 
 whose house a card could be left, or a morning 
 call achieved — who could help to fill her rooms, 
 or whose rooms she could contribute to fill in 
 turn, she was contented. She was no tuft-hunt- 
 er. She did not care for titles. She had no visions 
 of a column in the Morning Post. She wanted, 
 kind lady, only a vent for the exubei'ance of her 
 social instincts ; and being proud, she rather 
 liked acquaintances who looked up to, instead of 
 looking down on her. Thus Gloucester Place 
 was invaded by tribes not congenial to its natu- 
 ral civilized atmosphere. Hengists and Horsas, 
 from remote Anglo-Saxon districts, crossed the 
 intervening channel, and insulted the British 
 nationality of that salubrious district. To most 
 of such immigrators Mrs. Haughton, of Glouces- 
 ter Place, was a personage of the highest dis- 
 tinction. A few others of prouder status in the 
 world, though they owned to themselves that 
 there was a sad mixture at Mrs. Haughton's 
 house, still, once seduced there, came again — 
 being persons who, however independent in for- 
 tune, or gentle by blood, had but a small " vis- 
 iting acquaintance" in town ; fresh from eco- 
 nomical colonization on the Continent, or from 
 distant provinces in these three kingdoms. Mrs. 
 Haughton's rooms were well lighted. There was 
 music for some, wliist for others, tea, ices, cakes, 
 and a crowd for all. 
 
 At ten o'clock — -the rooms already nearly fill- 
 ed, and Mrs. Haugliton, as she stood at the door, 
 anticipating with joy that hapjjy hour when the 
 stair-case would become inaccessible — the head 
 attendant, sent with the ices from the neighlior- 
 ing confectioner, announced, in a loud voice, 
 " Mr. Haughton — Mr. Uarrell." 
 
 At that latter name a sensation thrilled the 
 assembly — the name so much in every one's 
 mouth at that period, nor least in the mouths 
 of the great middle class, on whom — though the 
 polite may call them " a sad mixture," cabinets 
 depend — could not fail to be familiar to the cars 
 
 of Mrs. Haughton's "visiting acquaintance." 
 The interval between his announcement and his 
 ascent from the hall to the drawing-room was 
 busily filled up by murmured questions to the 
 smiling hostess, " Darrell ! what! the Darrell ! 
 Guy Darrell ! greatest man of the day ! A con- 
 nection of yours ? Bless me, you don't say so ?" 
 Mrs. Haughton began to feel nen-ous. Was Li- 
 onel righf ? Could the man who had only been 
 a lawyer at the back of Holborn really be, now, 
 such a very, very great man — greatest man of 
 the day ? Nonsense ! 
 
 "Ma'am" — said one pale,'puiF-cheeked, flat- 
 nosed gentleman, in a very large white waist- 
 coat, who was waiting by her side till a vacancy 
 in one of the two whist-tables should occur — 
 "Ma'am, I'm an Enthusiastic admirer of Mr. 
 Darrell. You s.ay he is a connection of yours ? 
 Present me to him." 
 
 Mrs. Haughton nodded flutteringly, for, as the 
 gentleman closed his request, and tapped a large 
 gold snuif-box, Darrell stood before her — Lionel 
 close at his side, looking positively sheepish. 
 The great man said a few civil words, and was 
 gliding into the room to make way for the press 
 behind him, when he of the white waistcoat, 
 touching Mrs. Haughton's arm, and staring Dar- 
 rell full in the face, said, very loud: "In these 
 anxious times public men dispense with cere- 
 mony. I crave an introduction to Mr. Darrell." 
 Thus pressed, poor Mrs. Haughton, without look- 
 ing up, muttered out, " Mr. Adolphus Poole — 
 Mr. Darrell," and turned to welcome fresh 
 comers. 
 
 "Mr. Darrell," said Mr. Poole, bowing to the 
 ground, " this is an honor." 
 
 Darrell gave the speaker one glance of his 
 keen eye, and thought to himself — "If I were 
 still at the bar, I should be sorry to hold a brief 
 for that fellow." However, he retm-ned the bow 
 formally, and, bowing again at the close of a 
 highly complimentary address with which Mr. 
 Poole followed up his opening sentence, express- 
 ed himself "much flattered," and thought he 
 had escaped ; but wherever he went through the 
 crowd, Mr. Poole contrived to follow him, and 
 claim his notice by remarks on the aft'airs of the 
 day — the weather — the funds — the crops. At 
 length Darrell perceived, sitting aloof in a cor- 
 ner, an excellent man, whom indeed it surprised 
 him to see in a London drawing-room, but who, 
 many years ago, when Darrell was canvassing 
 the enlightened constituency of Ouzelford, had 
 been on a visit to the chairman of his committee 
 — an influential trader — and having connections 
 in the town — and, being a very high character, 
 had done him good service in the canvass. Dar- 
 rell rarely forgot a face, and never a service. 
 At any time he would have been glad to see the 
 worthy man once more, but at that time he was 
 grateful indeed. 
 
 " Excuse me," he said, bluntly, to Mr. Poole ; 
 "but I see an old friend." He moved on, and 
 thick as the crowd had become, it made way 
 with respect, as to royalty, for the distinguished 
 orator. The buzz of admiration as he passed — 
 louder than in drawing-rooms more refined — 
 would have had sweeter music than Grisi's most 
 artful quaver to a vainer man — nay, once on a 
 time to him. But — sugar-plums come too late ! 
 He gained the corner, and roused the solitary 
 sitter. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 171 
 
 "My dear Mr. Hartopp, do yoii not remember 
 me — Guy Darrell ?" 
 
 " Mr. Darrell I" cried the ex-mayor of Gates- 
 boro' rising, " who could think that you would 
 remember me f 
 
 "What! not remember those ten stubborn 
 voters, on whom, all and singly, I had lavished 
 my powers of argument in vain? You came, 
 and with the brief words, ' John — Ned — Dick — 
 oblige me — vote for Darrell I' the men were con- 
 vinced — the votes won. That's what I call elo- 
 quence" — {sotto voce — " Confound that fellow ! 
 still after me !" — Aside to Hartopp) — "Oh 1 may 
 I ask who is that Mr. — what's his name — there 
 — in the white waistcoat?" 
 
 " Poole," answered Hartopp. " Who is he, 
 Sir ? A speculative man. He is connected with 
 a new Company — I am told it answers. Will- 
 iams (that's my foreman — a very long head he 
 has too) has taken shares in the Company, and 
 wanted me to do the same, but 'tis not in my 
 way. And ilr. Poole may be a very honest man, 
 but he does not impress me with that idea. I 
 have grown careless ; I know I am liable to be 
 taken in — I was so once — and therefore I avoid 
 ' Companies' upon principle — especially when 
 they promise thirty per cent., and work copper 
 mines — Mr. Poole has a copper mine." 
 
 "And deals in brass — you may see it in his 
 face ! But you are not in town for good, Mr. 
 Hartopp ? If I remember right, you were set- 
 tled at Gatesboro' when we last met." 
 
 "And so 1 am still — or rather in the neigh- 
 borhood. - I am gradually retiring from business, 
 and grown more and more fond of farming. But 
 I have a family, and we live in enlightened times, 
 when children require a finer education than 
 their parents had. Mrs. Hartopp thought my 
 daughter Anna Maria was in need of some ' fin- 
 ishing lessons' — very fond of the harp is Anna 
 Maria — and so we have taken a house in Lon- 
 don for six weeks. That's Mrs. Hartopp yon- 
 der, with the bird on her head — bird of para- 
 dise, I believe — Williams says that birds of that 
 kind never rest. That bird is an exception — it 
 has rested on Mrs. Hartopp's head for hours to- 
 gether, every evening since we have been in 
 town." 
 
 " Significant of your connubial felicity, Mr. 
 Hartopp." 
 
 ' ' May it be so of Anna Maria's. She is to 
 be married when her education is finished — 
 married, by-the-by, to a son of your old friend 
 Jessop, ofOuzelford — and between you and me, 
 Mr. Dan-ell, that is the reason why I consented 
 to come to town. Do not suppose that I would 
 have a daughter finished unless there was a hus- 
 band at hand who undertook to be responsible 
 for the results." 
 
 " You retain your wisdom, Mr. Hartopp ; and 
 I feel sure that not even your fair partner could 
 have brought you up to London unless you had 
 decided on the expediency of coming. Do you 
 remember that I told you the day you so ad- 
 mirably settled a dispute in our committee-room, 
 'It was well you were not bom a king, for you 
 would have been an irresistible tyrant.' " 
 
 " Hush I hush !" whispered Hartopp in great 
 alarm, " if Mrs. Hartopp should hear you I What 
 an observer you are. Sir! I thought / was a 
 judge of character — but I was once deceived. 
 I dare say yon never were." 
 
 "Y'ou mistake," answered DaiTell, wincing, 
 "?/oM deceived: How?" 
 
 " Oh, a long story, Sir. It was an elderly 
 man — the most agreeable, interesting compan- 
 ion — a vagabond nevertheless — and such a pret- 
 ty bewitching little girl with him, his grand- 
 child. I thought he might have been a wild 
 harum-scarum chap in his day, but that he had 
 a true sense of honor" — (Darrell, wholly uninter- 
 ested in this narrative, suppressed a yawn, and 
 wondered when it would end). "Only think, 
 Sir, just as I was saying to myself, ' I know char- 
 acter — I never was taken in,' down comes a 
 smart fellow — the man's o^\ti son — and tells me 
 — or rather he sufll'ers a lady who comes with him 
 to tell me — that this chai-ming old gentleman of 
 high sense of honor was a returned convict — 
 been transported for robbing his employer." 
 
 Pale, breathless, Darrell listened, not unheed- 
 ing now. "What was the name of — of — " 
 
 " The comict ? He called himself Chapman, 
 but the son's name was Losely — Jasper." 
 
 "Ah!" faltered Darrell, recoiling, "and you 
 spoke of a little girl ?" 
 
 "Jasper Losely's daughter ; he came after her 
 with a magistrate's warrant. The old miscreant 
 had earned her off, to teach her his own swin- 
 dling ways, I suppose. Luckily she was then in 
 my charge. I gave her back to her father, and 
 the very respectable-looking lady he brought 
 with him. Some relation, I presume?" 
 
 "What was her name, do you remember ?" 
 
 "Crane." 
 
 "Crane! Crane!" muttered Darrell, as if 
 trying in vain to tax his memorv' with that name. 
 " So he said the child was his daughter — are 
 you sure?" 
 
 " Oh, of course he said so, and the lady too. 
 But can you be acquainted with them, Sir ?" 
 
 "I? no! Strangers to me except by rej^ute. 
 Liars — infamous liars ! But have the accom- 
 plices quarreled — I mean the son and fatlier — 
 that the father should be exposed and denounced 
 by the son ?" 
 
 "I conclude so. I never saw them again. 
 But you believe the father really was, then, a 
 felon, a convict — no excuse for him — no extenu- 
 ating circumstances ? There was something in 
 that man, Mr. Darrell, that made one love him 
 — positively love him ; and when I had to teU 
 him that I had given up the child he trusted to 
 my charge, and saw his grief, I felt a criminal 
 myself." 
 
 Darrell said nothing, but the character of his 
 face was entirely altered — stem, hard, relent- 
 less — the face of an inexorable judge. Hartopp, 
 lifting his eyes suddenly to that countenance, 
 recoiled in awe. 
 
 "You think I was a criminal !" he said, pite- 
 ously. 
 
 "I think we are both talking too much, Mr. 
 Hartopp, of a gang of miserable swindlers, and 
 I advise you to dismiss the whole remembrance 
 of intercourse with any of them from your hon- 
 est breast, and never to repeat to other ears the 
 tale you have poured into mine. Men of honor 
 should crush down the very thought that ap- 
 proaches them to knaves !" 
 
 Thus saying, Dairell moved off with abrupt 
 rudeness, and passing quickly back through the 
 crowd, scarcely noticed Mrs. Haughton by a re- 
 treating nod, nor heeded Lionel at all, but hur- 
 
172 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 ried down the stairs. He was impatiently search- 
 ing for his cloak in the hack parlor, when a voice 
 behind said, " Let me assist you, Sir — do ;" and 
 turning round with petulant quickness, he be- 
 held again Mr. Adolphus Poole. It requires an 
 habitual intercourse with equals to give perfect 
 and invariable control of temper to a man of ir- 
 ritable nerves and frank character; and though, 
 where Darrell really liked, he had much sweet 
 forbearance, and where he was indifferent, much 
 stately courtesy, yet, when he was offended, he 
 could be extremely uncivil. " Sir," he cried, 
 almost stamping his foot, "your importunities 
 annoy me ; I request you to cease them." 
 
 "Oh! I ask your pardon," said Mr. Poole, 
 with an angry growl. " I have no need to force 
 myself on any man. But I beg you to believe 
 that if I presumed to seek your acquaintance, 
 it was to do you a service, Sir — yes, a private 
 service. Sir." He lowered his voice into a whis- 
 per, and laid his finger on his nose — "There's 
 one Jasper Losely, Sir — eh? Oh, Sir, I'm no 
 mischief-maker. I respect family secrets. Per- 
 haps I might be of use, perhaps not." 
 
 "Certainly not to me, Sir," said Darrell, 
 flinging the cloak he had now found across his 
 shoulders, and striding from the house. When 
 he entered his carriage, the footman stood wait- 
 ing for orders. Darrell was long in giving them. 
 "Any where for half an hour — to St. Paul's, 
 then home." 
 
 But on returning from this objectless plunge 
 into the city, Darrell pulled the check-string — 
 " To Belgrave Square — Lady Dulcett's." 
 
 The concert was half over; but Flora Vyvyan 
 had still guarded, as she had promised, a seat 
 beside herself for Darrell, by lending it for the 
 present to one of her obedient vassals. Her 
 face brightened as she saw Darrell enter and 
 approach. The vassal surrendered the chair. 
 Darrell appeared to be in the highest spirits ; 
 and I firmly believe that he was striving to the 
 utmost in his power — what ? — to make himself 
 agreeable to Flora Vyvyan ? No ; to make Flora 
 Vyvyan agreeable to himself. The man did not 
 presume that a fair young lady could be in love 
 with him ; perhaps he believed that, at his years, 
 to be impossible. But he asked what seemed 
 much easier, and was much harder — he asked 
 to be himself in love. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It is asserted by those learned men who have devoted 
 their lives to the study of the manners and habits of 
 insect society, that when a spider has lost its last web, 
 having exhausted all the glutinons matter wherewith 
 to spin another, it still protracts its innocent existence 
 by obtruding its nippers on some less warlike but more 
 respectable spider, possessed of a convenient home and 
 an airy larder. Observant moralists have noticed tlic 
 same peculiarity in the Man-Iiater, or Pocket-Canni- 
 bal. 
 
 Eleven o'clock a.m. Samuel Adolphus Poole, 
 Esq., is in his parlor — the house one of those 
 new dwellings which yearly spring up north of 
 the Kegent's Park — dwellings that, attesting the 
 eccentricity of the national character, task tlie 
 fancy of the architect and the gravity of the be- 
 holder — each tenement so tortured into contrast 
 with the other, that, on one little rood of ground, 
 all ages seem blended, and all races encamped. 
 
 No. 1 is an Egyptian tomb! — Pharaohs may 
 repose there ! No. 2 is a Swiss chalet — William 
 Tell may be shooting in its garden ! Lo ! the 
 severity of Doric columns — Sparta is before 
 you ! Behold that Gothic porch — you are rapt 
 to the Norman days! Ha! those Elizabethan 
 mullions Sidney and Raleigh, rise again! Ho! 
 the trellises of China — come forth, Confucius 
 and Commissioner Yeh ! Passing a few paces, 
 Ave are in the land of the Zegri and Abence- 
 rage-- 
 
 " Land of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor." 
 
 Mr. Poole's house is called Alhambra Villa ! 
 Jloorish verandas — plate-glass windows, with 
 cusped heads and mahogany sashes — a garden 
 behind, a smaller ona in front — stairs ascending 
 to the door-way under a Saracenic portico, be- 
 tween two pedestaled lions that resemble poo- 
 dles — the whole new and lustrous — in semblance 
 stone, in substance stucco — cracks in the stucco 
 denoting "settlements." But the house being 
 let for ninety-nine years — relet again on a run- 
 ning lease of seven, fourteen, and twenty-one — 
 the builder is not answerable for duration, nor 
 the original lessee for repairs. Take it alto- 
 gether, than Alhambra Villa masonry could de- 
 vise no better type of modern taste and metro- 
 politan speculation. 
 
 J\Ir. Poole, since we s.aw him, between four 
 and five years ago, has entered the matrimonial 
 state. He has married a lady of some money, 
 and become a reformed man. He has eschewed 
 the turf, relinquished belcher neckcloths and 
 Newmarket coats — dropped his old bachelor ac- 
 quaintances. When a man marries and reforms 
 — especially when marriage and reform are ac- 
 companied with increased income, and settled 
 respectably in Alhambra Villa — relations, before 
 estranged, tender kindly overtures ; the world, 
 before austere, becomes indulgent. It was so 
 with Poole — no longer Dolly. Grant that in 
 earlier life he had fallen into bad ways, and, 
 among equivocal associates, he had been led on 
 by that taste for sporting which is a manly though 
 a perilous characteristic of the true-born English- 
 man. He who loves horses is liable to come in 
 contact with blacklegs. The racer is a noble 
 animal ; but it is his misfortune that the better 
 his breeding the worse his company. Grant that 
 in the stables Adolphus Samuel Poole had picked 
 np some wild oats — he had sown them now. By- 
 gones were by-gones. He had made a very pru- 
 dent marriage. Mrs. Poole was a sensible wo- 
 man — had rendered him domestic, and would 
 keep him straight ! His uncle Samuel, a most 
 worthy man, had found him that sensible wo- 
 man, and, having found her, had paid his neph- 
 ew's debts, and adding a round sum to the lady's 
 fortune, had seen that the whole was so tightly 
 settled on wife and children that Poole had the 
 tender satisfaction of knowing that, happen what 
 might to himself, those dear ones were safe ; nay, 
 that if, in the reverses of fortune, he should be 
 compelled by persecuting creditors to fly his na- 
 tive shores, law could not impair the competence 
 it had settled upon Mrs. Poole, nor destroy her 
 blessed privilege to share that competence with 
 a beloved spouse. Insolvency itself, thus pro- 
 tected by a marriage-settlement, realizes the 
 sublime security of virtde immortalized by the 
 Roman Muse : 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO "V^^TH IT ? 
 
 173 
 
 "Repnlsae nescia sordid^, 
 
 Intaminatis fiilget honoribus; 
 
 Nee sumit aut ponit secures 
 
 Arbitrio popularis aurse." 
 
 Mr. Poole was an active man in the parish 
 Tcstry — he was a sound politician — he subscribed 
 to public charities — he attended public dinners 
 — he had votes in half a dozen public institu- 
 tions — he talked of the public interests, and 
 'called himself a public man. He chose his as- 
 sociates among gentlemen in business — specula- 
 tive, it is true, but steady. A joint-stock com- 
 pany was set up ; he obtained an official station 
 at its board, coupled with a salary — not large, 
 indeed, but still a salary. 
 
 "The money," said Adolphus Samuel Poole, 
 " is not my object ; but I like to have something 
 to do." I can not say how he did something, 
 but no doubt somebody was done. 
 
 Mr. Poole was in his parlor, reading letters 
 and sorting papers, before he departed to his 
 office in the West End. INIrs. Poole entered, 
 leading an infant who had not yet learned to 
 walk alone, and denoting, by an interesting en- 
 largement of shape, a kindly design to bless that 
 infant, at no distant period, with a brother or 
 sister, as the case might be. 
 
 " Come and kiss Pa, Johnny," said she to the 
 infant. 
 
 " Mrs. Poole, I am busy," growled Pa. 
 
 " Pa's busy — working hard for little Johnny. 
 Johnny will be the better for it some day," said 
 Mrs. Poole, tossing the infant half up to the 
 ceiling, in compensation for the loss of the 
 paternal kiss. 
 
 " ■Mrs. Poole, what do you want ?" 
 
 "May I hire Jones's brougham for two hours 
 to-day to pay visits? There are a great many 
 cards we ought to leave; is there any place 
 where I should leave a card for you, lovey — any 
 person of consequence you were introduced to 
 at Mrs. Haughton"3 last night? That great 
 man they were all talking about, to whom vou 
 seemed to take such a fancy, Samuel, duck — " 
 
 "Do get out! that man insulted me, I tell 
 you." 
 
 " Insulted you ! No ; you never told me." 
 
 " I did tell you last night coming home." 
 
 "Dear me, I thought you meant that Mr. 
 Hartopp." 
 
 "Well, he almost insulted me, too. Mrs. 
 Poole, you are stupid and disagreeable. Is that 
 all you have to say ?" 
 
 " Pa's cross, Johnny dear ! poor Pa ! — people 
 have vexed Pa, Johnny — naughty people. We 
 must go, or we shall vex him "too." 
 
 Such heavenly sweetness on the part of a for- 
 bearing wife would have softened Tamburlane. 
 Poole's sullen brow relaxed. If women knew 
 how to treat men, not a husband, nnhenpecked, 
 would be found from Indos to the Pole ! And 
 Poole, for all his surly demeanor, was as com- 
 pletely governed by that angel as a bear by his 
 keeper. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Poole, excuse me. I own I am 
 out of sorts to-day — give me little Johnnv — there 
 (kissing the infant, who in return makes a di(T 
 at Pa's left eye, and begins to cry on finding 
 
 that he has not succeeded in digging it out) 
 
 take the brougham. Hush, Johnny — hush — 
 and you may leave a card for me at Mr. Peck- 
 ham's, Harley Street. My eye smarts horri- 
 
 bly ; that baby will gouge me one of these 
 days." 
 
 Mrs. Poole has succeeded in stilling the in- 
 fant, and confessing that Johnny's fingers are 
 extremely strong for his age — but, adding, that 
 babies will catch at whatever is very bright and 
 beautiful, such as gold and jewels, and Mr. 
 Poole's eyes, administers to the wounded orb so 
 soothing a lotion of pity and admiration that 
 Poole growls out quite mildly — " Nonsense, blar- 
 ney — by-the-by, I did not say this morning that 
 you should not have the rosewood chifFoniere." 
 
 " No, you said you could not afford it, duck ; 
 and when Pa says he can't afford it. Pa must 
 be the judge — must not he, Johnny dear?" 
 
 "But, perhaps, I can afford it. Yes, you may 
 have it — yes, I say, you shall have it. Don't 
 forget to leave that card on Peckham — he's a 
 moneyed man. There's a ring at the bell, who 
 is it? Run and see." 
 
 JNIrs. Poole obeyed with great activity, con- 
 sidering her interesting condition. She came 
 back in half a minute. 
 
 "Oh, my Adolphus! oh, my Samuel! it is 
 that dreadful-looking man who was here the 
 other evening — staid with you so long. I don't 
 like his looks at all. Pray, don't be at home." 
 
 "I must," said Poole, turning a shade paler, 
 if that were possible. " Stop — don't let that 
 girl go to the door, and you leave me." He 
 snatched his hat and gloves, and putting aside 
 the parlor maid, who had emerged from the 
 shades below in order to answer the 'ring,' 
 walked hastily down the small garden. 
 
 Jasper Losely was stationed at the little gate. 
 Jasper was no longer in rags, but he was coarsely 
 clad — clad as if he had resigned all pretense 
 to please a lady's eye, or to impose upon a West- 
 End tradesman — a check shirt — a rough pea- 
 jacket, his hands buried in its pockets. 
 
 Poole started with well-simulated surprise. 
 " What, you ! I am just going to my office — in 
 a great hurry at present." 
 
 "Hurry or not, I must and will speak to yon," 
 said Jasper, doggedly. 
 
 "What now? then, step in ; — only remember 
 I can't give you more than five minutes." 
 
 The rude visitor followed Poole into the back 
 parloi", and closed the door after him. 
 
 Leaning his arms over a chair, his hat still on 
 his head, Losely fixed his fierce eyes on his old 
 friend, and said in a low, set, determined voice 
 — "Now, mark me, Dolly Poole, if you think to 
 shirk my business, or throw me over, you'll find 
 yourself in Queer Street. Have you called on 
 Guy Darrell, and put my case to him, or have 
 you not ?" 
 
 "I met Mr. Darrell only last night, at a very 
 genteel party. (Poole deemed it pi-udent not 
 to say by whom that genteel party was given, for 
 it will be remembered that Poole had been Jas- 
 per's confidant in that adventurer's former de- 
 signs upon Mrs. Haughton ; and if Jasper knevr 
 that Poole had made her acquaintance, might 
 he not insist upon Poole's reintroducing him as 
 a visiting acquaintance ?) "A verj- genteel par- 
 ty," repeated Poole. " I made a point of being 
 presented to Mr. Darrell, and very polite he was 
 at fi.rst." 
 
 "Curse his politeness — get to the point." 
 
 "I sounded my way very carefully, as you 
 may suppose ; and when I had got him into 
 
174 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 friendly chat, you understand, I began : Ah I my 
 poor Losely, nothing to be done there — he flew 
 off in a tangent — as much as desired me to 
 mind my own business, and hold my tongue; 
 and upon my life, I don't think there is a chance 
 for you in that quarter." 
 
 " Very well^we shall see. Xext, have you 
 taken any steps to find out the girl, my daugh- 
 ter ?" 
 
 " I have, I assure you. But you give me so 
 sli;:;ht a clew. Are you quite sure she is not in 
 America after all?" 
 
 " I have told you before that that story about 
 America was all bosh! a stratagem of the old 
 gentleman's to deceive me. Poor old man," 
 continued Jasper, in a tone -that positively be- 
 trayed feeling — " I don't wonder that he dreads 
 and flies me ; yet I would not hurt him more 
 than I have done, even to be as well off as you 
 are — blinking at me from your mahogany perch 
 like a pet owl with its crop full of mice. And 
 if I would take the girl from him, it is for her 
 own good. For if Dai-rell could be got to make 
 a provision on her, and, through her, on myself, 
 why, of course, the old man should share the 
 benefit of it. And now that these infernal pains 
 often keep me awake half the night, I can't 
 always shut out the idea of that old man wan- 
 dering about the world, and dying in a ditch. 
 And that runaway girl — to whom, I dare swear, 
 he would give away his last crumb of bread — • 
 ought to be an annuity to us both': Basta, basta ! 
 As to the American story — I had a friend at 
 Paris, who went to America on a speculation; 
 I asked him to inquire about this William Waife 
 and his grand-daughter Sophy, who were said to 
 have sailed for New York nearly five years ago, 
 and he saw the very persons — settled in New 
 Tork — no longer under the name of Waife, but 
 their true name of Simpson, and got out from 
 the man that they had been induced to take 
 their passage from England in the name of 
 Waife, at the request of a person whom the man 
 would not give up, but to whom he said he was 
 under obligations. Perhaps the old gentleman 
 had done the fellow a kind turn in early life. 
 The description of this soi disant Waife and his 
 grandchild settles the matter ; — wholly unlike 
 those I seek; so that there is every reason to 
 suppose they must still be in England, and it 
 is your business to find them. Continue your 
 search — quicken your wits — let me be better 
 pleased with your success when I call again this 
 day week — and meanwhile four pounds, if you 
 please — as much more as you like." 
 
 "Why, I gave you four pounds the other 
 day, besides six pounds for clothes ; it can't be 
 gone." 
 
 " Every penny." 
 
 "Dear, dear! can't you maintain yourself 
 anyhow? Can't you get any one to play at 
 cards ? Four pounds ! Why, with your talent 
 for whist, four pounds are a capital?" 
 
 " Whom can I play with ? Whom can I herd 
 with? — Cracksmen and pickpockets. Fit me 
 out ; ask me to your own house ; invite your own 
 friends ; make up a rubber, and you Avill then 
 see what I can do with four pounds ; and may 
 go shares if you like, as we used to do." 
 
 " Don't talk so loud. Losely, you know very 
 well that what you ask is impossible. I've turned 
 over a new leaf." 
 
 "But I've still got yonr handwriting on the 
 old leaf." 
 
 "What's the good of these stupid threats? 
 If you really wanted to do me a mischief, 
 where could you go to, and who'd beUeve 
 you ?" 
 
 "I fancy your wife would. I'll try. Hillo — " 
 
 " Stop — stop — stop. No row here, Sir. No 
 scandal. Hold your tongue, or I'll send for the 
 police." 
 
 "Do! Nothing I should like better. I'm 
 tired out. I want to tell my own story at the 
 Old Bailey, and have my revenge upon you, 
 upon Darrell, iipon all. Send for the police." 
 
 Losely threw himself at length on the sofa — 
 (new morocco, with spring cushions) — and folded 
 his arms. ^ 
 
 " You could only give me five minutes — they 
 are gone, I fear. I am more liberal. I give 
 you your own time to consider. I don't care if 
 I stay to dine ; I dare say Mrs. Poole will excuse 
 my dress." 
 
 "Losely, you are such a — fellow ! If I do give 
 you the four pounds you ask, will you promise 
 to shift for yourself somehow, and molest me no 
 more?" 
 
 " Certainly not. I shall come once every week 
 for the same sum. I can't live upon less — 
 until — " 
 
 "Until what?" 
 
 " Until either you get Mr. Darrell to settle on 
 me a suitable pro\"ision, or until you place me in 
 possession of my daughter, and I can then be in 
 a better condition to treat with him myself; for 
 if I would make a claim on account of the girl, I 
 must produce the girl, or he may say she is 
 dead. Besides, if she be as pretty as she was 
 when a child, the very sight of her might move 
 him more than all my talk." 
 
 "And if I succeed in doing any thing with 
 Mr. Darrell, or discovering your daughter, you 
 will give up all such letters and documents of 
 mine as you say you possess ?" 
 
 "'Say — I possess!' I have shown them to 
 you in this pocket-book. Dolly Poole — your 
 o«Ti proposition to rob old Latham's safe." 
 
 Poole eyed the book, which the ruflian took 
 out and tapped. Had the rufiian been a slighter 
 man, Poole would have been a braver one. As 
 it was — he eyed and groaned. "Turn against 
 one's old crony! So unhandsome, so unlike 
 what I thought you were I" 
 
 " It is you who would turn against me. But 
 stick to Darrell, or find me my daughter, and 
 help her and me to get justice out of him; and 
 j'ou shall not only have back these letters, but 
 I'll pay yon handsomely — handsomely, Dolly 
 Poole. Zooks, Sir — I am fallen — but I am al- 
 ways a gentleman." 
 
 Therewith Losely gave a vehement slap to his 
 hat, which, crushed by the stroke, improved his 
 general appearance into an aspect so outra- 
 geously raffish, that but for the expression of 
 his countenance the contrast between the boast 
 and the man would have been ludicrous even to 
 Mr. Poole. The countenance was too dark to 
 permit laughter. In the dress, but the ruin of 
 fortune — in the face, the ruin of man. 
 
 Poole heaved a deep sigh, and extended four 
 sovereigns. Losely rose and took them care- 
 lessly. " This day week," he said — shook him- 
 self — and went his wav. 
 
WHAT "WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 French tonches to the Three Vignettes for the Book of 
 Beauty. 
 
 Weeks passed — the London season was be- 
 ginning — Darrell had decided nothing — the 
 prestige of his position was undiminished — in 
 politics, perhaps, higher. He had succeeded in 
 reconciling some great men ; he had strength- 
 ened, it might be saved, a jarring cabinet. In 
 all this he had shown admirable knowledge of 
 mankind, and proved that time and disuse had 
 not lessened his powers of perception. In his 
 matrimonial designs Darrell seemed more bent 
 than ever upon the hazard — irresolute as ever 
 on the choice of a partner. Still the choice ap- 
 peared to be circumscribed to the fair three who 
 had been subjected to Colonel ^Morlej's specula- 
 tive criticism — Lady Adela, Miss Vipont, Flora 
 Vrn-an. I\Iuch j)ro and con might be said in 
 respect to each. Lady Adela was so handsome 
 that it was a pleasure to look at her; and that 
 is much when one sees the handsome face every 
 day — provided the pleasure does not wear off. 
 She had the reputation of a very good temper; 
 and the expression of her countenance confirmed 
 it. There, panegj'ric stopped ; but detraction 
 did not commence. What remained was in- 
 offensive commonplace. She had no salient 
 attribute, and no ruling passion. Certainly she 
 wotild never have wasted a thought on Mr. Dar- 
 rell, nor have discovered a single merit in him, 
 if he had not been quoted as a very rich man of 
 high character in search of a wife ; and if her 
 father had not said to her — "Adela, Jlr. Dar- 
 rell has been greatly stiiick with your appear- 
 ance — he told me so. He is not young, but he 
 is still a very fine-looking man, and you are 
 tnenty-seven. 'Tis a greater distinction to be 
 noticed by a person of his years and position 
 than by a pack of silly young fellows, who think 
 more of their own pretty faces than they would 
 ever do of yours. If you did not mind a little 
 disparity of years, he would make you a happy 
 wife ; and, in the course of nature, a widow, 
 not too old to enjoy hberty, and with a jointure 
 that might entitle you to a still better match." 
 
 Darrell, thus put into Lady Adela's head, he 
 remained there, and became an idee fixe. View- 
 ed in the light of a probable husband, he was 
 elevated into an '■ interesting man." She would 
 have received his addresses with gentle com- 
 placency ; and, being more the creature of habit 
 than impulse, would, no doubt, in the intimacy 
 of connubial life, have blessed him, or any other 
 admiring husband, with a reasonable modicum 
 of languid affection. Nevertheless, Lady Adela 
 was an unconscious impostor ; for, owing to a 
 mild softness of eye and a susceptibihty to 
 blushes, a victim ensnared by her beautv would 
 be apt to give her credit for' a nature far more 
 accessible to the romance of the tender passions, 
 than, happily perhaps for her on-n peace of mind, 
 she possessed ; and might flatter himself that he 
 had produced a sensation which gave that soft- 
 ness to the eye, and that damask to the blush. 
 
 Honoria Vipont would have been a choice far 
 more creditable to the good sense of so mature 
 a wooer. Few better specimens of a young ladv 
 brought up to become an accomplished woman 
 of the world. She had sufiicient instruction to 
 be the companion of an ambitious man — solid 
 
 i judgment to fit her for his occasional addser. 
 i She could preside with dignity over a statelv 
 j household — receive with grace distinguished 
 I guests. Fitted to administer an ample fortune, 
 ; ample fortune was necessary to the development 
 of her excellent qualities. If a man of Dan-ell's 
 age were bold enough to marr}- a young wife, a 
 safer -nife among the young ladies of London 
 he could scarcely find ;" for though Honoria was 
 \ only three-aud-twenty, she v,as as staid, as sens- 
 ible, and as remote 'from all girlish frivolities 
 . as if she had been eight-and-thirty. Certainly, 
 . had Guy Darrell been of her own years, his 
 fortune unmade, his fame to win, a lawyer re- 
 ^ siding at the back of Holborn, or a pettv squire 
 in the petty demesnes of Fawley, he woiild have 
 had no charm in the eves of "Honoria Vipont. 
 I Disparity of years Mas in this case not his draw- 
 back but his advantage, since to that disparity 
 Darrell owed the established name and the emi- 
 nent station which made Honoria think she ele- 
 j vated her own self in preferring him. It is but 
 I justice to her to distinguish here between a wo- 
 ^ man's veneration for the attributes of respect 
 which a man gathers round him, and the more 
 ' vulgar sentiment which sinks the man altogether, 
 ' except as the necessary fixture to be taken in 
 with the general valuation. It is not fair to ask 
 i if a girl who entertains a preference for one of 
 I our toiling, stirring, ambitious sex, who mav be 
 I double her age, or have a snub nose, but "who 
 looks dignified and imposing on a pedestal of 
 j state, whether she would like him as much if 
 I stripped of all his accessories, and left unre- 
 j deemed to his baptismal register or unbecoming 
 I nose. Just as well ask a girl in love with a 
 yotmg Lotharia if she would like him as much 
 ! if he had been ugly and crooked. The high 
 ' name of the one man is as much a part of hnn 
 ! as good looks are to the other. Thus, though 
 [ it was said of Madame de la Valliere that she 
 loved Louis XIV. for himself and not for his 
 j regal grandeur, is there a woman in the world, 
 ' however disinterested, who believes that ^Madame 
 I de la Villiere would have liked Louis XPV". as 
 I much if Louis XIV. had been Mr. John Jones ! 
 Honoria would not have bestowed her hand on 
 a brainless, worthless nobleman, whatever his 
 rank or wealth. She was above that sort of 
 ambition ; but neither would she have married 
 the best-looking and worthiest John Jones v.ho 
 ever bore that British appellation, if he had not 
 occupied the social position which brought the 
 merits of a Jones within range of the eye-glass 
 of a Vipont. 
 
 Many girls in the nursery say to their juve- 
 nile confidants, " I will only marry the man I 
 love." Honoria had ever said, '•! will only 
 marry the man I respect." Thus it was her re- 
 spect for Guj- Darrell that made her honor him 
 by her preference. She appreciated his intel- 
 lect — she fell in love with the reputation which 
 the intellect had acquired. And DaiTcll might 
 certainly choose worse. His cool reason in- 
 clined him much to Honoria. When Alban 
 Morley argued in her favor he had no escape 
 from acquiescence, except in the turns and 
 doubles of his ironical humor. But his heart 
 was a rebel to his reason ; and between you and 
 me, Honoria was exactly one of those young 
 women by whom a man of grave years ought to 
 be attracted, and by whom, somehow or other, 
 
176 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 he never is ; I suspect, because the older we 
 grow the more we love vouthfulness of charac- 
 ter. When Alcides, havingr gone through all 
 the fatigues of life, took a bride in Olympus, he 
 ought to have selected Minen-a, but he chose 
 Hebe. 
 
 Will Darrell find J;iis Hebe in Flora Vyvyan ? 
 Alban Morley became more and more alarmed 
 by that apprehension. He was shrewd enough 
 to recognize in her the girl of all others formed 
 to glad the eye and plague the heart of a grave 
 and reverend seigneur. And it might well not 
 only flatter the vanity, but beguile the judg- 
 ment, of a man who feared his hand would be 
 accepted only for the sake of his money, that 
 Flora, just at this moment, refused the greatest 
 match in the kingdom — young LordVipont, son 
 of the new Earl of Montfort — a young man of 
 good sense, high character, well-looking as men 
 go, heir to estates almost royal — a young man 
 whom no girl on earth is justified in refusing. 
 But would the whimsical creature accept Dar- 
 rell ? Was she not merely making sport of him, 
 and if, caught by her arts, he, sage and elder, 
 solemnly offered homage and hand to that belle 
 dedaigneuse who had just doomed to despair a 
 comely young magnate with five times his for- 
 tune, would she not hasten to make him the 
 ridicule of London ? 
 
 Darrell had, perhaps, his secret reasons for 
 thinking otherwise, but he did not confide them 
 even to Alban Morley. This much only will 
 the narrator, more candid, say to the reader — 
 if out of the three whom his thoughts fluttered 
 round, Guy Darrell wished to select the one 
 who wotild love him best — love him with the 
 whole, fresh, unreasoning heart of a girl whose 
 childish frowardness sprung from childlike in- 
 nocence — let him dare the hazard of refusal 
 and of ridicule ; let him say to Flora Vyvyan, 
 in the pathos of his sweet, deep voice, " Come, 
 and be the spoiled darling of my gladdened 
 age ; let my life, ere it sink into night, be re- 
 joiced by the bloom and fresh breeze of the 
 morning 1" 
 
 But to say it he must wish it ; he himself 
 must love — love with all the lavish indulgence, 
 all the knightly tenderness, all the grateful sym- 
 pathizing joy in the youth of the beloved, when 
 youth for the lover is no more, which alone can 
 realize what we sometimes see, though loth to 
 own it — congenial unions with unequal years. 
 If Darrell feel not that love, woe to him ; woe 
 and thrice .shame if he allure to his hearth one 
 who might indeed be a Hebe to the spouse who 
 gave up to her his whole heart in return for 
 hers ; but to the spouse who had no heart to 
 give, or gave but the chips of it, the Hebe, in- 
 dignant, would be worse than Erinnys ! 
 
 All things considered, then, they who •wish 
 well to Guy Darrell must range with Alban 
 Morley in favor of Miss Honoria Vipont. She 
 proffering affectionate respect, Darrell respond- 
 ing by rational esteem. So, perhaps, Dan-ell 
 himself thought ; for whenever Miss Vipont was 
 named he became more taciturn, more absorbed 
 in reflection, and sighed heavily, like a man who 
 slowly makes up his mind to a decision, wise but 
 not tempting. 
 
 CHAPTER YU. 
 
 Containing much of that information which the wisest 
 men in the world could not give, but which the Au- 
 thor can. 
 
 "Darrell," said Colonel Morley, "you re- 
 member my nephew George as a boy ? He is 
 I now the rector of Humberston ; man-ied — a 
 I very nice sort of woman — suits him. Hum- 
 1 berston is a fine living ; but his talents are 
 I wasted there. He preached for the first time 
 in London last year, and made a considerable 
 sensation. This year he has been much out of 
 town. He has no church here as yet. I hope 
 to get him one. Carr is determined that he 
 shall be a Bishop. Meanwhile he preaches at 
 
 Chapel to-ma^Tow. Come and hear him 
 
 with me, and then tell me frankly — is he elo- 
 quent or not ?" 
 
 Dan^ell had a prejudice against fashionable 
 preachers, but to please Colonel Morley he went 
 to hear George. He was agreeably surprised 
 by the pulpit oratory of the young divine. It 
 j had that rare combination of impassioned earn- 
 1 estness, with subdued tones, and decorous ges- 
 ! ture, which suits the ideal of ecclesiastical 
 i eloquence conceived by an educated English 
 I Churchman — 
 
 " Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full." 
 
 I Occasionally the old defect in utterance was 
 I discernible ; there was a gasp as for breath, or 
 I a prolonged dwelling upon certain syllables, 
 which, occurring in the most animated passages, 
 and apparently evincing the preachers struggle 
 I with emotion, rather served to heighten the 
 sympathy of the audience. But for the most 
 part the original stammer was replaced by a fe- 
 : licitous pause — the pause as of a thoughtful rca- 
 soner, or a solemn monitor knitting ideas, that 
 came too quick, into method, or chastening im- 
 pulse into disciplined zeal. The mind of the 
 j preacher, thus not only freed from trammel, but 
 I armed for victory, came forth with that power 
 which is peculiar to an original intellect — the 
 I power which suggests more than it demon- ' 
 ' strates. He did not so much preach to his au- 
 j dience as wind himself through unexpected 
 ; ways into the hearts of the audience ; and they 
 ! who heard suddenly found their hearts preach- 
 ; ing to themselves. He took for his text, "Cast 
 I down, but not destroyed." And out of this text 
 I he framed a discourse full of true Gospel ten- 
 [ demess, which seemed to raise up comfort as 
 ; the sanng, against despair as the evil, principle 
 I of mortal life. The congregation was what is 
 I called "brilliant" — statesmen, and peers, and 
 : great authors, and fine ladies — people whom the 
 inconsiderate believe to stand little in need of 
 comfort, and never to be subjected to despair. 
 In many an intent or drooping face in that 
 brilliant congregation might be read a very dif- 
 ferent tale. But Of all present there was no 
 one whom the discourse so moved as a woman, 
 who, chancing to pass that way, had followed 
 the throng into the Chapel, and" with difficulty 
 obtained a seat at the far end ; a woman who 
 had not been within the walls of chapel or church 
 for long years — a grim woman, in iron gray. 
 There she sate, unnoticed, in her remote cor- 
 ner ; and before the preacher had done, her face 
 was hidden behind her clasped hands, and she 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 177 
 
 was weeping such tears as she had not wept 
 since childhood. 
 
 On leaving church Darrell said little more to 
 the Colonel than this : "Your nephew takes me 
 bv surprise. The Church wants such men. He 
 will have a grand career, if life be spared to 
 him." Then he sank into a reverie, from which 
 he broke abrupth' — '• Your nephew was at school 
 wiih my boy. Had my son lived, what had been 
 his career ?" 
 
 The Colonel, never encouraging painful sub- 
 jecis, made no rejoinder. 
 
 " Bring George to see me to-morrow. I 
 shrunk from asking it before : I thought the 
 sight of him would too much revive old sorrows, 
 but I feel I should accustom myself to face ev- 
 ery memory. Bring him." 
 
 The next day the Colonel took George to 
 Darrell's ; but George had been pre-engaged 
 till late at noon, and Darrell was just leaving 
 home, and at his street-door, when the uncle 
 and nephew came. They respected his time 
 too much to accept his offer to come in, but 
 walked beside him for a few minutes, as he be- 
 stowed upon George those compliments which 
 ai-e sweet to the ear of rising men from the lips 
 of those who have risen. 
 
 "I remember you, George, as a boy," said 
 Darrell, " and thanked you then for good advice 
 to a school-fellow, who is lost to your counsels 
 now." He faltered an instant, but went on firm- 
 ly : '• You had then a slight defect in utterance, 
 which, I understand from your uncle, increased 
 as you grew older ; so that I never anticipated 
 for you the fame that you are achieving. Orator 
 .fit — you must have been admirably taught. In 
 the management of your voice, in the excellence 
 of your delivery, I see that you are one of the 
 few who deem that the Divine AVord should not 
 be unworthily nttered. The debater on beer 
 bills may be excused from studying the orator's 
 efiects ; but all that enforce, dignify, adorn, 
 make the becoming studies of him who strives 
 by eloquence to people heaven ; whose task it is 
 to adjure the thoughtless, animate the languid, 
 soften the callous, humble the proud, alarm the 
 guilty, comfort the sorrowful, call back to the 
 fold the lost. Is the culture to be slovenly 
 where the glebe is so fertile? The only field 
 left in modern times for the ancient orator's 
 sublime conceptions, but laborious training, is 
 the Preacher's. And I own, George, that I 
 envy the masters who skilled to the Preacher's 
 art an intellect like yours." 
 
 "Masters," said the Colonel, "I thought all 
 those elocution masters failed with you, George. 
 You cured and taught yourself. Did not you ? 
 No! AVhy, then, who was your teacher?" 
 
 George looked very much embarrassed, and, 
 attempting to answer, began horribly to stutter. 
 Darrell, conceiving that a preacher whose 
 fame was not yet confirmed, might reasonably 
 dislike to confess those obligations to elaborate 
 study, which, if known, might detract from his 
 eifect, or expose him to ridicule, hastened to 
 change the subject. "You have been to the 
 country, I hear, George ; at your living, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "Xo. I have not been there very lately; 
 traveling about." 
 
 "Have you seen Lady Montfort since your 
 return ?" asked the Colonel. 
 M 
 
 "I only retiu-ned on Saturday night. I go to 
 , Lady Montfort's, at Twickenham, this even- 
 ing." 
 
 ! " She has a delightful retreat," said the Col- 
 onel. " But if she wish to avoid admiration, she 
 should not make the banks of the river her fa- 
 vorite haunt. I know some romantic admirers 
 who, when she reappears in the world, may be 
 j rival aspirants, and who have much taken to 
 rowing since Lady Montfort has retired to 
 j Twickenham. They catch a glimpse of her, 
 I and return to boast of it. But they report that 
 : there is a young lady seen walking with her — 
 j an extremely pretty one— who is she ? People 
 I ask 7ne — as if I knew every thing." 
 
 "A companion, I sujjpose," said George, more 
 I and more confused. "But, pardon me, I must 
 leave vou now. Good-bv, uncle. Good-dav, Mr 
 Darrell." '. 
 
 Darrell did not seem to observe George take 
 leave, but walked on, his hat over his brows, lost 
 in one of his frequent fits of abstracted gloom. 
 
 "If my nephew were not married," said the 
 Colonel, "I should regard his embarrassment 
 with much suspicion — embarrassed at every 
 i point, from his travels about the countiy to the 
 I question of a young lady at Twickenham. I 
 wonder who that young lady can be — not one 
 : of the Viponts, or I should have heard. Are 
 , there any young ladies on the Lvndsay side? — 
 Eh, Darrell ?" 
 [ "What do I care — your head runs on young 
 ladies," answered Darrell, with peevish vivaci- 
 ty, as he stopped abruptly at Carr Vipont's door. 
 "And your feet do not seem to run from 
 them," said the Colonel; and, with an ironical 
 salute, walked away, while the expanding port- 
 als ingulfed his friend. 
 
 As he sauntered up St. James's Street, nod^ 
 ding toward the thronged windows of its various 
 clubs, the Colonel suddenly encountered Lionel, 
 and, taking the young gentleman's arm, said, 
 " If you are not very much occupied, will you 
 waste half an hour on me ? — I am going home- 
 ward." 
 
 Lionel readily assented, and the Colonel con- 
 tinued : "Are you in want of your cabriolet to- 
 day, or can you lend it to me? I have asked a 
 Frenchman, who brings me a letter of introduc- 
 tion, to dine at the nearest restaurant to which 
 one can ask a Frenchman. I need not say that 
 is Greenwich ; and if I took him in a cabriolet, 
 he would not suspect that he was taken five miles 
 out of town." 
 
 " Alas ! my dear Colonel, I have just sold my 
 cabriolet." 
 
 "What! old-fashioned already ? True, it has 
 been built three months. Perhaps the horse, too, 
 has become an antique in some other collection 
 — silent — imi! — cabriolet and horse both sold?" 
 "Both," said Lionel, ruefully. 
 "Nothing surprises me that man can do," 
 said the Colonel, "or I should be surprised. 
 When, acting on Dairell's general instructions 
 for your outfit, I bought that horse, I flattered 
 myself that I had chosen well. But rare are 
 good horses — rarer still a good judge of them ; 
 I suppose I was cheated, and the brute proved a 
 screw." 
 
 "The finest cab-horse in London, my dear 
 Colonel, and every one knows how proud I was 
 of him. But I wanted money, and had nothing 
 
178 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 else that vrould bring the sum I required. Oh, 
 Colonel Morley, do hear me !" 
 
 " Certainly, I am not deaf, nor is St. James's 
 Street. When a man says, ' I have parted with 
 my horse because I wanted money,' I advise 
 him to say it in a whisper." 
 
 " I have been imprudent, at least unlucky, 
 and I must pay the penalty. A friend of mine 
 — that is, not exactly a friend, but an acquaint- 
 ance — whom I see every day — one of my own 
 set — asked me to sign my name at Paris to a 
 bill at three months' date, as his security. He 
 gave me his honor that I should hear no more 
 of it — he would be sure to take up the bill when 
 due — a man whom I supposed to be as well off 
 as myself! You will allow that I could scarcely 
 refuse — at all events, I did not. The bill be- 
 came due two days ago ; my friend does not pay 
 it, and indeed says he can not, and the holder 
 of the bill calls on me. He was very civil — of- 
 fered to renew it — pressed mc to take my time, 
 etc. ; but I did not like his manner, and as to 
 my friend. I find that, instead of being well off, 
 as I supposed, he is hard up, and that I am not 
 the first he has got into the same scrape — not 
 intending it, I am sure. He's really a veiy good 
 fellow, and, if I wanted security, would be it to- 
 morrow, to any amount." 
 
 "I've no doubt of it — to any amount I" said 
 the Colonel. 
 
 "So I thought it best to conclude the matter 
 at once. I had saved nothing from my allow- 
 ance, munificent as it is. I could not have the 
 face to ask Mr. Darrell to remunerate me for my 
 own irajjrudence. I should not like to borrow 
 from my mother — I know it would be incon- 
 venient to her. I sold both horse and cabriolet 
 this morning. I had just been getting the check 
 cashed when I met you. I intend to take the 
 monev mvself to the bill-holder. I have just the 
 sum— £200." 
 
 "The horse alone was worth that," said the 
 Colonel, with a faint sigh — "not to be replaced. 
 Prance and Russia have the pick of our stables. 
 However, if it is sold, it is sold — talk no more of 
 it. I hate painful subjects. You did right not 
 to renew the bill — it is opening an account with 
 Ruin ; and though I avoid preaching on money- 
 makers, or, indeed, any other (preaching is my 
 nephew's vocation, not mine), yet allow me to 
 extract from you a solemn promise never again 
 to sign bills, nor to draw them. Be to your 
 friend what you please except security for him. 
 Orestes never asked Pylades to help him to bor- 
 row at fifty per cent. Promise me — your word 
 of honor as a gentleman ! Do you hesitate ?" 
 
 "My dear Colonel," said Lionel, frankly, "I 
 do hesitate. I might promise not to sign a mon- 
 ey-lender's bill on my own account, though real- 
 ly I think you take rather an exaggerated view 
 of what is, after all, a common occurrence — " 
 
 "Do I?" said the Colonel, meekly. "I'm 
 sorry to hear it. I detest exaggeration. Go on. 
 You migiit promise not to ruin yourself — but you 
 object to promise not to help in the ruin of your 
 friend." 
 
 "That is exquisite irony, Colonel," said Li- 
 onel, ])iqued; "but it does not deal with the 
 difficulty, which is simply this : When a man 
 whom you call friend — whom you walk with, 
 ride with, dine with almost every day, says to 
 you, ' I am in immediate want of a few hun- 
 
 dreds — I don't ask you to lend them to me, per- 
 haps you can't — but assist me to borrow — trust 
 to my honor that the debt shall not fall on you,' 
 why, then, it seems as if to refuse the favor was 
 to tell the man you call friend that you doubt 
 his honor ; and though I have been caught once 
 in that way, I feel that I must be caught very 
 often before I should have the moral courage to 
 say ' Xo I' Don't ask me, then, to promise — be 
 satisfied with my assurance that in future, at 
 least, I will be more cautious, and if the loss 
 fall on mc, why, the worst that can happen is 
 to do again what I do now." 
 
 "Xay, you would not perhaps have anothei 
 horse and cab to sell. In that case, you would 
 do the reverse of what you do now — you would 
 renew the bill— ^he debt would run on like a 
 snow-ball — in a year or tsvo you would owe, nol 
 hundreds, but thousands. But come in — here 
 we are at my door." 
 
 The Colonel entered his dra^ving-^oom. A 
 miracle of exquisite neatness the room was — 
 rather effeminate, perhaps, in its attributes ; bul 
 that was no sign of the Colonel's tastes, but of 
 his popularity with the ladies. All those prettv 
 things were their gifts. The tapestry on the 
 chairs their work — the scvre on the consoles — 
 the clock on the mantle-shelf — the inkstand, 
 paper-cutter, taper-stand on the writing-table — 
 their birthday presents. Even the white wool- 
 ly jMaltese dog that sprang from the rug to wel- 
 come him — even the flowers in the jardinier — 
 even the tasteful cottage-piano, and the verj 
 music-stand beside it — and the card-trays, piled 
 high with invitations — were contributions from 
 the forgiving sex to the unrequiting bachelor. 
 
 Surveying his apartment with a coraplacenf 
 air, the Colonel sank into his easy ftuiteuil, and 
 drawing off' his gloves leisurely, said — 
 
 "Xo man has more friends than I have — 
 never did I lose one — never did I sign a bill, 
 Your father pursued a different policy — he sign, 
 cd many bills — and lost many friends." 
 
 Lionel, much distressed, looked down, and 
 evidently desired to have done with the subject, 
 Xot so the Colonel. That shrewd man, though 
 he did not preach, had a way all his own, which 
 was perhaps quite as effective as any sermon by 
 a fashionable layman can be to an impatieni 
 youth. 
 
 "Yes," resumed the Colonel, "it is the old 
 story. One alw,ays begins by being security to 
 a friend. The discredit of the thing is familiar- 
 ized to one's mind by the false show of generous 
 confidence in another. Then wliat you have 
 done for a friend, a friend should do for you — 
 a hundred or two would be useful now — you are 
 sure to repay it in three months. To Youth the 
 Future seems safe as the Bank of England, and 
 distant as the Peaks of Himalaya. You pledge 
 your honor that in three months you will re- 
 lease your friend. The three months expire. 
 To release the one friend, you catch hold of an- 
 other — the bill is renewed, premium and inter- 
 est thrown into the next pay-day — soon the ac- 
 count multiplies, and with it the'honor dwindles 
 — your NAME circulates from hand to hand on 
 the back of doubtful paper — your name, which, 
 in all money transactions, should grow higher 
 and higher each year you live, fiilling down ev- 
 ery month like the shares in a swindling specu- 
 lation. You begin bv what you call trusting a 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 179 
 
 friend, that is, aiding him to self-destruction— . capital horseman— knew the wavs of all ani- 
 buving him arsenic to clear his complexion ; . mals, fishes, and birds ; I verilv be'lieve he could 
 you end by dragging all near you into your own , have coaxed a pug-dog to point, and an owl to 
 abyss, as a drowning man would clutch at his , sing. Void of alt malice, up to all fun. Im- 
 own brother. Lionel Haughton, the saddest : agine how much people would court, and how 
 expression I ever saw in your father's face was i little they would do for, a Willv of 'that sort, 
 when — when — but you shall hear the story." ; Do I bore you ?" 
 
 " Xo, Sir ; spare me. Since you so insist on | " On the contrar\-, I am sreatlv interested " 
 it, I will give the promise— it is enough ; and j " One thing a Willy, if a Willvcould be wise, 
 my father — " ought to do for himself— keep s'im^le. A wed- 
 
 '' Was as honorable as yoa when he first sign- ' ded Willy is in a false position? :Mv Willv 
 ed his name to a friend's bill ; and perhaps wedded— for love, too — an amiable girl I be- 
 promised to do so no more as reluctantly as you : lieve — (I never saw her; it was lono-'^aft'erward 
 do. You had better let me say on ; if I stop ; that I knew Willv) — but as poor "as" himself, 
 now, you will forget all about it by this day I The friends and relatives then said— 'This is 
 twelvemonth ; if I go on, you will never forget. I serious ; something must be done for Willv.' It 
 
 There are other examples besides your father, 
 I am about to name one." 
 
 Lionel resigned himself to the operation, 
 throwing his handkerchief over his face as if he 
 had taken chloroform. 
 
 was easy to say, ' something must be done,' and 
 monstrous difficult to do it. While the relations 
 were consulting, his half-sister, the Baronet's 
 lawful daughter, died, unmarried : and, though 
 she had ignored 'nim in life, left him £20(X). 
 
 "When I was young," resumed the Colonel, { 'I have hit it now,' cried one of the cousins 
 " I chanced to make acquaintance 'with a man j ' Willy is fond of a countrv life. I will let him 
 of infinite whim and humor ; fascinating as ; have a farm on a nominal rent, his £2000 v.ill 
 
 Darreil himself, though in a very different way 
 We called liim Willy — you know the kind of 
 man one calls by his Christian name, cordially 
 abbreviated — that kind of man seems never to 
 be quite grown up ; and therefore never rises in 
 life. I never knew a man called Willy after 
 the age of thirty, who did not come to a melan- 
 choly end I Willy was the natural son of a rich, 
 helter-skelter, cleverish, maddish, stylish, raffish, 
 four-in-hand Baronet, by a celebrated French 
 actress. The title is extinct now ; and so, I be- 
 lieve, is that genus of stylish, raffish, four-in- 
 hand Baronet. Sir Julian Losely — " 
 
 ' ■ Losely !"' echoed Lionel. 
 
 " Yes ; do you know the name ?" 
 
 ' ' I never heard it till yesterday. I want to 
 tell you what I did hear then — but after your 
 story — go on." 
 
 " Sir Julian Losely (Willy's father) lived with 
 
 stock it ; and his farm, which is surrounded by 
 woods, will be a capital hunting meet. As lono- 
 as I hve Willy shall be mounted.' 
 
 "Willy took the farm, and astonished his 
 friends by attending to it. It was just begin- 
 ning to answer when his wife died, leavmg him 
 only one child — a boy ; and her death made 
 him so melancholy that he could no longer at- 
 tend to his farm. He threw it up ; invented the 
 proceeds as a capital, and lived on tlie interest 
 as a gentleman at large. He traveled over Eu- 
 rope for some time — chiefly on foot — came back, 
 having recovered his spirits — resumed his old, 
 desultory, purposeless life at different country- 
 houses ; and at one of those houses I and Charles 
 Haughton met him. Here I pause, to state that 
 Will Losely at that time impressed me with 
 the idea that he was a thoroughly honest man. 
 Though he was certainly no formalist — thouo^h 
 
 the French lady as his wife, and reared Willy j he had lived with wild sets of conrivial scape- 
 in his house, with as much pride and fondnes"s {graces — though, out of sheer high spirits, he 
 as if he intended him for his heir. The poor i would now and then make conventional Propri- 
 boy, I suspect, got but little regular education ; | eries laugh at their own long faces ; vet. I should 
 though, of course, he spoke his French mother's 1 have said, that Bayard himself —and Bayard 
 tongue like a native ; and, thanks also perhaps was no saint — could not have been more i'nca- 
 to his mother, he had an extraordinary talent pable of a disloyal, rascally, shabby action. 
 for mimicry and acting. His father was pas- i Xay, in the plain 'matter of i'ntegritv, his ideas 
 sionately fond of private theatricals, and ^Yilly might be called refined, almost Quixotic. If 
 had early practice in that line. I once saw him | asked to give or to lend, Willy's hand was in his 
 act Falstaff in a country-house, and I doubt if '. pocket in an instant ; but though thrown amono- 
 Quin could have acted it better. Well, when ! rich men — careless as himself— Willv never pu" 
 Willy was still a mere boy, he lost his mother, his hand into their pockets, never ' borrowed, 
 
 the actress. Sir Julian married — had a legiti- 
 mate daughter — died intestate — and the daugh- 
 ter, of course, had the personal property, which 
 was not much ; the heir-at-law got the land, 
 and poor Willy nothing. But Yv'illv was a uni 
 
 never owed. He would accept hospitality — 
 make frank use of your table, your horses, your 
 dogs — but your money, no! He repaid all he 
 took from a host by rendering himself the pleas- 
 antest guest that host ever entertained. Poor 
 
 versal favorite with his father's old friends— { Willy ! I think I see his quaint smile brimming 
 wild fellows like Sir Julian himself: among | over with sly sport! The sound of his voice was 
 them there were two cousins, with large coun- ; like a crv of ' half holidav' in a school-room, 
 try-houses, sporting men, and bachelors. Thev 
 shared Willy benveen them, and quarreled 
 which should have the most of him. So he 
 grew up to be man, with no settled provision, 
 but always welcome, not only to the two cous- 
 ins, but at every house in which, like Milton's 
 lark, 'he came to startle the dull night' — the 
 most amusing companion! — a famous shot — a 
 
 He dishonest ! I should as soon have suspected 
 the noonday sun of being a dark lantern ! I 
 remember, when he and I were walking home 
 from wild-duck shooting in advance of our com- 
 panions, a short conversation between us that 
 touched me greatly, for it showed that, under 
 all his lerity, there were sound sense and right 
 feeling. I asked him about his son, then a bov 
 
180 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 at school. ' Why, as it was the Christmas va- 
 cation, he had refused our host's suggestion to 
 let the lad come down there?' 'Ah,' said he, 
 ' dout fanc}- that I will lead my son to grow up 
 a scatter-brained good-for-naught like his father. 
 His society is the joy of my life ; whenever I 
 have enough in my pockets to afford myself that 
 joy, I go and hire a quiet lodging close by his 
 school, to have him with me from Saturday till 
 Monday all to myself — where he never hears 
 wild fellows call me "Willy," and ask me to 
 mimic. I had hoped to have spent this vaca- 
 tion with him in tha-t way, but his school-bill 
 was higher than usual, and after paying it I 
 had not a guinea to spare — obliged to come 
 here where they lodge and feed me for nothing ; 
 the boy's uncle on the mother's side — a respect- 
 able man in business — kindly takes him home 
 for the holidays ; but did not ask me, because 
 his wife — and I don't blame her — thinks I'm 
 too wild for a city clerk's sober household.' 
 
 "I asked Will Losely what he meant to do with 
 his son, and hinted that I might get the boy a 
 commission in the army without purchase. 
 
 " 'No,' said Willy, 'I know what it is to set 
 up for a gentleman on the capital of a beggar. 
 It is to be a shuttlecock between discontent and 
 temptation. I would not have my lost \\"ife's 
 son waste his life as I have done. He would 
 he more spoiled, too, than I have been. The 
 handsomest boy you ever saw — and bold as a 
 lion. Once in that set' — (pointing over his 
 shoulders toward some of our sporting comrades, 
 whose loud laughter every now and then reached 
 our ears) — ' once in that set he would never be 
 out of it — fit for nothing. I swore to his mo- 
 ther, on her death-bed, that I would bring him 
 up to avoid my errors — that he should be no 
 hanger-on and led- Captain! Swore to her 
 that he should be reared according to his real 
 station — the station of his mother's kin (/ have 
 no station) — and if I can but see him an honest 
 British trader — respectable, upright, equal to 
 the highest — because no rich man's dependent, 
 and no poor man's jest — mv ambition will be 
 satisfied. And now you understand. Sir, why 
 my boy is not here.' You would say a father 
 who spoke thus had a man's honest stuff in him. 
 Eh, Lionel ?" 
 
 " Yes, and a true gentleman's heart, too I" 
 
 " So I thought ; yet I fancied I knew the 
 world I After that conversation I quitted our 
 host's roof, and only once or twice afterward, at 
 country houses, met William Losely again. To 
 say truth, his chief patrons and friends were not 
 exactly in my set. But your father continued 
 to see Willy pretty often. They took a great 
 fancy to each other. Charlie, you know, was 
 jovial •'— fond of private theatricals, too; in 
 short, they became great allies. Some years 
 after, as ill luck would have it, Charles Haugh- 
 ton, while selling off his ]Middlesex property, 
 was in immediate want of £1200. He could 
 get it on a bill, but not without security. His 
 bills were already rather down in the market, 
 and he had already exhausted most of the 
 friends whose security was esteemed by accom- 
 modators any better than his own. In an e^il 
 hour he had learned that poor Willy had just 
 £1500 out upon mortgage ; and the money- 
 lender, who was lawyer for the property on 
 which the mortgage was, knew it too. It was 
 
 on the interest of this £1500 that Willy lived, 
 having spent the rest of his little capital in set- 
 tling his son as a clerk in a first-rate commer- 
 cial house. Charles Haughton went down to 
 shoot at the house where Willy was a guest — 
 shot with him — drank with him — talked with 
 him — proved to him, no doubt, that long before 
 the three months were over the iliddlesex prop- 
 erty would be sold ; the bill taken up, Willy 
 might trust to his honor. Willy did trust. Like 
 you, my dear Lionel, he had not the moral cour- 
 age to say ' No.' Your father, I am certain, 
 meant to repay him ; your father never in cold 
 blood meant tu defraud any human being ; but 
 — j'our father gambled ! A debt of honor at^ji- 
 quet preceded the claim of a bill-discounter. 
 The £1200 were forestalled — your father >vas 
 penniless. The money-lender came upon Wil- 
 ly. Sure that Charles Haughton would yet re- 
 deem his promise, Willy renewed the bill an- 
 other three months on usurious teiTns ; those 
 months over, he came to town to find your fa- 
 ther hiding between four walls, unable to stir 
 out for fear of arrest. Willy had no option but 
 to pay the money ; and when your father knew 
 that it was so paid, and that the usury had swal- 
 lowed up the whole of Willy's little capital, 
 then, I say, I saw upon Charles Haughton's 
 once radiant face the saddest expression I ever 
 saw on mortal man's. And sure I am that all 
 the joys your father ever knew as a man of 
 pleasure were not worth the agony and remorse 
 of that moment. I respect your emotion, Li- 
 onel, but you begin as your father began ; and 
 if I had not told you this stor)- you might have 
 ended as your father ended." 
 
 Lionel's face remained covered, and it was 
 only by choking gasps that he interrupted the 
 Colonel's narrative. " Certainly," resumed Al- 
 ban Morley, in a reflective tone, " Certainly 
 that villain — I mean William Losely, for villain 
 he afterward proved to be — had the sweetest, 
 most forgiving temper! He might have gone 
 about to his kinsmen and friends denouncing 
 Charles Haughton, and saying by what solemn 
 promises he had been undone. But no ! sucli a 
 story, just at that moment, would have crushed 
 Charles Haughton's last chance of ever holding 
 up his head again ; and Chai'les told me (for it 
 was through Charles that I knew the tale) that 
 Willy's parting words to him were, ' Do not fret, 
 Charlie. ■ After all, my boy is now settled in 
 life, and I am a cat with nine lives, and should 
 fall on my legs if thrown out of a gan-et win- 
 dow. Don't fret.' So he kept the secret, and 
 told the money-lender to hold his tongue. Poor 
 Willy ! I never asked a rich friend to lend me 
 money but once in my life. It was then. I 
 went to Guy Darrell, who was in full prac- 
 tice, and said to him, ' Lend me one thousand 
 pounds. I may never repay you.' ' Five thou- 
 sand pounds, if you like it,' said he. ' One will 
 do.' I took the money, and sent it to Willy. 
 Alas ! he returned it, writing word that ' Prov- 
 idence had been very kind to him ; he had 
 just been appointed to a capital pkce, with a 
 magnificent salary. The cat had fallen on its 
 legs.' He bade nie comfort Haughton with that 
 news. The money went back into Darrell's 
 pocket, and perhaps wandered thence to Charles 
 Haughton's creditors. Now for the appoint- 
 ment^. At the country house, to which Willy 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 181 
 
 had remnied destitute, he had met a stranger 
 (no relation), who said to him, ' You live with 
 these people — shoot their game — break in their 
 horses — see to their farms — and they give you 
 nothing I You are no longer very young — you 
 shouldlay by your little income, and add to it. 
 Live with me, and I will give you £300 a year. 
 I am parting with my steward — take his place, 
 but be my friend.' William Losely, of course, 
 closed with the proposition. This gentleman, 
 whose name was Gunston, I had known slight- 
 ly in former times (people say I know every 
 body) — a soured, bilious, melancholy, indolent, 
 misanthropical old bachelor. With a magnifi- 
 cent place universally admired, and a large es- 
 tate universally envied, he lived much alone, 
 ruminating on the bitterness of life and the no- 
 thingness of worldly blessings, fleeting Willy 
 at the country house to which, by some predes- 
 tined relaxation of misanthi-opy, he had been 
 decoyed, for the first time for years Mr. Gun- 
 ston was heard to laugh. He said to himself, 
 ' Here is a man who actually amuses me.' 
 William Losely contrived to give the misan- 
 thrope a new zest of existence ; and when he 
 found that business could be made pleasant, the 
 rich man conceived an interest in his own house, 
 gardens, property. For the sake of William's 
 merry companionship he would even ride over 
 his farms, and actually carried a gun. ^Mean- 
 while the property, I am told, was really v^ell 
 managed. Ah ! that fellow Willy was a born 
 genius, and could have managed ever}' body's 
 atFairs except his own. I heard of all this with 
 pleasure (people say I hear every thing) — when 
 one day a sporting man seizes me by the button 
 at Tattersall's — ' Do you know the news ? Will 
 Losely is in prison on a charge of robbing his 
 employer !' " 
 
 ■'Eobbing! incredible!" exclaimed LioneL 
 "ily deal" Lionel, it was after hearing that 
 news that I establislied as invariable my grand 
 maxim, A'i7 admirari — never to be astonished at 
 any thing 1" 
 
 "But of course he was innocent?" 
 " On the contrary, he confessed, was commit- 
 ted ; pleaded guilty, and was transported 1 Peo- 
 ple who knew Willy said that Gunston ought to 
 have declined to' drag him before a magistrate, 
 or, at the subsequent trial, have abstained from 
 gi^'ing evidence against him ; that Willy had 
 been till then a faithful steward ; the whole pro- 
 ceeds of the estate had passed through his hands ; 
 he might, in transactions for timber, have cheat- 
 ed, undetected, to twice the amount of the alleged 
 robberj- ; it must have been a momentary aber- 
 ration of reason ; the rich man should have let 
 him otF. But I side Mith the rich man. His 
 last belief in his species was annihilated. He 
 must have been inexorable. He could never be 
 amused, never be interested again. He was in- 
 exorable and — vindictive." 
 
 •■But what were the facts? — what was the 
 evidence?' 
 
 •• Very little came out on the trial ; because, 
 in pleading guilty, the court had merely to con- 
 sider the evidence which had sufficed to commit 
 him. The trial was scarcely noticed in the Lon- 
 don papers. William Losely was not like a 
 man known about town. His fame was con- 
 fined to those who resorted to old-fashioned 
 country houses, chiefly single men, for the sake 
 
 of sport. But stay. I felt such an interest in 
 the case that I made an abstract or precis, not 
 only of all that appeared, but all that I could 
 learn of its leading circumstances. 'Tis a habit 
 of mine, whenever any of my acquaintances em- 
 broil themselves with the Crown — " The Col- 
 onel rose, unlocked a small glazed book-case, 
 selected from the contents a JIS. volume, re- 
 seated himself, turned the pages, found the place 
 sought, and, reading from it, resumed his narra- 
 tive. " ' One evening Mr. Gunston came to 
 William Losely's private apartment. Losely 
 had two or three rooms appropriated to himself 
 in one side of the house, which was built in a 
 quadrangle round a court-yard. When Losely 
 opened his door to Mr. Gunston's knock, it 
 struck Jlr. Gunston that his manner seemed 
 confused. After some talk on general subjects, 
 Losely said that he had occasion to go to Lon- 
 don next morning for a few days on private bus- 
 iness of his own. This annoyed Mr. Gunston. 
 He ouserved that Losely's absence just then 
 would be inconvenient. He reminded him that 
 a tradesman, who lived at a distance, was com- 
 ing over the next day to be paid for a vinery he 
 had lately erected, and on the charge for which 
 there was a dispute. Could not Losely at least 
 stay to settle it ? Losely replied, " that he had 
 already, by correspondence, adjusted the dis- 
 pute, having suggested deductions which the 
 tradesman had agi^eed to, and that Mr. Gunston 
 would only have to give a check for the balance 
 — viz., £270." Thereon Mr. Gunston remarked, 
 *• If you were not in the habit of paying my bills 
 for me out of what you receive, you would know 
 that I seldom give checks. I certainly shall not 
 give one now, for 1 have the money in the house." 
 Losely observed, '• that is a bad habit of yours 
 keeping large sums in your own house. You 
 may be robbed." Gunston answered, " Safer 
 than lodging large sums in a country bank. 
 Country banks break. My grandfather lost 
 £1000 by the failure of a country bank ; and my 
 father, therefore, always took his payments in 
 cash, remitting them to London from time to 
 time as he went thither himself. I do the same, 
 and I have never been robbed of a farthing that 
 I know of. AVho would rob a great house like 
 this, full of men-servants ?" " That's true," 
 said Losely; "so if you are sure you have as 
 much by you, you will pay the bill, and have 
 done with it. I shall be back before Sparks the 
 builder comes to be paid for the new barns to 
 the home farm — that will be £600 ; but I shall 
 be taking money for timber next week. He can 
 be paid out of that." Gunstos. "Xo, I will 
 pay Sparks, too, out of what I have in my bu- 
 reau ; and the timber-merchant can pay his debt 
 into my London banker's." Losely. " Do you 
 mean that you have enough for both these bills 
 actually in the house ?" Gc^ston". " Certain- 
 ly, in the bureau in my study. I don't know 
 how much I've got. It may be £1500 — it may 
 be £1700. I have not counted; I am "such a 
 bad man of business ; but I am sure it is more 
 than £1-100." Losely made some jocular ob- 
 sers-ation to the effect that if Gunston never kept 
 an account of what he had, he could never tell 
 whether he was robbed, and, therefore, never 
 would be robbed ; since, according to Othello, 
 
 " He that is robbed, not wanting Trhat is stolen, 
 Let him not know it, and he's not robbed at all." 
 
182 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 After that, Losely became absent in manner, and 
 seemed impatient to get rid of Mr. Gunston, hint- 
 ing that he had the labor-book to look over, and 
 some orders to write out for the bailiff, and that 
 he should start early the next morning.' " 
 
 Here the Colonel looked up from his MS., and 
 said, episodically, "Perhaps you will fancy that 
 these dialogues are invented by me after the 
 fashion of the ancient historians? Not so. I 
 give you the report of what passed, as Gunston 
 repeated it verbatim ; and I suspect that his 
 memory was pretty accurate. Well" (here Al- 
 ban returned to his MS.), " 'Gunston left Willy, 
 and went into his own study, where he took tea 
 by himself When his valet brought it in, he 
 told the man that Mr. Losely was going to town 
 early the next morning, and ordered the serv- 
 ant to see himself that coffee was served to Mr. 
 Losely before he went. The servant observed 
 "that Mr. Losely had seemed much out of sorts 
 lately, and that it was perhaps some unpleasant 
 affair connected with the gentleman who had 
 come to see him two days before." Gunston 
 had not heard of such a visit. Losely had not 
 mentioned it. When the servant retired, Gun- 
 ston, thinking over Losely's quotation respect- 
 ing his money, resolved to ascertain what he 
 had in his bureau. He opened it," examined 
 the drawers, and found, stowed away in differ- 
 ent places at different times, a larger sum than 
 he had supposed — gold and notes to the amount 
 of £1975, of which nearly £300 were in sover- 
 eigns. He smoothed the notes carefully ; and, 
 for want of other occupation, and with the view 
 of showing Losely that he could profit by a hint, 
 he entered the numbers of the notes in his pock- 
 et-book, placed them all together in one drawer 
 with the gold, relocked his bureau, and went 
 shortly afterward to bed. The next day (Lose- 
 ly having gone in the morning) the tradesman 
 came to be paid for the vinery. Gunston went 
 to his bureau, took out his notes, and found 
 £250 were gone. He could hardh' believe his 
 senses. Had he made a mistake in counting ? 
 No. There was his pocket-book, the missing 
 notes entered duly therein. Then he recount- 
 ed the sovereigns, 142 were gone of them — 
 nearly £400 in all thus abstracted. He refused 
 at first to admit suspicion of Losely ; but, on in- 
 terrogating his servants, the valet deposed, that 
 he was disturbed about two o'clock in the morn- 
 ing by the bark of the house-dog, which was let 
 loose of a night within the front court-yard of 
 the house. Not apprehending robbers, but fear- 
 ing the dog might also disturb his master, he 
 got out of his window (being on the ground- 
 floor) to pacify the animal; that he then saw, 
 in the opposite angle of the building, a light 
 moving along the casement of the passage be- 
 tween Losely's rooms and Mr. Gunston's study. 
 Surprised at this, at such an hour, he approach- 
 ed that part of the building, and saw the light 
 very faintly tiu'ough the chinks in the shutters 
 of the study. The passage windows had no 
 shutters, being old-fashioned stone muUions. 
 He waited hy the wall a few minutes, when the 
 light again reappeared in the passage ; and he 
 saw a figure in a cloak, which, being in a pecu- 
 liar color, he recogni-zed at once as Losely's, 
 pass rapidly along; but before the figure had 
 got half through the passage, the light was ex- 
 tinguished, and the servant could see no more. 
 
 But so positive was he, from his recognition of 
 the cloak, that the man was Losely, that he 
 ceased to feel alarm or surprise, thinking, on 
 reflection, that Losely, sitting np later than 
 usual to transact business before his dei)arture, 
 niiglit have gone into his employer's study for 
 any book or jxaper which he might have left 
 there. The dog began barking again, and seem- 
 ed anxious to get out of the court-yard to which 
 he was confined ; but the servant gradually ap- 
 peased him — went to bed, and somewhat over- 
 slept himself. When he woke, he hastened to 
 take the coflee into Losely's room, but Losely 
 was gone. Here there was another suspicious 
 circumstance. It had been a question how the 
 bureau had been opened, the key being safe in 
 Gunston's possesion, and there being no sign 
 of force. The lock was one of those rude, old- 
 fashioned ones which are very easily pjicked, 
 but to which a modern key does not readily fit. 
 In the passage there was found a long nail 
 crooked at the end ; and that nail the superin- 
 tendent of the police (who had been summoned) 
 had the wit to apply to the lock of the bureau, 
 and it unlocked and relocked it easily. It was 
 clear that whoever had so shaped the nail could 
 not have used such an instrument for the first 
 time, and must be a practiced picklock. That, 
 one would suppose at first, might exonerate 
 Losely; but he was so clever a fellow at all 
 mechanical contrivances, that, cou]jled with the 
 place of finding, the nail made greatly against 
 him ; and still more so, when some nails pre- 
 cisely similar were found on the chimney-piece 
 of an inner-room in his apartment, a room be- 
 tween that in which he had received Gunston 
 and his bed-chamber, and used by him both as 
 study and workshop, the nails, indeed, which 
 were very long and narrow, with a Gothic orna- 
 mental head, were at once recognized by the 
 carpenter on the estate as having been made 
 according to Losely's directions, for a garden- 
 bench to be placed in Gunston's favorite walk, 
 Gunston having remarked, some days before, 
 that he should like a seat there, and Losely hav- 
 ing undertaken to make one from a design by 
 Pugin. Still loth to believe in Losely's guilt, 
 Gunston went to London with the police super- 
 intendent, the valet, and the neighboring attor- 
 ney. They had no difficulty in finding Losely; 
 he was at his son's lodgings in the City, near 
 the commercial house in which the son was a 
 clerk. On being told of the roljbery, he seemed 
 at first unaffectedly surprised, evincing no fear. 
 I He was asked whether he had gone into the 
 study about two o'clock in the morning ? He 
 said, "No; why should I?" The valet ex- 
 claimed, "But I saw you — I knew you by that 
 old gray cloak, with the red lining. AVhy, there 
 I it is now — on that chair yonder. I'll swear it is 
 I the same." Losely then began to tremble visi- 
 bly, and grew extremely pale. A question was 
 next put to him as to the nail, but he seemed 
 j quite stupefied, muttering, "Good Heavens! the 
 I cloak — you mean to say you saw that cloak?" 
 They searched his person — found on him some 
 I sovereigns, silver, and one bank-note for five 
 I pounds. The number on that bank-note corre- 
 sponded with a number in Gunston's pocket-book. 
 He was asked to say where he got that five- 
 pound note. He refused to answer. Gunston 
 said, "It is one of the notes stolen from me!" 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 183 
 
 Losely cried, fiercely, "Take care what you say. tions, must have been more than a mere securi- 
 How do you know ?" Gunston replied, " I took ty in a joint bill with Captain Haughton. Gun- 
 an account of the numbers of my notes on leav- ston could never have understood such an in- 
 ing your room. Here is the memorandum in consistency in human nature, that the same man 
 my pocket-book— see— " Losely looked, and , who broke open his bureau should have become 
 fell back as if shot. Losely's brother-in-law responsible to the amount of his fortune for a 
 was in the room at the time, and he exclaimed, | debt of which he had not shared the discredit 
 "Oh, William! you can't be guilty. You are | and still less that such a man should, in case he 
 the honestest fellow in the world. There must j had been so generously imprudent,' have con- 
 be some mistake, gentlemen. Where did you j cealed his loss out of delicate tenderness for the 
 get the note, William — say ?" Losely made no " 
 answer, but seemed lost in thought or stupefac- 
 tion. " I will go for your son, William — per- 
 haps he may help to explain." Losely then seem- 
 ed to wake up. " My son ! what ! would you ex- 
 pose me before my son? he's gone into the coun- 
 try, as you know. What has he to do with it ? I 
 took the notes — there — I have confessed. Have 
 done with it," or words to that effect.' 
 
 "Nothing more of importance," said the Col- 
 onel, turning over/the leaves of his MS., "ex- 
 cept to account for the crime. And here we 
 come back to the money-lender. You remem- 
 ber the valet said that a gentleman had called 
 on Losely two days before the robbery. This 
 proved to be tlie identical bill-discounter to 
 
 character of the man to whom he owed his ruin. 
 Therefore, in short, Gunston looked on his dis- 
 honest steward, not as a man tempted by a sud- 
 den impulse in some moment of distress, at 
 which a previous life was belied, but as a con- 
 firmed, dissimulating sharper, to whom public 
 justice allowed no mercy. And thus, Lionel, 
 William Losely was prosecuted, tried, and sen- 
 tenced to seven years' transportation. By plead- 
 ing guilty, the term was probably made shorter 
 than it otherwise would have been." 
 
 Lionel continued too agitated for words. The 
 Colonel, not seeming to heed his emotions, 
 again ran his eye over the MS. 
 
 " I observe here that there are some queries 
 ^ entered as to the evidence against Losely. The 
 whom Losely had paid away his fortune. This j solicitor whom, when I heard of his arrest, I en- 
 person deposed that Losely had written to him j gagedandsent down to the place on his behalf 
 
 some days before, stating that he wanted to bor 
 row two or three hundred pounds, which he 
 could repay by installments out of his salary. 
 What would be the terms ? The money-lender 
 having occasion to be in the neighborhood, 
 called to discuss the matter in person, and to 
 ask if Losely could not get some other person 
 to join in security — suggesting his brother-in- 
 law. Losely replied that it was a favor^ he 
 would never ask any one; that his brother-in- 
 law had no pecuniary means beyond his salary 
 as a senior clerk ; and, supposing that he (Lose- 
 ly) lost his place, which he might any day, if 
 Gunston were displeased with him — ^liow then 
 could he be sure that his debt would not fall on 
 the security? Upon which the money-lender 
 remarked that the precarious nature of his in- 
 come was the very reason why a security was 
 wanted. And Losely answered, ' Ay ; but you 
 know that you incur that risk, and charge ac- 
 cordingly. Between you and me the debt and 
 the hazard are mere matter of business, but be- 
 tween me and my security it would be a matter 
 of honor.' Finally the money-lender agreed to 
 find the sum required, though asking very high 
 terms. Losely said he would consider, and let 
 him know. There the conversation ended. But 
 Gunston inquired 'if Losely had ever had deal- 
 ings with the money-lender before, and for 
 what purpose it was likely he would want the 
 money now ?' and the money-lender answered 
 'that probably Losely had some sporting or 
 gaming speculations on the sly, for that it was 
 to pay a gambling debt that he had joined Cap- 
 
 " You did ! Heaven reward you!" sobbed out 
 Lionel. "But my father? — where was he ?" 
 
 "Then? — in his grave." 
 
 Lionel breathed a deep sigh, as of thankful- 
 ness. 
 
 "The lawyer, I say — a sharp fellow — was of 
 opinion that if Losely had refused to plead 
 guilty, he could have got him off in spite of his 
 first confession — turned the suspicion against 
 some one else. In the passage where the nail 
 was picked up, there was a door into the park. 
 That door was found unbolted in the inside the 
 next morning ; a thief might therefore have 
 thus entered, and passed at once into the study. 
 The nail was discovered close by that door ; tlie 
 thief might have dropped it on putting out his 
 light, which, by the valet's account, he must 
 have done, when he was near the door in ques- 
 tion, and required the light no more. Another 
 circumstance in Losely's favor. Just outside 
 the door, near a laurel-bush, was found the fag- 
 end of one of those small rose-colored wax- 
 lights which are often placed in lucifer match- 
 boxes. If this had been used by the thief, it 
 would seem as if, extinguishing the light before 
 he stepped into the air, he very naturally jerked 
 away the morsel of taper left, when, in the next 
 moment, he was out of the house. But Losely 
 would not have gone out of the house ; nor was 
 he, nor any one about the premises, ever known 
 to make use of that kind of taper, which would 
 rather appertain to the fashionable fopperies of 
 a London dandy. You will have observed, too, 
 the valet had not seen the thief's face. His 
 
 tain Haughton in a bill for £1200.' And Gun- \ testimony rested solely on the colors of a cloak, 
 ston aftenvard told a friend of mine that this it , which, on cross-examination, might have gone 
 was that decided him to appear as a witness at | for nothing. The dog had barked before the 
 the trial ; and you will observe that if Gunston | light was seen. It was not the light that made 
 had kept away, there would have been no evi- j him bark. He wished to get out of the court- 
 dence sufficient to insure conviction. But Gun- i yard; that looked as if there were some stran- 
 ston considered that the man who could gamble j ger in the grounds beyond. Following up this 
 away his whole fortune must be incorrigible, ; clew, the lawyer ascertained that a strange man 
 and that Losely, having concealed from him had been seen in the park toward the gray of 
 that he had become destitute by such transac- the evening, walking up in the direction of the 
 
18i 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 house. And here comes the strong point. At 
 the railway station, about five miles from Mr. 
 Gunston's, a strange man had arrived just in 
 time to take his place in the night train from 
 the north toward London, stopping there at four 
 o'clock in the morning. The station-master re- 
 membered the stranger buying the ticket, but 
 did not remark his appearance. The porter did, 
 however, so far notice him, as he hurried into a 
 first-class carriage, that he said afterward to the 
 station-master, 'Why, that gentleman has a 
 gray cloak just like ilr. Losely's. If he had 
 not been thinner and taller, I should have 
 thought it was ^Ir. Losely.' Well, Losely went 
 to the same station the next morning, taking an 
 early train, going thither on foot, with his car- 
 pet-bag in his hand; and both the porter and 
 station-master declared that he had no cloak on 
 him at the time ; and as he got into a second- 
 class carriage, the porter even said to him, ' 'Tis 
 a sharp morning, Sir; I'm afraid you'll be cold.' 
 Furthermore, as to the purpose for which Losely 
 had wished to borrow of the money-lender, his 
 brother-in-law stated that Losely's son had been 
 extravagant, had contracted debts, and was even 
 hiding from his creditors in a country town, at 
 which William Losely had stopped for a few 
 hours on his way to London. He knew the 
 young man's employer had written kindly to 
 Losely several days before, lamenting the son's 
 extravagance ; intimating that unless his debts 
 were discharged, be mr.st lose the situation in 
 which otherwise he might soon rise to compe- 
 tence, for that he was quick and sharp ; and 
 that it was impossible not to feel indulgent to- 
 ward him, he was so lively and so good-looking. 
 The trader added that he would forbear to dis- 
 miss the young man as long as he could. It 
 was on the receipt of that letter that Losely 
 had entered into communication with the mon- 
 ey-lender, whom he had come to town to seek, 
 and to whose house he was actually going at the 
 very hour of Gunston's arrival. But why bor- 
 row of the money-lender, if he had just stolen 
 more money than he had any need to borrow ? 
 
 "The most damning fact against Losely, by 
 the discovery in his possession of the £5 note, 
 of which Mr. Gunston deposed to have taken 
 the number, was certainly hard to get over; still 
 an ingenious lawyer might have thrown doubt 
 on Gunston's testimony — a man confessedly so 
 careless might have mistaken the number, etc. 
 The lawyer went, with these hints for defense, 
 to see Losely himself in prison ; but Losely de- 
 clined his help — became very angry — said that 
 he would rather suffer death itself than have 
 suspicion transferred to some innocent man; 
 and that, as to the cloak, it had been inside his 
 carpet bag. So you see, bad as he was, there 
 was something inconsistently honorable left in 
 him still. Poor Willy! he would not even sub- 
 poena any of his old friends as to his general 
 character. But even if he had, what could the 
 Court do since he pleaded guilty? And now 
 dismiss that subject, it begins to pain me ex- 
 tremely. You were to speak to me about some 
 one of the same name when my story was con- 
 cluded. What is it?" 
 
 "I am so confused," faltered Lionel, still 
 quivering with emotion, "that I can scarcely 
 answer you — scarcely recollect myself. But — 
 but — wliile you were describing this poor Will- 
 
 ' iam Losely, his talent for mimicry and acting, 
 } I could not help thinking that I had seen him." 
 Lionel proceeded to speak of Gentleman Waife, 
 1 "Can that be the man?" 
 
 I Alban shook his head incredulously. He 
 i thought it so like a romantic youth to detect 
 imaginary resemblances. 
 
 "No," said he, " my dear boy. ily William 
 Losely could never become a strolling player in 
 a village fair. Besides, I have good reason to 
 ! believe that Willy is well off; probably made 
 money in the colony by some lucky hit : for 
 when do you say you saw your stroller? Five 
 years ago? Well, not verj- long before that 
 date — perhaps a year or two — less than two 
 years I am sure — this eccentric rascal sent Mr. 
 Gunston, the mat* who had transported him, 
 £100! Gunston, you must know, feeling more 
 than ever bored and hipped when he lost Willy, 
 tried to divert himself by becoming director in 
 some railway company. The company proved a 
 bubble ; all turned their indignation on the one 
 rich man who could pay where others cheated. 
 Gunston was ruined — purse and character — fled 
 to Calais ; and there, less than seven years ago, 
 when in great distress, he received from poor 
 Willy a kind, affectionate, forgiving, letter, and 
 £100. I have this from Gunston's nearest rela- 
 tion, to whom he told it, crying like a child. 
 Willy gave no address ; but it is clear that at 
 the time he must have been too well ofl' to turn 
 mountebank at your miserable exhibition. Poor, 
 dear, rascally, infamous, big-hearted Willy," 
 burst out the Colonel. "I wish to Heaven he 
 had only robbed me !" 
 
 "Sir," said Lionel, "rely upon it, that man 
 you^describe never robbed any one — 'tis impos- 
 sible." 
 
 "Xo — veiy possible! — human nature," said 
 Alban ^lorley. "And, after all, he really owed 
 Gunston that £100. For out of the sum stolen, 
 Gunston received anonymously, even before the 
 trial, all the missing notes, minus about that 
 £100; and Willy therefore owed Gunston the 
 money, but not, perhaps, that kind, forgiving 
 letter. Pass on — quick — the subject is worse 
 than the gout. You have heard before the 
 name of Losely — possibly. There are many 
 members of the old Baronet's family ; but when 
 or where did you hear it?" 
 
 " I will tell you ; the man who holds the bill 
 (ah, the word sickens me!) reminded me when 
 he called that I had seen him at my mother's 
 house — a chance acquaintance of hers — pro- 
 fessed great regard for me — great admiration 
 for Mr. Darrell — and then surprised me by ask- 
 ing if I had never heard Mr. Darrell speak of 
 Mr. Jasper Losely." 
 
 "Jasper!" said the Colonel; "Jasper! — well, 
 go on." 
 
 " When I answered ' No,' ilr. Poole (that is 
 his name) shook his head, and muttered — ' A 
 sad aft'air — very bad business — I could do IMr. 
 Darrell a great service if he would let me :" and 
 then went on talking what seemed to me imper- 
 tinent gibberish about • family exposures' and 
 'poverty making men desperate,' and 'better 
 compromise matters;' and finally wound up by 
 begging me, 'if I loved Mr. Darrell, and wished 
 to guard him from very great annoyance and 
 suflering, to persuade him to give Mr. Poole an 
 intenicw.' Then he talked about his own char- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 185 
 
 acter in the Citv, and so forth, and entreating 
 me ' not to think of paying him till quite con- 
 venient ; that he would keep the bill in his desk ; 
 nobody should know of it ; too happy to do me 
 a favor' — laid his card on the table, and went 
 away. Tell me, should I say any thing to Mr. 
 Darrell about this or not ?" 
 
 "Certainly not, till I have seen Mr. Poole 
 myself. You have the money to pay him about 
 you? Give it to me with Mr. Poole's address; 
 i will call and settle the matter. Just ring the 
 bell." (To the servant, entering) "Order my 
 horse round." Then, when they were again 
 alone, turning to Lionel abruptly, laying one 
 hand on his shoulder, with the other grasping 
 his hand warmly, cordially, " Young man," said 
 Alban ^Morley, "I love you — I am interested in 
 you — who would not be ? I have gone through 
 this story ; put myself positively to pain — which 
 I hate — solely for your good. You see what 
 usury and moner-lenders bring men to. Look 
 me in the face! Do you feel now that you 
 would have the ' moral courage' you before 
 doubted of? Have you done with such things 
 forever?" 
 
 " Forever, so help me Heaven I The lesson 
 has been cruel, but I do thank and bless you 
 for it." 
 
 " I knew you would. [Mark this ! never treat 
 money atfairs with levity — money is charac- 
 ter 1 Stop. I have bared a father's fault to a 
 son. It was necessary — or even in his grave 
 those faults might have revived in you. Now, 
 I add this, if Charles Haughton — like you, hand- 
 some, high-spirited, favored by men, spoiled by 
 women — if Charles Haughton, on entering life, 
 could have seen, in the mirror I have held up 
 to you, the consequences of pledging the mor- 
 row to pay for to-day, Charles Haughton would 
 have been shocked as you are, cured as you will 
 be. Humbled by your own first error, be leni- 
 ent to all his. Take up his life where I first 
 knew it : when his heart was loyal, his lips truth- 
 ful. Raze out the interval ; imagine that he 
 gave birth to you in order to replace the leaves 
 of existence we thus blot out and tear away. In 
 every error avoided say, ' Thus the father warns 
 the son ;' in every honorable action or hard 
 self-sacrifice, say, ' Thus the son pays a father's 
 debt.' " 
 
 Lionel, clasping his hands together, raised 
 his eyes streaming with tears, as if uttering inly 
 a vow to Heaven. The Colonel bowed his sol- 
 dier-crest with religious reverence, and glided 
 from the room uoiselesslv. 
 
 CHAPTER Yin. 
 
 Being but one of the considerate pauses in a long jour- 
 ney—charitably afforded to the Reader. 
 
 CoLON-EL MoRLET found Mr. Poole at home, 
 just returned from his office ; he staid with 
 that gentleman nearly an hour, and then went 
 straight to Darrell. As the time appointed to 
 meet the French acquaintance, who depended 
 on his hospitalities for a dinner, was now near- 
 ly arrived, Alban's conference with his English 
 friend was necessarily brief and humed, though 
 long enough to confirm one fact in Mr. Poole's 
 statement, which had been unknown to the Col- 
 
 onel before that day, and the admission of which 
 was to Guy Darrell a pang as shai-p as ever 
 wTcnched confession from the lips of a prisoner 
 in the cells of the Inquisition. On returning 
 from Greenwich, and depositing his Frenchman 
 in some melancholy theatre, time enough for 
 that resentful foreigner to witness theft and 
 murder committed npon an injured countrv- 
 man's vaudeville, Alban hastened again to Carl- 
 ton Gardens. He found Darrell alone, pacing 
 his floor to and fro, in the habit he had acquired 
 in earlier life, perhaps Mhen meditating some 
 complicated law-case, or wrestling with himself 
 against some secret sorrow. There are men of 
 quick nerves who require a certain action of the 
 body for the better composure of the mind ; Dar- 
 rell was one of them. 
 
 During these restless movements, alternated 
 by abrupt pauses, equally inharmonious to the 
 supreme quiet which characterized his listener's 
 tastes and habits, the haughty gentleman dis- 
 burdened himself of at least one of the secrets 
 which he had hitherto guarded from his early 
 friend. But as that secret connects itself with 
 the history of a Person about whom it is well 
 that the reader should now learn more than was 
 known to Darrell himself, we will assume our 
 privilege to be ourselves the narrator, and at 
 the cost of such dramatic vivacity as may belong 
 to dialogue, but with the gain to the reader of 
 clearer insight into those portions of the past 
 which the occasion permits us to reveal — we will 
 weave into something like method the more im- 
 perfect and desultory communications by which 
 Guy Darrell added to Alban Morley's distaste- 
 ful catalogue of painful subjects. The reader 
 will allow, jierhaps, that we thus evince a de- 
 sire to gratify his curiosity, when we state, that 
 of Arabella Crane, Dan-ell spoke but in one 
 brief and angry sentence, and that not by the 
 name in which the reader as yet alone knows 
 her ; and it is with the antecedents of Arabella 
 Crane that our explanation will tranquilly com- 
 mence. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Grim Arabella Crane. 
 0>XE on a time there lived a merchant named 
 Fossett, a widower with three children, of whom 
 a daughter, Arabella, was by some years the 
 eldest. He was much respected, deemed a warm 
 man, and a safe — attended diligently to his busi- 
 ness — suffered no partner, no foreman, to dic- 
 tate or intermeddle — liked his comforts, but 
 made no pretense to fashion. His villa was at 
 Clapham, not a showy but a solid edifice, ^^itli 
 lodge, lawn, and gardens, chiefly notable for 
 what is technically called glass — viz., a range of 
 glass-houses on the most improved principles ; 
 the heaviest pines, the earliest strawberries. 
 "I'm no judge of flowers," quoth Mr. Fossett, 
 meekly. "Give me a plain lawn, provided it 
 be close shaven. But I sav to my gardener, 
 • Forcing is my hobby — a cucumber with my fish 
 all the year round!'" Yet do not suppose Mr. 
 Fossett ostentatious — quite the reverse. He 
 would no more ruin himself for the sake of daz- 
 zling others than he would for the sake of serv- 
 ing them. He liked a warm house, spacious 
 rooms, good lining, old vriue, for their inherent 
 
186 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 merits. He cared not to parade them to public 
 envy. When he dined alone, or with a single 
 favored guest, the best Latitte, the oldest sher- 
 ry ! — when extending the rites of miscellaneous 
 hospitality to neighbors, relations, or other slight 
 acquaintances — for Lafitte, Julien ; and for sher- 
 ry. Cape! — Thus not provoking vanity, nor 
 courting notice, Mr. Fossett was without an en- 
 emy, and seemed without a care. Formal were 
 his manners, formal his household, formal even 
 the stout cob that bore him from Cheapside to 
 Clapiiam, from Claphani to Cheapside. That 
 cob could not even prick up its ears if it wished 
 to shy — its ears were cropped, so were its mane 
 and its tail. 
 
 Arabella early gave promise of beautv, and 
 more than ordinary power of intellect and char- 
 acter. Her father bestowed on her every ad- 
 vantage of education. She was sent to a select 
 boarding-school of the highest reputation; the 
 strictest discipline, the best masters, the longest 
 bills. At the age of seventeen she had become 
 the show pupil of the seminary. Friends won- 
 dered somewhat why the prim merchant took 
 such pains to lavish on his daughter the worldly 
 accomplishments which seemed to give him no 
 pleasure, and of which he never spoke with 
 ]jride. But certainly, if she was so clever — 
 tirst-rate musician, exquisite artist, accomplish- 
 ed linguist, "it was very nice in old Fossett to 
 bear it so meekly, never crying her up, nor 
 showing her off to less fortunate parents — very 
 nice in him — good sense — greatness of mind." 
 
 "Arabella," said the worthy man, one day, a 
 little time after she had left school for good ; 
 
 "Arabella," said he, "Mrs. ," naming the 
 
 head teacher in that famous school, "pays you 
 a very high compliment in a letter I received 
 from her this morning. She says it is a pity 
 j'ou are not a poor man's daughter — that you 
 are so steady and so clever that you could make 
 a fortune for yourself as a teacher." 
 
 Arabella at that age could smile gayly, and 
 gayly she smiled at the notion conveyed in the 
 compliment. 
 
 " No one gau guess," resumed the father, 
 twirling his thumbs and speaking rather through 
 his nose, "the ups and downs in this mortal 
 sphere of trial, 'specially in the mercantile com- 
 munity. If ever, when I'm dead and gone, ad- 
 versity should come upon you, you will grateful- 
 ly remember that I have given you the best of 
 education, and take care of your little brother 
 and sister, who are both — stupid !" 
 
 These doleful words did not make much im- 
 pression on Arabella, uttered as they were in a 
 handsome drawing-room, opening on the neat- 
 shaven lawn it took three gardeners to shave, 
 with a glittering side-view of those galleries of 
 glass in which strawberries were ripe at Christ- 
 mas, and cucumbers never failed to fish. Time 
 went on. Arabella was now twenty-three — a 
 very fine girl, with a decided manner — much 
 occujned by her music, her drawing, her books, 
 and her fancies. Fancies — for, like most girls 
 with very active heads and idle hearts, she had 
 a vague yearning for some excitement beyond 
 the monotonous routine of a young lady's life ; 
 and the latent force of her nature inclined her 
 to admire whatever was out of the beaten track 
 — whatever was wild and daring. Slic had re- 
 ceived two or three offers from young gentlemen 
 
 in the same mercantile community as that which 
 surrounded her father in this sphere of trial. 
 But they did not please her; and she believed 
 her father when he said that they only courted 
 her under the idea that he would come down 
 with something handsome ; " whereas," said the 
 merchant, " I hope you will marry an honest 
 man, who will like you for yourself, and wait 
 for your fortune till my will is read. As King 
 William says to his son, in the History of En- 
 gland, ' I don't mean to strip till I go to bed.' " 
 
 One night, at a ball in Clapham, Arabella saw 
 the man who was destined to exercise so bale- 
 ful an influence over her existence. Jasper 
 Losely had been brought to this ball by a young 
 fellow-clerk in the same commercial house as 
 himself; and then ffr all the bloom of that con- 
 spicuous beauty, to which the miniature Arabel- 
 la had placed before his eyes so many years aft- 
 erward did but feeble justice, it may well be 
 conceived that he concentred on himself the 
 admiring gaze of the assembly. Jasjier was 
 younger than Arabella ; but, what with the 
 height of his stature and the self-confidence of 
 his air, he looked four or five and twenty. Cer- 
 tainly, in so far as the distance from childhood 
 may be estimated by the loss of innocence, Jas- 
 per might have been any age ! He was told that 
 old Fossett's daughter would have a very fine 
 fortune; that she was a strong-minded young 
 lady, who governed her father, and would choose 
 for herself; and accordingly he devoted himself 
 to Arabella the whole of the evening. The ef- 
 fect produced on the mind of this ill-fated wo- 
 man by her dazzling admi'.er was as sud len as 
 it proved to be lasting. There was a strange 
 charm in the very contrast between his rattling 
 audacity and the bashful formalities of the 
 swains who had hitherto wooed her, as if she 
 frightened them. Even his good looks fascinat- 
 ed her less than that vital energy and power 
 about the lawless brute, which to her seemed 
 the elements of heroic character, though but the 
 attributes of riotous spirits, magnificent forma- 
 tion, flattered vanity, and im]3erious egotism. 
 She was as a bird gazing spell-bound on a gay 
 young bo;i-constrictor, darting from bough to 
 bough, sunning its brilliant hues, and showing 
 oft' all its beauty, just before it takes the bird 
 for its breakfast. 
 
 When they parted that night their intimacy 
 had made so much progress that arrangements 
 had been made for its continuance. Arabella 
 had an instinctive foreboding that her father 
 would be less charmed than herself with Jasper 
 Losely; that, if Jasper were presented to him, 
 he would possibly forbid her farther acquaint- 
 ance with a young clerk, however superb his 
 outward appearance. She took the first false 
 step. She had a maiden aunt by the mother's 
 side, who lived in Bloomsbury, gave and went 
 to small parties, to which Jasper could easily 
 get introduced. She arranged to pay a visit for 
 some weeks to this aunt, who was then very 
 civil to her, accepting with marked kindness 
 seasonable presents of strawberries, pines, 
 spring chickens, and so forth, and ottering iu 
 turn, whenever it was convenient, a spare room, 
 and whatever amusement a round of small par- 
 ties, and the innocent flirtations incidental 
 thereto, could bestow. Arabella said nothing 
 to her father about Jasper Losely, and to her 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 187 
 
 aunt's she went. Arabella saw Jasper very 
 often ; they became engaged to each other, ex- 
 changed vows and love-tokens, locks of hair, etc. 
 Jasper, already much troubled by duns, became 
 naturally ardent to insure his felicity and Ara- 
 bella's supposed fortune. Arabella at last sum- 
 moned courage, and spoke to her father. To 
 her delighted surprise, Mr. Fossett, after some 
 moralizing, more on the uncertainty of life in 
 general than her clandestine proceedings in 
 particular, agreed to see Mr. Jasper Losely, and 
 asked him down to dinner. After dinner, over 
 a bottle of Lafitte, in an exceedingly plain but 
 exceedingly weighty silver jug, which made 
 Jasper's mouth water (I mean the jug), Mr. Fos- 
 sett, commencing with that somewhat coarse 
 though royal saying of William the Conqueror, 
 with which he had before edified his daughter, 
 assured Jasper that he gave his full consent to 
 the young gentleman's nuptials with Arabella, 
 provided Jasper o/his relations would maintain 
 her iu a plain respectable way, and wait for her 
 fortune till his (Fossett's) will was read. What 
 that fortune would be, Mr. Fossett declined 
 even to hint. Jasper went away very much 
 cooled. Still the engagement went on. The 
 nuptials were tacitly deferred. Jasper and his 
 relations maintain a wife ! Preposterous idea I 
 It would take a Clan of relations and a Zenana 
 of wives to maintain in that state to which he 
 deemed himself entitled — Jasper himself! But 
 just as he was meditating the possibility of a 
 compromise with old Fossett, by which he would 
 agree to wait till the will was read for contin- 
 gent advantages, provided Fossett, in his turn, 
 would agree in the mean while to afford lodging 
 and board, with a trifle for pocket-money, to 
 Aiabella and himself, in the Clapham Villa, 
 which, though not partial to rural scenery, 
 Jasper preferred, on the whole, to a second floor 
 in the city — old Fossett fell ill, took to his bed ; 
 was unable to attend to his business, some one 
 else attended to it; and the consequence was, 
 that tlie house stopped payment, and was dis- 
 covered to have been insolvent for the last ten 
 years. Not a discreditable bankruptcy. There 
 might, perhaps, be seven shillings in the pound 
 ultimately paid, and not more than forty fami- 
 lies irretrievably ruined. Old Fossett, safe in 
 his bed, bore the atfliction with philosophical 
 composure; observed to Arabella that he had 
 alv.ays warned her of the ups and downs in this 
 sphere of trial ; referred again with pride to her 
 first-rate education; commended again to her 
 care Tom and Biddy; and, declaring that he 
 died in charity with all men, resigned himself 
 to the last slumber. 
 
 Arabella at first sought a refuge with her 
 maiden aunt. But that lady, though not hit in 
 pocket by her brother-in-law's failure, was more 
 vehement against his memory than his most in- 
 jured creditor — not only that she deemed her- 
 self unjustly defrauded of the ] lines, strawben'ies, 
 and spring chickens, by which she had been 
 enabled to give small parties at small cost, 
 though with ample show, but that she was 
 robbed of the consequence she had hitherto de- 
 rived from the supposed expectations of her 
 niece. In short, her welcome was so hostile, 
 and her condolences so cutting, that Arabella 
 quitted her door with a solemn determination 
 never again to enter it 
 
 And now the nobler qualities of the bank- 
 rupt's daughter rose at once into play. Left 
 penniless, sJie resolved by her own exertions to 
 support and to rear her young brother and sister. 
 The great school to which she had been the or- 
 nament willingly received her as a teacher, un- 
 til some more advantageous place in a private 
 family, and with a salary worthy of her talents 
 and accomplishments, could be found. Her in- 
 tercourse with Jasper became necessarily sus- 
 pended. She had the generosity to write, offer- 
 ing to release him from his engagement. Jas- 
 per considered himself fully released -without 
 that letter; but he deemed it neither gallant 
 nor discreet to say so. Arabella might obtain 
 a situation with larger salary than she could 
 possibly need, the superfluities whereof Jasper 
 might undertake to invest. Her aunt had evi- 
 dently something to leave, though she might 
 have nothing to give. In fine, Arabella, if not 
 rich enough for a wife, might be often rich 
 enough for a friend at need ; and so long as he 
 was engaged to her for life, it must be not more 
 her pleasure than her duty to assist him to 
 live. Besides, independently of these pruden- 
 tial though not ardent motives for declaring un- 
 alterable fidelity to troth, Jasper at that time 
 really did entertain what he called love for the 
 handsome young woman — flattered that one of 
 attainments so superior to all the girls he had 
 ever known should be so proud even less of his 
 aflection for her than her own aft'ection for him- 
 self. Thus the engagement lasted — interviews 
 none — letters frequent. Arabella worked hard, 
 looking to the future ; Jasper worked as little 
 as possible, and was very much bored by the 
 present. 
 
 Unhappily, as it turned out, so great a sym- 
 pathy, not only among the teachers, but among 
 her old school-fellows, was felt for Arabella's 
 reverse — her character for steadiness as well as 
 talent stood so high, and there was something 
 so creditable in her resolution to maintain her 
 orphan brother and sister — that an efibrt was 
 made to procure her a livelihood much more 
 lucrative, and more independent, than she could 
 obtain either in a school or a family. Why not 
 take a small house of her own, live there with 
 her fellow-orphans, and give lessons out by the 
 hour? Several families at once agreed so to 
 engage her, and an income adequate to all her 
 wants was assured. Arabella adopted this plan. 
 She took the house ; Bridget Greggs, the nurse 
 of her infancy, became her senant, and soon to 
 that house, stealthily in the shades of ev£ning, 
 glided Jasper Losely. She could not struggle 
 against his influence — had not the heart to re- 
 fuse his visits — he was so poor — in such scrapes 
 — and professed himself to be so unhappy. 
 There now became some one else to toil for, 
 besides the little brother and sister. But what 
 were Ai'abella's gains to a man who already 
 gambled ! Kew afflictions smote her. A con- 
 tagious fever broke out in the neighborhood; 
 her little brother caught it; her little sister 
 sickened the next day; in less than a week two 
 small coffins were borne from her door by the 
 Black Horses — borne to that plot of sunny turf 
 in the pretty suburban cemetery, bought with 
 the last earnings made for the little ones by the 
 mother-like sister — Motherless, lone survivor ! 
 what ! no friend on earth, no soother but that 
 
188 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 direful Jasper ! Alas ! the truly dangerous Ve- 
 nus is not that Erycina round wiioni circle Jest 
 and Laughter. Sorrow, and that sense of soli- 
 tude which makes us welcome a footstep as a 
 child left in the haunting dark welcomes the 
 entrance of light — weaken the outworks of fe- 
 male virtue more than all the vain levities of 
 mirth, or the flatteries which follow the path of 
 Beauty through the crowd. Alas, and alas ! 
 Let the tale huiTj on I 
 
 Jasper Losely has still more solemnly sworn 
 to marry his adored Arabella. But when ? 
 When they are rich enough. She feels as if 
 her spirit was gone — as if she could work no 
 more. She was no weak, commonplace girl, 
 whom love can console for shame. She had 
 been rigidly brought up- her sense of female 
 rectitude was keen ; her remorse was noiseless, 
 but it was stern. Harassments of a more vul- 
 gar nature beset her ; she had forestalled her 
 sources of income ; she had contracted debts 
 for Jasper's sake : in vain, her purse was emp- 
 tied, yet his no fuller. His creditors pressed 
 him ; he told her that he must hide. One win- 
 ter's day he thus departed : she saw him no 
 more for a year. She heard, a few days after 
 he left her, of his father's crime and committrd. 
 Jasper was sent abroad by his maternal uncle, 
 at his father's prayer ; sent to a commercial 
 house in France, in which the uncle obtained 
 him a situation. In fact, the young man had 
 been dispatched to France under another name, 
 in order to save him from the obloquy which his 
 father had brought upon his own. 
 
 Soon came William Losely's trial and sen- 
 tence. Arabella felt the disgrace acutely — felt 
 how it would affect the audacious, insolent Jas- 
 per ; did not wonder that he forebore to write to 
 her. She conceived him bowed by shame, but she 
 was buoyed up by her conviction that they should 
 meet again. For good or for ill, she held her- 
 self bound to him for life. But meanwhile the 
 debts she had incurred on his account came 
 upon her. She was forced to dispose of her 
 house ; and at this time ]Mrs. Lyndsay, looking 
 out for some first-rate sujjerior governess for 
 Matilda Darrell, was urged by all means to try 
 and secure for that post Arabella Fossett. The 
 highest testimonials from the school at which 
 she had been reared, from the most eminent 
 professional masters, from the families at which 
 she had recently taught, being all brought to 
 bear upon Mr. Darrell, he authorized Mrs. 
 Lyndsay to propose such a salary as could not 
 fail to secure a teacher of such rare qualifica- 
 tions. And thus Arabella became governess to 
 Miss Dan-ell. 
 
 There is a kind of young lady of whom her 
 nearest relations will say, "I can't make that 
 girl out." Matilda Darrell was that kind of 
 young lady. She talked very little ; she moved 
 very noiselessly ; she seemed to regard herself 
 as a secret which she had solemnly sworn not to 
 let out. She had been steeped in slyness from 
 her early infancy by a sly mother. Mrs. Dar- 
 rell was a woman who had always something to 
 conceal. There was always some note to be 
 thrust out of sight ; some visit not to be spoken 
 of; something or other which Matilda was not 
 on any account to mention to Pajia. 
 
 When Mrs. Darrell died, Matilda was still a 
 child, but she still continued to view her father 
 
 j as a person against whom prudence demanded 
 her to be constantly on her guard. It was not 
 that she was exactly afraid of him — he was very 
 gentle to her, as he was to all children; but 
 his loyal nature was antipathetic to hers. She 
 had no sympathy with him. How confide her 
 thoughts to him ? She had an instinctive knowl- 
 edge that those thoughts were not such as could 
 harmonize with his. Yet, though taciturn, un- 
 caressing, undemonstrative, she appeared mild 
 and docile. Her reserve was ascribed to consti- 
 tutional timidity. Timid to a degree she usually 
 seemed ; yet, when you thought you had solved 
 the enigma, she said or did something so coolly 
 determined, that you were forced again to ex- 
 claim, " I can't mal^e that girl out I" She was 
 not quick at her lessons. You had settled in 
 your mind that she was dull, when, by a chance 
 remark, you were startled to find that she was 
 very sharp; keenly observant, v.hen you had 
 fancied h'fer fast asleep. She had seemed, since 
 her mother's death, more fond of ^Irs. Lyndsay 
 and Caroline than of any other human beings 
 — always appeared sullen or out of spirits when 
 they were absent ; yet she confided to them no 
 more than she did to her father. You would 
 suppose from this description that Matilda could 
 inspire no liking in those with whom she lived, 
 Xot so ; her very secretiveness had a sort of at- 
 traction — a puzzle always creates some interest. 
 Then her face, though neither handsome nor 
 pretty, had in it a treacherous softness — a sub- 
 dued, depressed expression. A kind observer 
 could not but say with an indulgent pity, " There 
 must be a good deal of heart in that girl, if one 
 could but — make her out." 
 
 She appeared to take at once to Arabella, 
 more than she had taken to Mrs. Lyndsay, or 
 even to Caroline, with whom she had been 
 brought up as a sister, but who, then joyous and 
 quick and innocently fearless — with her soul 
 in her eyes and her heart on her lips — had no 
 charm for Matilda, because there she saw no 
 secret to penetrate, and her she had no object 
 in deceiving. 
 
 But this stranger, of accomplishments so rare, 
 of character so decided, with a settled gloom on 
 her lip, a gathered care on her brow — there was 
 some one to study, and some one with whom 
 she felt a sympathy ; for she detected at once 
 that Arabella was also a secret. 
 
 At first, Arabella, absorbed in her own re- 
 flections, gave to Matilda but the mechanical 
 attention which a professional teacher bestows 
 on an ordinary pupil. But an interest in Ma- 
 tilda sprung up in her breast, in proportion as 
 she conceived a venerating gratitude for DaiTell. 
 He was aware of the pomp and circumstance 
 which had surrounded her earlier years ; he re- 
 spected the creditable energy with which she 
 had devoted her talents to the support of the 
 young children thro^n-n upon her care ; compas- 
 sionated her bereavement of those little fellow- 
 orphans for whom toil had been rendered sweet; 
 and he strove, by a kindness of forethought and 
 a delicacy of attention, which were the more 
 prized in a man so eminent and so preoccupied, 
 to make her forget tliat she was a salaried 
 teacher — to place her saliently, and as a matter 
 of course, in the position of gentlewoman, guest, 
 and friend. Recognizing in her a certain vigor 
 and force of intellect apart from her mere ac- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 TS9 
 
 complishments, he would flatter her scholastic 
 pride, by referring to her memory in some ques- 
 tion of reading, or consulting her judgment on 
 some point of critical taste. She, in return, 
 was touched by his chivalrous kindness to the 
 depth of a nature that, though already seriously 
 injured by its unhappy contact with a soul like 
 Jasper's, retained that capacity of gratitude, the 
 loss of which is humanity's last depravation. 
 Xor this alone : Arabella was startled by the 
 intellect and character of Dan-ell into that kind 
 of homage which a woman, who has hitherto 
 met but her own intellectual inferiors, renders 
 to the first distinguished personage in whom she 
 recognizes, half with humility and half with 
 awe, an understanding and a culture to which 
 her own reason is but the flimsy glass-house, 
 and her own knowledge but the forced exotic. 
 
 Arabella, thus roused from her first listless- 
 ness, sought to requite DaiTcll's kindness by ex- 
 erting ever)- enerdf to render his insipid daugh- 
 ter an accomplisned woman. So far as mere 
 ornamental education extends, the teacher was 
 more successful than, with all her experience, 
 her skill, and her zeal, she had presumed to 
 anticipate. Matilda, without ear or taste, or 
 love for music, became a veiy fair mechanical 
 musician. Without one artistic predisposition, 
 she achieved the science of perspective — she at- 
 tained even to the mixture of colors — she filled 
 a portfolio with di'awings which no young lady 
 need have been ashamed to see circling round a 
 drawing-room. She carried Matilda's thin mind 
 to the farthest bound it could have reached with- 
 out snapping, through an elegant range of se- 
 lected histories and harmless feminine classics 
 — through Gallic dialogues — through Tuscan 
 themes — through Teuton verbs — yea, across the 
 invaded bounds of astonished Science into the 
 Elementary Ologies. And all this being done, 
 Matilda Darrell was exactly the same creature 
 that she was before. In all that related to char- 
 acter, to inclinations, to heart, even tliat consum- 
 mate teacher could give no intelligible answer, 
 when Mrs. Lyndsay, in her softest accents (and no 
 accents ever were softer), sighed — ''Poor, dear 
 Matilda I can yon make her out, Miss Fossett?" 
 Miss Fossett could not make her out. But, after 
 the most attentive study. Miss Fossett had inly de- 
 cided that there was nothing to make out — that, 
 like many other very nice girls, Matilda Darrell 
 was a harmless nullity, what you call '• a miss." 
 White deal or willow, to v.liich ]Miss Fossett had 
 done all in the way of increasing its value as 
 ornamental furniture, when she had veneered it 
 over with rosewood or satin-wood, enriched its 
 edges with ormolu, and strewed its surface with 
 nicknacks and albums. But Arabella firmly 
 believed Matilda Darrell to be a quiet, honest, 
 good sort of '-miss," on the whole — very fond 
 of her, Arabella. The teacher had been several 
 months in Darrell's family, when Caroline Lynd- 
 say, who had been almost domesticated "with 
 Matilda (sharing the lessons bestowed on the 
 latter, whether by jNIiss Fossett or -(-isiting mas- 
 ters), was taken away by Mrs. Lyndsay on a 
 visit to the old ^Marchioness of IMontfort. Ma- 
 tilda, who was to come out the next year, was 
 thus almost exclusively with xirabella, who re- 
 doubled all her pains to veneer the white deal, 
 and protect with ormolu its feeble edges — so 
 that, wlien it " came out," all should admire ! 
 
 that thoroughly fashionable piece of furniture. 
 It was the habit of ^liss Fossett and her pupil 
 to take a morning walk in the quiet retreats of 
 the Green Park ; and one morning as they were 
 thus strolling, nurserj'-maids and children, and 
 elderly folks, who were ordered to take earlv 
 exercise, undulating round their unsuspecting 
 way — suddenly, right upon their path (un- 
 looked-for as the wolf that startled Horace in 
 the Sabine wood, but infinitely more deadly 
 than that runaway animal), came Jasper Lose- 
 ly ! Arabella uttered a faint scream. She 
 could not resist — had no thought of resistintr — 
 the impulse to bound fonvard — lay her hand 
 on his arm. She was too agitated to perceive 
 whether his predominant feehng was surprise 
 or. rapture. A few hurried words were ex- 
 changed, while Matilda Dan-ell gave one side- 
 long glance toward the handsome stranger, and 
 walked quietly by them. On his part, Jasper 
 said that he had just returned to London — that 
 he had abandoned forever all idea of a commer- 
 cial life — that his fathers misfortune (he gave 
 that gentle appellation to the incident of penal 
 transportation) had severed him frcm all former 
 friends, ties, habits — that he had dropped the 
 name of Losely forever — entreated Arabella not 
 to betray it — his name now was Hammond^his 
 "prospects," he said, "fairer than they had 
 ever been." L'nder the name of Hammond, as 
 an independent gentleman, he had made friends 
 more powerful than he could ever have made 
 under the name of Losely as a city clerk. He 
 blushed to think he had ever been a city clerk. 
 No doubt he should get into some Government 
 office ; and then, oh then, with assured income, 
 and the certainty to rise, he might claim the 
 longed-for hand of the " best of creatures." 
 
 On Arabella's part, she hastily explained her 
 present position. She was governess to ISIiss 
 Darrell — that was iliss Danell. Arabella must 
 not leave her walking on by herself — she would 
 write to him. Addresses were exchanged — 
 Jasper gave a very neat card — " Jlr. Ham- 
 mond, No. , Duke Street, St. James's." 
 
 Arabella, with a beating heart, hastened to 
 join her friend. At the rapid glance she had 
 taken of her perfidious lover, she thought him, 
 if possible, improved. His dress, always stud- 
 ied, was more to the fashion of polished society, 
 more simply correct — his air more decided. 
 Altogether he looked prosperous, and his man- 
 ner had never been more seductive, in its mix- 
 ture of easy self-confidence and hypocritical 
 coaxing. In fact, Jasper had not been long 
 in the French commercial house — to which he 
 had been sent out of the way while his fathers 
 trial was proceeding and the shame of it fresh 
 — before certain licenses of conduct had result- 
 ed in his dismissal. But, meanwhile, he had 
 made many friends among young men of his 
 own age — those loose wild viveurs who, without 
 doing any thing the law can punish as dishon- 
 est, contrive for a few fast years to live very 
 showily on their wits. In that strange social 
 fermentation which still prevails in a country 
 where an aristocracy of birth, exceedingly im- 
 poverished, and exceedingly numerous so far as 
 the right to prefix a I>e to the name, or to stamp 
 a coronet on the card, can constitute an aristo- 
 crat — is difi\ised among an ambitious, adventur- 
 ous, restless, and not inelegant young democracy 
 
190 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 — each cemented with the other by that fiction 
 of law called egaUte ; in that yet unsettled and 
 struggling society in which so much of the old 
 has been irretrievably destroyed, and so little of 
 the new has been solidly constructed — there are 
 much greater varieties, infinitely more subtle 
 grades and distinctions, in the region of life 
 which lies between respectability and disgrace, 
 than can be found in a country like ours. The 
 French novels and dramas may appl}' less a 
 mirror than a magnifying-glass to the beings 
 that move through that region. But still those 
 French novels and dramas do not unfaithfully 
 represent the classifications of which they ex- 
 aggerate the types. Those strange combina- 
 tions, into one tableau, of students and grisettes, 
 opera-dancers, authors, viscounts, swindlers, ro- 
 mantic Lorettes, gamblers on the Bourse, whose 
 pedigree dates from the Crusades ; impostors, 
 taking titles from villages in which their grand- 
 sires might have been saddlers ; and if detected, 
 the detection but a matter of laugh ; delicate 
 women living like lawless men ; men making 
 trade out of love, like dissolute women, yet with 
 point of honor so nice, that, doubt their truth 
 or tlieir courage, and — pitf! you are in Charon's 
 boat, humanity in every civilized land may pre- 
 sent single specimens, more or less, answering 
 to each thus described. But where, save in 
 France, find them all, if not pi'ccisely in the 
 same salons, yet so crossing each other to and 
 fro, as to constitute a, social phase, and give 
 color to a literature of unquestionable genius? 
 And where, over orgies so miscellaneousl}' Bery- 
 cynthian, an atmosphere so elegantly Horatian? 
 And where can coarseness so vanish into pol- 
 ished expression as in that diamond-like lan- 
 guage — all terseness and sparkle — which, as 
 friendly to Wit in its airiest jtrose, as hostile to 
 Passion in its torrent or cloud wrack of poetry, 
 seems invented by the Gi'ace out of spite to the 
 Muse ? 
 
 Into circles such as those of which the dim 
 outline is here so imperfectly sketched, Jasper 
 Losely niched himself, as le bel Anglais. (Pleas- 
 ant representative of the English nation !) Not 
 that those circles are to have the sole credit of 
 his corruption. No! Justice is justice! Stand 
 we up for our native land ! Le bcl Anglais en- 
 tered those circles a much greater knave than 
 most of those whom he found there. But there, 
 at least, he learned to set a yet higher value on 
 his youth, and strength, and comeliness — on his 
 readiness of resource — on the reckless audacity 
 that brow-beat timid and some even valiant men 
 — on the six feet one of faultless symmetry that 
 captivated foolish, and some even sensible wo- 
 men. Gaming was, however, his vice by predi- 
 lection. A month before Arabella met him he 
 had had a rare run of luck. On the strength 
 of it he had resolved to return to London, and 
 (wholly oblivious of "the best of creatures" till 
 she had thus startled him) hunt out and swoop 
 otf with an heiress. Three French friends ac- 
 companied him. •Eacli had the same object. 
 Eacli believed that London swarmed with heir- 
 esses. Tliey were all three fine-looking men. 
 One was a Count — at least he said so. But proud 
 of his rank? notabitofit: all for liberty (no man 
 more likely to lose it) — all for fraternity (no man 
 you would less love as a brother). And as for 
 igulile' the son of a shoemaker who was homme 
 
 de lettres, and wrote in a journal, inserted a 
 jest on the Count's countship. "All men are 
 equal before the pistol," said the Count ; and 
 knowing that, in tliat respect, he 'was equal to 
 most, having practiced at poupees from the age 
 of fourteen, he called out the son of Crispin and 
 shot him througii the lungs. Another of Jas- 
 per's traveling friends was an enfant dupeuple — 
 boasted that he was a foundling. He made 
 verses of lugubrious strain, and taught Jasper 
 how to shuffle at whist. The third, like Jasper, 
 had been designed for trade ; and, like Jasper, 
 he had a soul above it. In politics he was a 
 Communist — in talk a Philanthropist. He was 
 the cleverest man of them all, and is now at the 
 galleys. The fate of his two compatriots — more 
 obscure — it is not my duty to discover. In that 
 peculiar walk of life Jasper is as much as I can 
 possibly manage. 
 
 It need not be said that Jasper carefully ab- 
 stained from reminding his old city friends of 
 his existence. It was his object and his hope 
 to drop all identity with that son of a convict 
 who had been sent out of the way to escape hu- 
 miliation. In this resolve he was the more con- 
 firmed because he had no old city friends out of 
 whom any thing could be well got. His jjoor 
 uncle, who alone of his relations in England had 
 been ])rivy to his change of name, was dead ; 
 his end hastened b\' grief for William Losely's 
 disgrace, and the bad reports he had received 
 from France of the" conduct of William Losely's 
 son. That uncle had left, in circumstances too 
 straitened to admit the waste of a shilling, a 
 widow of very rigid opinions ; who, if ever by 
 some miraculous turn in the wheel of fortune 
 she could have become rich enough to slay a 
 fatted calf, would never have given the sliin- 
 bone of it to a prodigal like Jasper, even had he 
 been her own penitent son, instead of a grace- 
 less step-nephew. Therefore, as all civilization 
 proceeds westward, Jasper turned his face from 
 the east ; and had no more idea of recrossing 
 Temple Bar in search of fortune, friends, or 
 kindred, than a modern Welshman would dream 
 of a pilgrimage to Asian shores to re-embrace 
 those distant relatives whom Hu Gadarn left 
 behind him countless centuries ago, when that 
 mythical chief conducted his faithful Cymri- 
 ans over the Haz}' Sea to this happy Island of 
 Honey.* 
 
 Two days after his rencontre with Arabella in 
 the Green Park, the soi-disant Hammond, hav- 
 ing, in the interim, learned that Darrell was 
 immensely rich, and IMatilda his only surviving 
 child, did not fail to find himself in the Green 
 Park again — and again — and again ! 
 
 Arabella, of course, felt how wrong it was to 
 allow him to accost her, and walk by one side 
 of her while Miss Darrell was on the other. 
 But she felt, also, as if it would be much more 
 wrong to slip out and meet him alone. Not for 
 worlds would she again have placed herself in 
 such jieril. To refuse to meet him at all ? — 
 she had not strength enough for tliat .' Her joy 
 at seeing him was so immense. And nothing 
 could be more respectful than Jasper's manner 
 and conversation. Whatever of warmer and 
 more impassioned sentiment was exchanged be- 
 
 * Mel Ynn'js—laXe. of Honey. One of the poetic 
 names given to England in the language of the ancient 
 Britons. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 191 
 
 tween them passed in notes. Jasper had sug- 
 gested to Arabella to pass liim ofi' to Matilda as 
 some near relation. But Arabella refused all 
 such disguise. Her sole claim to self-respect 
 was in considering him solemnly engaged to 
 her — the man she was to marry. And, after 
 the second time they thus met, she said to ^la- 
 tilda, who had not questioned her by a word — 
 by a look — '' I was to be married to that gentle- 
 man before my father died; we are to be married 
 as soon as we have something to live upon." 
 
 Matilda made some commonplace but kindly 
 rejoinder. And thus she became raised into 
 Arabella's confidence — so far as that confidence 
 could be given, without betraying Jasper's real 
 name, or one darker memory in herself. Lux- 
 iiiy, indeed, it was to Arabella to find, at last, 
 some one to whom she could speak of that be- 
 trothal in which her whole future was invested 
 — of that affection /vhich was her heart's sheet- 
 anchor — of that home, humble it might be, and 
 far off, but to which Time rarely fails to bring 
 the Two, if never weary of the trust, to become 
 as One. Talking thus, Arabella forgot the re- 
 lationship of pupil and teacher; it was as wo- 
 man to woman — girl to girl — friend to friend. 
 Matilda seemed touched by the confidence — 
 flattered to possess at last another's secret. Ar- 
 abella was a little chafed that she did not seem 
 to admire Jasjier as much as Arabella thought 
 the whole world must admire, ilatilda excused 
 herself. " She had scarcely noticed Mr. Ham- 
 mond. Yes; she had no doubt he would be 
 considered handsome ; but she owned, though 
 it might be bad taste, that she preferred a pale 
 complexion, with auburn hair ;" and then she 
 sighed and looked away, as if she had, in the 
 course of her secret life, encountered some fatal 
 pale complexion, with never-to-be-forgotten au- 
 burn hair. Kot a word was said by either Ma- 
 tilda or Arabella as to concealing from Mr. Dar- 
 rell these meetings with Mr. Hammond. Per- 
 haps xVrabella could not stoop to ask that secrecy ; 
 but there was no necessity to ask. jMatilda was 
 always too rejoiced to have something to con- 
 ceaL 
 
 Kow, in these interviews, Jasper scarcely ever 
 addressed himself to IMatilda ; not twenty spoken 
 words could have passed between them ; yet, in 
 the very third interview, Matilda's sly fingers 
 had closed on a sly note. And from that day, 
 in each inteniew, Arabella walking in the cen- 
 tre, Jasper on one side, Matilda the other — be- 
 hind Arabella's back — passed the sly fingers and 
 the sly notes, which Matilda received and an- 
 swered. Not more than twelve or fourteen times 
 was even this interchange effected. DaiTell was 
 about to move to Fawley. All such meetings 
 would be now suspended. Two or three morn- 
 ings before that fixed for leaving London SLa- 
 tilda's room was found vacant. She was gone. 
 Arabella was the first to discover her flight, the 
 first to learn its cause. INIatilda had left on her 
 wi-iting-table a letter for Miss Fossett. It was 
 very short, very quietly expressed, and it rested 
 her justification on a note from Jasper, which 
 she inclosed — a note in which that gallant hero, 
 ridiculing the idea that he could ever have been 
 in love with Arabella, declared that he would 
 destroy himself if Matilda refused to fly. She 
 need not fear such angelic confidence in him. 
 No ! Even 
 
 ■ Had he a heart for falsehood framed, 
 He ne'er could injure her." 
 
 Stifling each noisier cry — but panting — gasp- 
 ing — literally half out of her mind, Arabella 
 rushed into Darrell's study. He, unsuspecting 
 man, calmly bending over his dull books, was 
 startled by her apparition. Few minutes sufficed 
 to tell him all that it concerned him to learn. 
 Few brief questions, few passionate answers, 
 brought him to the very M-orst. 
 
 Who, and what, was this Mr. Hammond? 
 Heaven of heavens ! the son of William Losely 
 — of a transported felon ! 
 
 Arabella exulted in a reply which gave her 
 a moment's triumph over the rival who had 
 filched from her such a prize. Koused from his 
 first misery and sense of abasement in this dis- 
 coveiy, Dan-ell's wrath was naturally poured, 
 not on the fugitive child, but on the frcntless 
 woman, who, buoyed up by her own rage and 
 sense of wrong, faced him, and did not cower. 
 She, the faithless governess, had presented to 
 her pupil this convict's son in another name ; 
 she owned it — she had trepanned into the 
 snares of so vile a fortune-hunter, an ignorant 
 child — she might feign amaze — act remorse — 
 she must have been the man's accomplice. 
 Stung, amidst all the bewilderment of her an- 
 guish, by this charge, which, at least, she did 
 not deserve, Arabella tore from her besom Jas- 
 per's recent letters to herself — letters all devo- 
 tion and passion — placed them before Darrell, 
 and bade him read. Nothing thought she then 
 of name and fame. Nothing but of her wrongs 
 and of her woes. Compared to herself, Matilda 
 seemed the perfidious criminal — she the injured 
 victim. Darrell but glanced over the letters ; 
 the}- were signed "your loving husband." 
 
 "What is this?" he exclaimed, "are you 
 married to the man ?" 
 
 "Yes," cried Arabella, " in the eyes of Heav- 
 en!" 
 
 To Darrell's penetration there was no mistak- 
 ing the significance of those words, and that 
 look ; and his wrath redoubled. Anger in him, 
 when once roused, was terrible ; he had small 
 need of words to vent it. His eye withered, his 
 gesture appalled. Conscious but of one burning 
 firebrand in brain and heart — of a sense that 
 youth, joy, and hope were for ever gone, that 
 the world could never be the same again — Ara- 
 bella left the house, her character lost, her 
 talents useless, her ven- means of existence 
 stopped. Who henceforth would take her to 
 teach ? Who henceforth place their children 
 under her charge ? 
 
 She shrank into a gloomy lodging — she shut 
 herself up alone with her despair. Strange 
 though it may seem, her anger against Jasper 
 was slight as compared with the intensity of 
 her hate to JMatilda. And stranger still it may 
 seem, that as her thoughts recovered from their 
 first chaos, she felt more embittered against the 
 world, more crushed by a sense of shame, and 
 yet galled by a no less keen sense of injustice, 
 in recalling the scorn with which Darrell had 
 rejected all excuse for her conduct in the misery 
 it had occasioned her, than she did by tlie con- 
 sciousness of her own lamentable errors. As in 
 Darrell's esteem there was something that, to 
 those who could appreciate it, seemed invahaa- 
 ble, so in his contempt to those who had cherish- 
 
192 
 
 SYHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 ed that esteem there was a weight of ignominy, 
 as if a judge had pronounced a sentence that 
 outlaws the rest of life. 
 
 Arabella had not much left out of her muni- 
 ficent salary. What she had hitherto laid by 
 had passed to Jasper — defraying, perhaps, the 
 very cost of his flight with her treacherous rival. 
 Wlien her money was gone, she pawned the 
 poor relics of her innocent happy girlhood, which 
 she had been permitted to take from her father's 
 home, and had borne with her wherever she 
 went, like household gods, — the prize-books, the 
 lute, the costly work-box, the very bird-cage, all 
 which the reader will remember to have seen 
 in her later life, the books never opened, the 
 lute broken, the bird long, long, long vanished 
 from the cage ! Never did she think she should 
 redeem those pledges from that Golgotha, which 
 takes, rarely to give back, so many hallowed 
 tokens of the dreamland called '"better days" 
 — the trinkets worn at the first ball, the ring 
 that was given with the earliest love-vow — yea, 
 even the very bells and coral that pleased the 
 infant in its dainty cradle, and the very Bible 
 in which the lips that now bargain for sixpence 
 more, read to some gi'ay-haired father on his 
 bed of death ! 
 
 Soon the sums thus miserably raised were as 
 miserably doled away. With a sullen apathy 
 the woman contemplated famine. She would 
 make no effort to live — appeal to no relations, 
 no friends. It was a kind of vengeance she took 
 on others, to let herself drift on to death. She 
 had retreated from lodging to lodging, each ob- 
 scurer, more desolate than the other. Now, she 
 could no longer pay rent for the humblest room ; 
 now, she was told to go forth — whither ? She 
 knew not — cared not — took her way toward the 
 river, as by that instinct which, when the mind 
 is diseased, tends toward self-destruction, scarce 
 less involuntarily than it turns, in health, to- 
 ward self-preservation. Just as she passed un- 
 der the lamplight at the foot of Westminster 
 Bridge, a well-dressed man looked at her, and 
 seized her arm. She raised her head with a 
 chillv, melancholy scorn, as if she had received 
 an insult — as if she feared that the man knew 
 the stain upon her name, and dreamed, in his 
 folly, that the dread of death might cause her 
 to sin again. 
 
 "Do you not know me?" said the man; 
 "more strange that I should recognize you! 
 Dear, dear ! — and what a dress 1 — how you are 
 altered! Poor thing I" 
 
 At the words " Poor thing !" Arabella burst 
 into tears ; and in those tears the heavy cloud 
 on her brain seemed to melt away. 
 
 " I have been inquiring, seeking for you eveiy 
 where, Miss," resumed the man. " Surely you 
 know me now ! Your poor aunt's lawyer ! She 
 is no more — died last week.* She has left you 
 all she had in the world ; and a very pretty in- 
 come it is, too, for a single lady." 
 
 Thus it was that we find Arabella installed 
 in the dreary comforts of Poddcn Place. "She 
 exchanged," she said, '• in iionor to her aunt's 
 memory, her own name for that of Crane, which 
 her aunt had borne — her own motlier's maiden 
 name." She assumed, though still so young, that 
 title of "Mrs." which spinsters, grown venerable, 
 moodily adopt when they desire all mankind to 
 know that henceforth they relinquish the vani- 
 
 ties of tender misses — that, become mistress of 
 themselves, they defy and spit upon our worth- 
 less sex, which, whatever its repentance, is warn- 
 ed that it repents in vain. jNIost of her aunt's 
 property was in houses, in various districts of 
 Bloomsbury. Arabella moved from one to the 
 other of these tenements, till she settled for 
 good into the dullest of all. To make it duller 
 yet, by contrast with the past, the Golgotha for 
 once gave up its buried treasures — broken lute, 
 birdless cage ! 
 
 Somewhere about two years after Matilda's 
 death, Arabella happened to be in the otnce of 
 the agent who collected her house-rents, when a 
 well-dressed man entered, and, leaning over the 
 counter, said — "There is an advertisement in 
 to-day's Times about a lady who offers a home, 
 education, and so forth, to any little motherless 
 girl ; terms moderate, as said lady loves chil- 
 dren for their own sake. Advertiser refers to 
 j'our office for particulars — give them I" 
 
 The agent turned to his books ; and Arabella 
 turned toward the inquirer. "For whose child 
 do you want a home, Jasper Losely ?" 
 
 Jasper started. "Arabella! Best of creat- 
 ures ! And can you deign to speak to such a 
 vil " 
 
 "Hush — let us walk. Never mind the ad- 
 vertisement of a stranger. I may find a home 
 for a motherless child — a home that will cost 
 you nothing." 
 
 She drew him into the street. " But can this 
 be the child of — of — Matilda Darrell ?" 
 
 " Bella I" replied, in coaxing accents, that 
 most execrable of lady-killers, " can I trust 
 you ? — can you be my friend in spite of my 
 having been such a very sad dog? But money 
 — what can one do without money in this world ? 
 ' Had I a heart for falsehood framed, it would 
 ne'er have injured you' — if I had not been so 
 cursedly hard up I And indeed now, if you 
 would but condescend to forgive and forget, per- 
 haps some day or other we may be Darby and 
 Joan — only, you see, just at this moment I am 
 really not worthy of such a Joan. You know, 
 of course, that I am a widower — not inconsola- 
 ble." 
 
 "Yes: I read of Mrs. Hammond's death in 
 an old newspaper." 
 
 " And you did not read of her baby's death, 
 too — some weeks afterward?" 
 
 "No; it is seldom th^t I see a newspaper. 
 Is the infant dead?" 
 
 "Hum — you shall hear." And Jasjier en- 
 tered into a recital, to which Arabella listened 
 with attentive interest. At the close she ofi'er- 
 ed to take herself the child for whom Jasper 
 sought a home. She informed him of her 
 change of name and address. The wretch 
 promised to call that evening with the infant; 
 but he sent the infant, and did not call. Nor 
 did he present himself again to her eyes, until, 
 several years afterward, those eyes so luridly 
 welcomed him to Podden Place. But though 
 lie did not even condescend to write to her in 
 the mean while, it is probable tliat Arabella con- 
 trived to learn more of his habits and mode of 
 life at Paris than she intimated when they once 
 more met face to fiice. 
 
 And now the reader knows more than Alban 
 Morley, or Guy Darrell perhaps ever will know, 
 of the grim woman in iron gray. 
 
WHAT "WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 193 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Sweet are the uses of Adversity, 
 Which, like the toad, ugly anj venoraoua. 
 Bears yet a precious jewel in its head." 
 
 Most persons will agree that the toad is ugly and ven- 
 omous, but few indeed are the persons who can boast 
 of having actually discovered that " precious jewel in 
 its head" whicii the poet assures us is placed there. 
 But calamity may be classed in two great divisions — 
 1st, The afSictions, which no prudence can avert : '2d, 
 The misfortunes, which men take all possible pains to 
 bring upon themselves. Afflictions of the first cla^s 
 may but call forth our virtues, and result in our ulti- 
 mate good. Such is the adversity which may give us 
 the jewel. But to get at the jewel we must kill the 
 toad. Misfortunes of the second class but too often in- 
 crease the erroi's or the vices by which they were cre- 
 ated. Such is the adversity which is all toad and no 
 jewel. If you choose to breed and fatten your own 
 toads, the increase of the venom absorbs every bit of 
 the jeweL 
 
 Xevzk did I knoK' a man who was an habit- 
 ual gambler, otherwi.se than notably inaccnrate 
 in his calculations of probabilities in the ordi- 
 nary affairs of life. Is it that such a man has 
 become so chronic a drunkard of hope, that he 
 sees double every chance in his favor ? 
 
 Jasper Losely had counted upon two things 
 as matters of course. 
 
 1st. Darrell's speedy reconciliation with his 
 only child. 
 
 2d. That Darrell's only child must of neces- 
 sity he Darrell's heiress. 
 
 Ill both these expectations the gambler was 
 deceived. 
 
 Darrell did not even answer the letters that 
 Matilda addressed to him from France, to the 
 shores of which Jasper had borne her, and 
 where he had hastened to make her his wife 
 under his assumed name of Hammond, but his 
 true Christian name of Jasjjer. 
 
 In- tlie disreputable marriage Matilda had 
 made all the worst parts of her character seem- 
 ed suddenly revealed to her father's eye, and 
 he saw what he had hitherto sought not to see, 
 the tnie child of a worthless mother. A mere 
 mesalliance, if palliated by long or familiar ac- 
 quaintance with the object, however it might 
 have galled him, his heart might have pardon- 
 ed ; but here, without even a struggle of duty, 
 without the ordinary coyness of maiden pride, 
 to be won with so scanty a wooing, by a man 
 who she knew was betrothed to another — the 
 dissimulation, the perfidy, the combined effront- 
 ery and meanness of the whole transaction, left 
 no force in Darrell's eyes to the commonplace 
 excuses of inexperience and youth. Darrell 
 would not have been Dan-ell if he could have 
 taken back to his home or his heart a daugh- 
 ter so old in deceit, so experienced in thoughts 
 that dishonor. 
 
 Darrell's silence, however, little saddened the 
 heartless bride, and little dismayed the san- 
 guine bridegroom. Both thought that pardon 
 and plenty were but the affair of time — a little 
 more or little less. But their funds rapidly di- 
 minished ; it became necessary to recruit them. 
 One can't live in hotels entirely upon hope. 
 Leaving his bride for a while in a pleasant pro- 
 vincial town, not many hours distant from 
 Paris, Jasper returned to London, intent upon 
 seeing Darrell himself; and should the father- 
 in-law still defer articles of peace, Jasper be- 
 lieved that he could have no trouble in raising 
 a present supply upon such an El Dorado of fu- 
 
 ture expectations. Darrell at once consented 
 to see Jasper, not at his own house, but at his 
 solicitor's. Smothering all opposing disgust, the 
 proud gentleman deemed this condescension es- 
 sential to the clear and definite understanding 
 of those resolves upon which depended the world- 
 ly station and prospects of the wedded pair. 
 
 When Jasper was shown into Jlr. Gotobed's 
 office, Darrell was alone, standing near the 
 hearth, and by a single quiet gesture repelled 
 that tender rush toward his breast which Jas- 
 per had elaborately prepared ; and thus for the 
 first time the two men saw each other, Darrell 
 perhaps yet more resentfully mortified while 
 recognizing those personal advantages in the 
 showy profligate which had rendered a daughter 
 of his house so facile a conquest : Jasper (who 
 had chosen to believe that a father-in-law so 
 eminent must necessarily be old and broken) 
 shocked into the most disagreeable surprise by 
 the sight of a man still young, under forty, with 
 a countenance, a port, a presence, that in any 
 assemblage would have attracted the general 
 gaze from his own brilliant self, and looking al- 
 together as unfavorable an object, whether for 
 pathos or for post-obits, as unlikely to breathe 
 out a blessing or to give up the ghost, as the 
 worst brute of a father-in-law could possibly be. 
 Nor were Darrell's words more comforting than 
 his aspect. 
 
 " Sir, I have consented to see you, partly that 
 you may learn from my own lijis once for all that 
 I admit no man's right to enter my family with- 
 out my consent, and that consent you will never 
 receive, and partly that, thus knowing each oth- 
 er by sight, each may know the man it becomes 
 him most to avoid. The lady who is now your 
 wife is entitled by my marriage-settlement to 
 the reversion of a small fortune at my death : 
 nothing more from me is she likely to inherit! 
 As I have no desire that she to whom I once 
 gave the name of daughter should be dependent 
 wholly on yourself for bread, my solicitor will 
 inform you on what conditions I am willing, 
 during my life, to pay the interest of the sum 
 which will pass to your wife at my death. Sir, 
 I return to your hands the letters that lady has 
 addressed to me, and which, it is easy to per- 
 ceive, were written at your dictation.' Xo let- 
 ter from her will I answer. Across my thresh- 
 old her foot will never pass. Thus, Sir, con- 
 cludes all possible intercotirse between you and 
 myself; what rests is between you and that 
 gentleman." 
 
 Darrell had opened a side-door in speaking 
 the last words — pointed toward the respectable 
 form of Mr. Gotobed standing tall beside his 
 tall desk — and, before Jasper could put in a 
 word, the father-in-law was gone. 
 
 With becoming brevity Mr. Gotobed made 
 Jasper fully aware that not only all Mr. Dar- 
 rell's funded or personal property was entirely 
 at his own disposal — that not only the large 
 landed estates he had purchased (and which 
 Jasper had vaguely deemed inherited and in 
 strict entail) were in the same condition — con- 
 dition enviable to the proprietor, odious to the 
 bridegroom of the proprietor's sole daughter; 
 but that even the fee-simple of the poor Fawley 
 Manor-House and lands was vested in Darrell. 
 encumbered only by the portion of £10,000 
 which the late Mrs. Darrell had brought to her 
 
194 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 husband, and which was settled, at the death of 
 herself and Darrell, on the children of the mar- 
 riage. 
 
 In the absence of marriage-settlements be- 
 tween Jasper and Matilda, that sum at Darrell's 
 death was liable to be claimed by Jasper, in 
 right of his wife, so as to leave no certainty that 
 provision would remain for the support of his 
 wife and family ; and the contingent reversion 
 might, in the mean time, be so dealt with as to 
 bring eventful poverty on them all. 
 
 " Sir," said the lawyer, " I will be quite frank 
 with you. It is my wish, acting for Mr. Dar- 
 rell, so to settle this sum of £10,000 on your 
 wife, and any children she may bear you, as to 
 place it out of your power to anticiiJate or dis- 
 pose of, even with Mrs. Hammond's consent. If 
 you part with that power, not at present a val- 
 uable one, you are entitled to compensation. 
 I am prepared to make that compensation lib- 
 eral. Perhaps you would prefer communicating 
 with me through your own solicitor. But I 
 should tell you, that the tei'ms are more likely 
 to be advantageous to you, in proportion as ne- 
 gotiation is confined to us two. It might, for 
 instance, be expedient to tell your solicitor that 
 your true name (I beg you a thousand pardons) 
 is not Hammond. That is a secret which, the 
 more you can keep it to yourself, the better I 
 think it will be for you. We have no wish to 
 blab it out." 
 
 Jasper by this time had somewhat recovered 
 the first shock of displeasure and disappoint- 
 ment ; and with that quickness which so errat- 
 ically darted through a mind that contrived to 
 be dull when any thing honest was addressed 
 to its apprehension, he instantly divined that 
 his real name of Losely was worth something. 
 He had no idea of resuming — was, indeed, at 
 that time anxious altogether to ignore and es- 
 chew it ; but he had a right to it, and a man's 
 rights are not to be resigned for nothing. Ac- 
 cordingly, he said with some asperity, "I aiiall 
 resume my family name whenever I choose it. 
 If Mr. Darrell does not like his daughter to be 
 called Mrs. Jasper Losely — or all the malig- 
 nant tittle-tattle which my poor father's unfor- 
 tunate trial might provoke — he must, at least, 
 ask me as a favor to retain the name I have 
 temporarily adopted — a name in my family. Sir. 
 A Losely married a Hammond, I forget when 
 — generations ago — you'll see it in the ]3aronet- 
 age. JNIy grandfather, Sir Julian, Avas not a 
 crack lawyer, but he was a baronet of as good 
 birth as any in the country ; and my father, 
 Sir" — (Jasper's voice trembled) — "my father," 
 he repeated, fiercely striking his clenched hand 
 on the table, " was a gentleman every inch of 
 his body ; and I'll pitch any man out of the 
 window who says a word to the contrary !" 
 
 " Sir," said Mr. Gotobed, shrinking toward 
 the bell-pull, "I think, on the whole, I had bet- 
 ter see your solicitor." 
 
 Jasper cooled down at that suggestion ; and, 
 with a slight apology for natural excitement, 
 begged to know what Mr. Gotobed wished to 
 propose. To make an end of this part of tlie 
 story, after two or three interviews, in which the 
 two negotiators learned to understand each oth- 
 er, a settlement was legally completed, by which 
 the sum of £10,000 was inalienably settled on 
 Matilda, and her children by her marriage with 
 
 Jasper ; in case he survived her, the interest 
 was to be his for life — in case she died childless, 
 the capital would devolve to himself at Darrell's 
 decease. Meanwhile, Darrell agreed to pay 
 £500 a year, as the interest of the £10,000 at 
 five per cent, to Jasper Hammond, or his order, 
 provided always that Jasper and his wife con- 
 tinued to reside together, and fixed that resi- 
 dence abroad. 
 
 By a private verbal arrangement, not even 
 committed to writing, to this sum was added 
 another £200 a year, wholly at Darrell's option 
 and discretion. It being clearly comprehended 
 that these words meant so long as Mr. Ham- 
 mond kept his own secret, and so long, too, as 
 he forboi'e directly, or indirectly, to molest, or 
 even to address the person at whose pleasure it 
 was held. On the whole, the conditions to Jas- 
 per were sufficiently favorable : he came into 
 an income immeasui-ably beyond his right to be- 
 lieve that he should ever enjoy ; and sufficient 
 — well managed — for even a fair share of tlie 
 elegances as well as comforts of life, to a young 
 couple blessed in each other's love, and remote 
 from the horrible taxes and emulous gentilities 
 of this opulent England, where, out of fear to 
 be thought too poor, nobody is ever too rich. 
 
 Matilda wrote no more to Darrell. But some 
 months afterward he received an extremely 
 well-expressed note in French, the writer where- 
 of represented herself as a French lady, who had 
 very lately seen Madame Hammond — was now 
 in London but for a few days, and had some- 
 thing to communicate, of such importance as to 
 justify the liberty she took in requesting him to 
 honor her with a visit. After some little hesi- 
 tation, Darrell called on this lady. Though Ma- 
 tilda had forfeited his affection, he could not 
 contemplate her probable fate without painful 
 anxiety. Perhaps Jasper had ill-used her — 
 perhaps she had need of shelter elsewhere. 
 Though that shelter could not again be under 
 a father's roof — and though Darrell would have 
 taken no step to separate her from the husband 
 she had chosen, still, in secret, he would have 
 felt comparative relief and ease had she her- 
 self sought to divide her fate from one whose 
 l)ath downward in dishonor his penetration in- 
 stinctively divined. With an idea that some 
 communication might be made to him, to which 
 he might reply that Matilda, if compelled to 
 quit her husband, should never want the home 
 and subsistence of a gentlewoman, he repaired 
 to the house (a handsome house in a quiet 
 street, temporarily occupied by the French lady). 
 A tall chassem-, in full costume, opened the door 
 — a page ushered him into the drawing-room. 
 He saw a lady — young — and with all tbe grace 
 of a Parisicnne in her manner — who, after some 
 exquisitely-turned phrases of excuse, showed him 
 (as a testimonial of the intimacy between her- 
 self and Madame Hammond) a letter she had 
 received from Matilda, in a very heart-broken, 
 filial stx'ain, full of professions of penitence — 
 of a passionate desire for her father's forgive- 
 ness — but far from complaining of Jasper, or 
 hinting at the idea of deserting a spouse, with 
 whom, but for the haunting remembrance of a 
 beloved parent, her lot would be blessed indeed. 
 Whatever of pathos was deficient in the letter, 
 the French lady supplied by such ai)pareut fine 
 feeling, and by so many touching little traits of 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 195 
 
 Matilda's remorse, that Darrell's heart was soft- 
 ened in spite of his reason. He went away, 
 however, saying very little, and intending to 
 call no more. But another note came. The 
 French lady had received a letter from a mutual 
 friend — "Matilda," she feared, "was danger- 
 ously ill." This took him again to the house, 
 and the poor French lady seemed so agitated 
 by the news she had heard — and yet so desirous 
 not to exaggerate nor alarm him needlessly, 
 that Darrell suspected his daughter was really 
 dying, and became nervously anxious himself 
 for tlie next report. Thus, about three or four 
 visits in all necessarily followed the first one. 
 Then Darrell abruptly closed the intercourse, 
 and could not be induced to call again. Xot 
 that he for an instant suspected that this amia- 
 ble lady, who spoke so becomingly, and M'hose 
 manners were so hi^h-bred, was other than the 
 well-born Baroness she called herself, and looked 
 to be, but partly because, in the last interview, 
 the charming Parisienne had appeared a little to 
 forget Matilda's alarming illness, in a, not for- 
 ward but still, coquettish desire to centre his 
 attention more upon herself; and the moment 
 she did so, he took a dislike to her which he 
 had not before conceived; and partly because 
 his feelings having recovered the first effect 
 which the vision of a penitent pining, dving 
 daughter could not fail to produce, his experi- 
 ence of Matilda's duplicity and falsehood made 
 him discredit the penitence, the pining, and the 
 dying. The Baroness might not willfully be 
 deceiving him — Matilda might be willfully de- 
 ceiving the Baroness. To the next note, there- 
 fore, dispatched to him by the feeling and 
 elegant foreigner, he replied but by a dry ex- 
 cuse — a stately hint that family matters could 
 never be satisfactorily discussed except in familv 
 councils, and that if her friend's grief or illness 
 were really in any way occasioned by a belief 
 in the pain her choice of life might have in- 
 flicted on himself, it might comfort her to know 
 that that pain had subsided, and that his wish 
 for her health and happiness was not less sin- 
 cere, because henceforth he could neither watch 
 over the one nor administer to the other. To 
 this note, after a day or two, the Baroness re- 
 plied by a letter so beautifully worded, I doubt 
 whether 3Iadame de Sevigne could have 'WTitten 
 in purer French, or Madame de Stael with a 
 finer felicity of phrase. Stripped of the graces 
 of diction, the substance was but small ; "Anx- 
 iety for a friend so beloved — so unhappy — more 
 pited even than before, now that the IBaroness 
 had been enabled to see how fondly a daughter 
 must idolize a father in the man whom a nation 
 revered I — (here two lines devoted to compli- 
 ment personal) — compelled by that anxietv to 
 quit even sooner than she had first intended 
 
 the metropolis of that noble countrv," etc. 
 
 (here four lines devoted to compliment nation- 
 al)^and then proceeding through some chaiin- 
 ing sentences about patriot altars and domestic 
 hearths, the writer suddenly checked herself — 
 " would intrude no more on time sublimelv 
 dedicated to the human race — and concluded 
 with the assurance of sentiments the most dis- 
 tinguees." Little thought DaiTell that this com- 
 plimentary stranger, whom he never again be- 
 held, would exercise an influence over that 
 portion of his destiny which then seemed to 
 
 him most secure from evil ; toward which, then 
 
 he looked for the balm to every wound the 
 
 compensation to every loss ! 
 
 Darrell heard no more of Matilda, till, not 
 long aftenvard, her death was announced to 
 him. She had died from exhaustion shortly 
 after giving birth to a female child. The news 
 came upon him at a moment when, from other 
 causes — (the explanation of which, forming no 
 part of his confidence to Alban, it will be con- 
 venient to reserve)— his mind was in a state of 
 gi-eat afl^iction and disorder— when he had al- 
 ready buried himself in the solitudes of Fawley 
 
 — ambition resigned and the world renounced 
 
 and the intelligence saddened and shocked him 
 more than it might have done some months be- 
 1 fore. If, at that moment of utter bereavement 
 ; Matilda's child had been brought to him — given 
 ' up to him to rear — would he "have rejected it? 
 would he have forgotten that it was a felon's 
 grandchild? I dare not say. But his pride 
 was not put to such a trial.' One day he re- 
 ceived a packet from Mr. Gotobed, inclosing 
 the formal certificates of the infant's death" 
 which had been presented to him by Jasper, 
 who had arrived in London for that melancholy 
 purpose, with which he combined a pecuniary 
 proposition. By the death of Matilda and her 
 only child, the sum of £10,000 absolutely revert- 
 ed to Jasper in the event of Darrell's decease. 
 As the interest meanwhile was continued to Jas- 
 per, that widowed mourner suggested " that it 
 would be a great boon to himself and no dis- 
 advantage to Dan-ell if the principal were made 
 over to him at once. He had been brought up 
 originally to commerce. He had abjured all 
 thoughts of resuming such vocation during his 
 wife's lifetime, out of tliat consideration for her 
 family and ancient birth which motives of deli- 
 cacy imposed. Now that the connection with 
 Mr. Darrell was dissolved, it might be rather a 
 relief than otherwise to that gentleman to know 
 that • a son-in-law so displeasing to him was 
 finally settled, not only in a foreign land, but 
 in a social sphere, in which his very existence 
 would soon be ignored by all who could remind 
 Z\Ir. Darrell that his daughter had once a hus- 
 band. An occasion that might never occur 
 again now presented itself. A trading firm at 
 Paris, opulent, but unostentatiously quiet in its 
 mercantile transactions, would accept him as a 
 partner could he bring to it the additional cap- 
 ital of £10,000." Not without dignity did Jas- 
 per add, " that since his connection had been 
 so unhappily distasteful to Mr. Darrell, and since 
 the very payment, each quarter, of the interest 
 on the sum in question must in itself keep alive 
 the unwelcome remembrance of that connection, 
 he had the less scruple in making a proposition 
 which would enable the eminent personage who 
 so disdained his alliance to get rid of him al- 
 together." Darrell closed at once with Jasper's 
 proposal, pleased to cut off" from his life each 
 tie that could henceforth link it to Jasper's, 
 nor displeased to relieve his hereditary acres 
 from every shilling of the man-iage portion 
 which was imposed on it as a debt, and asso- 
 ciated with memories of unmingled bitterness. 
 Accordingly, Mr. Gotobed, taking care first to 
 ascertain that the certificates as to the poor 
 child's death were genuine, accepted Jasper's 
 final release of all claim on Mr. Darrell's estate- 
 
196 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 There still, however, remained the £200 a year 
 which Jasper had received during Matilda's life, 
 on the tacit condition of remaining Mr. Ham- 
 mond, and not personally addressing Mr. Dar- 
 rell. Jasper inquired ''if that annuity was to 
 continue?" Mr. Gotobed referred the inquiry 
 to Darrell, observing that the object for which 
 this extra allowance had been made was ren- 
 dered nugatory by the death of Mrs. Hammond 
 and her child; since Jasper henceforth could 
 have neither power nor pretext to molest Mr. 
 Darrell, and that it could signify but little what 
 name might in future be borne by one whose 
 connection ■with the Darrell family was wholly 
 dissolved. Darrell impatiently replied. "That 
 nothing having been said as to the withdrawal 
 of the said allowance in case Jasper became a 
 widower, he i-emained equally entitled, in point 
 of honor, to receive that allowance, or an ade- 
 quate equivalent." 
 
 This answer being intimated to Jasper, that 
 gentleman observed •' tliat it was no more than 
 he had expected from Mr. Darrell's sense of 
 honor," and apparently quite satisfied, carried 
 himself and his £10,000 back to Paris. Not 
 long after, however,- he wrote to Mr. Gotobed 
 that "'^Ir. Darrell, having alluded to an equiva- 
 lent for the £200 a year allowed to him, evi- 
 dently implying that it was as disagreeable to 
 Mr. Darrell to see that sum entered quarterly 
 in his banker's books, as it had to see there 
 the quarterly interest of the £10,000, so Jasper 
 might be excused in owning that he should 
 prefer an equivalent. The commercial firm to 
 which he was about to attach himself required 
 a somewhat larger capital on his part than he 
 had anticipated, etc., etc. Without presuming 
 to dictate any definite sum, he would observe 
 that £1500, or even £1000, would be of more 
 avail to his views and objscts in life than an 
 annuity of £200 a year, which, being held only 
 at will, was not susceptible of a temporary loan." 
 Darrell, wrapped in thoughts wholly remote. from 
 recollections of Jasper, chafed at being thus re- 
 called to the sense of that person's existence, 
 wrote back to the solicitor who transmitted to 
 him this message, " that an annuity held on 
 his word was not to be calculated by Mr. Ham- 
 mond's notions of its value. That the £200 a 
 year should therefore be placed on the same 
 footing as the £500 a year that had been allow- 
 ed on a capital of £10,000; that accordingly it 
 might be held to represent a principal of £4000, 
 for which he inclosed a check, begging Mr. 
 Gotobed not only to make Mr. Hammond fully 
 understand that there ended all possible ac- 
 counts or communication between them, but 
 never again to trouble him with any matters 
 whatsoever in reference to atfairs that were 
 thus finally concluded." Jasper, receiving the 
 £1000, left Darrell and Gotobed in peace till 
 the following year. He then addressed to Goto- 
 bed an exceedingly plausible, business-like let- 
 ter. " The firm he had entered, in the silk 
 trade, w.is in the most flourisliing state — an 
 opportunity occurred to purchase a magnificent 
 mulberry plantation in Provence, with all re- 
 quisite marpianieres, etc., which would yield an 
 immense increase of profit. That if, to insure 
 him to have a share in this lucrative purchase, 
 Mr. Darrell could accommodate him for a year 
 with a loan of £2000 or £3000, he sanguinely 
 
 calculated on attaining so high a position in 
 the commercial world, as, though it couid not 
 render the recollection of his alliance more 
 obtrusive to IMr. DaiTell, would render it less 
 humiliating." 
 
 Mr. Gotobed, in obedience to the peremptory 
 instructions he had received from his client, 
 did not refer this letter to Darrell, but having 
 occasion at that time to visit Paris on other 
 business, he resolved (without calling on Mr. 
 Hammond) to institute there soAe private in- 
 quiry into that rising trader's prospects and 
 status. He found, on arrival at Paris, these 
 inquiries diflicult. No one in either the beau 
 moade or in the haul commerce seemed to know 
 any thing about thiOIr. Jasper Hammond. A 
 few fixshionable English roues remembered to 
 have seen once or twice during Matilda's life, 
 and shortly after her decease, a very fine-look- 
 ing man shooting meteoric across some equivo- 
 cal salons, or lounging in the Champs J-Jli/stes, 
 or dining at the Cct/e de Paris ; but of late that 
 meteor had vanished. Mr. Gotobed, then cau- 
 tiously employing a commissioner to gain some 
 information of ilr. Hammond's firm at the pri- 
 vate residence from which Jasper addressed his 
 letter, ascertained that in that private residence 
 Jasper did not reside. He paid the porter to 
 receive occasional letters, for which he called 
 or sent ; and the porter, who was evidently a 
 faithful and discreet functionary, declared his 
 belief that ilonsieur Hammond lodged in the 
 house in which he transacted business, though, 
 where was the house, or what was the business, 
 the porter observed, with well-bred implied re- 
 buke, " Monsieur Hammond was too reserved 
 to communicate, he himself too incurious to 
 inquire." At length Mr. Gotobed's business, 
 which was, in fact, a commission from a dis- 
 tressed father to extricate an imprudent son, 
 a mere boy, from some unhappy associations, 
 having brought him into the necessity of seeing 
 persons who belonged neither to the beau monde 
 nor to the haul commerce, he gleaned from them 
 the information he desired. 'Sir. Hammond 
 lived in the very heart of a certain circle in 
 Paris, which but few Englishmen ever pene- 
 trate. In that circle Mr. Hammond had, on 
 receiving his late wife's dowry, become the 
 partner in a private gambling hell ; in that hell 
 had been ingulfed all the moneys he had re- 
 ceived — a hell that ought to have prospered 
 with him, if he could have economized his vil- 
 lainous gains. His senior partner in that firm 
 retired into the country with a fine fortune — 
 no doubt the very owner of those mulbeny 
 plantations which were now on sale I But Jas- 
 per scattered Napoleons faster than any croupier 
 could rake them away. And Jasper's natural 
 talent for converting solid gold into thin air 
 had been assisted by a lady, who, in the course 
 of her amiable life, had assisted many richer 
 men than Jasper to lodgings in St. Pelagic, or 
 cells in the Maison des Fous. With that lady 
 he had become acquainted during the lifetime 
 of his wife, and it was sujiposed that Matilda's 
 discovery of this liaison had contributed perhaps 
 to the illness which closed in her decease ; the 
 name of that lady was Gabrielle Desmarets. 
 She might still be seen daily at the Bois de 
 Boulogne, nightly at opera-house or theatre ; 
 she had apartments in the Chaussec d'Antin far 
 
WHAT ^nLL HE DO AVITII IT ? 
 
 197 
 
 from inaccessible to Mr. Gotobed, if he coveted 
 the honor of her acquaintance. But Jasper was 
 less before an admiring world. He was sup- 
 posed now to be connected with another gam- 
 bling-house of lower grade than the last, in 
 which he had contrived to break his own bank, 
 and plunder his own till. It was supposed also 
 that he remained good friends with Mademoi- 
 selle Desmarets : but if he \-isited her at her 
 house, he was never to be seen there. In fact, 
 his temper was so uncertain, his courage so 
 dauntless, his strength so prodigious, that gen- 
 tlemen who did not wish to be thrown out of a 
 window, or hurled down a stair-case, shunned 
 any salon or boudoir in which they had a chance 
 to encounter him. Mademoiselle Desmarets 
 had thus been condemned to the painful choice 
 between his society and that of nobody else, or 
 that of any body elsc/with the rigid privation of 
 his. Not being a <mrtle-dove, she had chosen 
 the latter alternative. It was believed, how- 
 ever, that if ever Gabrielle Desmarets had known 
 the weakness of a kind sentiment, it was for this 
 turbulent lady-killer : and that, with a liberality 
 she had never exhibited in any other instance, 
 when she could no longer help him to squander, 
 she would still, at a pinch, help him to live ; 
 though, of course, in such a reverse of the nor- 
 mal laws of her being, ilademoiselle Desmarets 
 set those bounds on her own generosity which 
 she would not have imposed upon his, and had 
 said with a sigh, "I could forgive him if he 
 beat me and beggared my friends : but to beat 
 my frien(ls and to beggar me — that is not the 
 kind of love which makes the world go round I" 
 
 Scandalized to the last nerve of bis respect- 
 able system by the information thus gleaned, 
 Mr. Gotobed returned to London. Slore letters 
 from Jasper — becoming urgent, and at last even 
 insolent — Mr. Gotobed, worried into a reply, 
 wrote back shortly ''that he could not even 
 communicate such applications to Mr. Darrell, 
 and that he must peremptorily decline all far- 
 ther intercourse, epistolary or personal, with 
 ^Ir. Hammond." 
 
 Darrell, on returning from one of the occa- 
 sional rambles on the Continent, "remote, un- 
 friended, melancholy," by which he broke the 
 monotony of his Fawley life, found a letter from 
 Jasper, not fawning, but abrupt, addressed to 
 himself, complaining of ISIr. Gotobed's improper 
 tone, requesting pecuniary assistance, and inti- 
 mating that he could in return communicate to 
 Mr. Darrell an intelligence that would give him 
 more joy than all his wealth could purchase. 
 Darrell inclosed that note to Mr. Gotobed ; ]SIr. 
 Gotobed came down to Fawley to make those 
 revelations of Jasper's mode of life which were 
 too delicate, or too much the reverse, to com- 
 mit to paper. Great as Darrell's disgust at the 
 memory of Jasper had hitherto been, it may 
 well be conceived how much more bitter became 
 that memory now. No answer was, of course, 
 vouchsafed to Jasper, who, after another ex- 
 tremely forcible apf)eal for money, and equally 
 enigmatical boast of the pleasurable information 
 it was in his power to bestow, relapsed into 
 sullen silence. 
 
 One day, somewhat more than five years after 
 Slatilda's death, Darrell, coming in from his 
 musing walks, found a stranger waiting for him. 
 This stranger was William Losely, returned 
 
 from penal exile ; and while Darrell, on hear- 
 ing this announcement, stood mute with haughty 
 wonder that such a visitor could cross the thresh- 
 old of his father's house, the convict began what 
 seemed to Darrell a story equally audacious and 
 incomprehensible — the infant Matilda had borne 
 to Jasper, and the certificates of whose death 
 had been so ceremoniously produced and so 
 prudently attested, lived still! Sent out to 
 nurse as soon as born, the nurse had in her 
 charge another babe, and this last was the child 
 who had died and been buried as Matilda Ham- 
 mond's. The elder Losely went on to stammer 
 out a hope that his son was not at the time 
 aware of the fraudulent exchange, but had been 
 deceived by the nurse — that it had not been a 
 premeditated imposture of his own to obtain his 
 wife's fortune. 
 
 When Darrell came to this part of his story, 
 Alban Morley's face grew more seriously inter- 
 ested. "Stop I" he said; "William Losely as- 
 sured you of his own conviction that this strange 
 tale was true. AThat proofs did he volunteer?" 
 "Proofs ! Death, man, do you think that at 
 such moments I was but a bloodless lawyer, to 
 question and cross-examine ? I could but bid 
 the impostor leave the house which his feet pol- 
 luted." 
 
 Alban heaved a sigh, and murmured, too low 
 for Darrell to overhear, "Poor Willy!" then 
 aloud, "But, my dear friend, bear with me one 
 moment. Suppose that, by the arts of this dia- 
 bolical Jasper, the exchange really had been 
 ' effected, and a child to your ancient line lived 
 still, would it not be a solace, a comfort — " 
 I " Comfort !" cried Darrell, " comfort in the 
 perpetuation of infamy ! The line I promised 
 my father to restore to its rank in the land, to 
 be renewed in the grandchild of a felon ! — in 
 the child of the yet viler sharper of a hell I — 
 You, gentleman and soldier, call that thought 
 — ' comfort ?' Oh, Alban ! — out on you I Fie ! 
 fie! No! — leave such a thought to the lips of 
 a William Losely ! He indeed, clasping his 
 hands, faltered forth some such word ; he seemed 
 to count on my forlorn privation of kith and 
 ' kindred — no heir to my wealth — no representa- 
 tive of my race — would I deprive myself of — ay 
 — your very words — of a solace — a comfort ! 
 He asked me, at least, to inquire." 
 " And you answered ?" 
 I "Answered so as to quell and crush in the 
 I bud all hopes in the success of so flagrant a 
 falsehood — answered, ' "WTiy inquire ? Know 
 ' that, even if your tale were true, I have no heir, 
 ' no representative, no descendant in the child 
 of Jasper — the grandchild of William — Losely. 
 I can at least leave my wealth to the son of 
 Charles Haughton. True, Charles Haughton 
 was a spendthrift — a gamester ; but he was 
 ; neither a professional cheat nor a convicted 
 1 felon.' " 
 I "Yousaidthat — oh, Darrell!" 
 
 The Colonel checked himself But for Charles 
 
 Haughton, the spendthrift and gamester, would 
 
 \ William Losely have been the convicted felon? 
 
 He checked that thought, and hurried on — 
 
 j "And how did William" Losely reply?" 
 
 " He made no reply — he skulked away with- 
 out a word." 
 I Darrell then proceeded to relate the inteniew 
 ' which Jasper had forced on him at Fawley dtir- 
 
198 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 ing Lionel's visit there — on Jasper's part, an 
 attempt to tell the same tale as William had 
 told — on Darrell's part, the same scornful re- 
 fusal to hear it out. "And," added Darrell, 
 " the man, finding it thus impossible to dupe 
 mv reason, had the inconceivable meanness to 
 apply to me for alms. I could not better show 
 the "disdain in which I held himself and his 
 story than in recognizing his plea as a mendi- 
 cant. I threw my purse at his feet, and so left 
 him. 
 
 "But," continued Darrell, his brow growing 
 darker and darker, " but wild and monstrous as 
 the story was, still the idea that it might be true 
 — a supposition which derived its sole strength 
 from the character of Jasper Losely — from the 
 interest he had in the supposed death of a child 
 that alone stood between himself and the money 
 he longed to grasp — an interest which ceased 
 when the money itself was gone, or rather 
 changed into the counter-interest of proving a 
 life that, he thought, would re-establish a hold 
 on me — still. I say, an idea that the story inirjlit 
 be true, would force itself on my fears, and if 
 so, though my resolution never to acknowledge 
 the child of Jasper Losely as a representative, 
 or even as a daughter, of my house, would of 
 course be immovable — yet it would become my 
 duty to see that her infancy was sheltered, her 
 childhood reared, her youth guarded, her exist- 
 ence amply provided for." 
 
 "Right— your plain duty," said Alban, blunt- 
 Iv. "Intricate sometimes are the obligations 
 imposed on us as gentlemen ; ' noblesse oblige'' is 
 a motto which involves puzzles for a casuist ; 
 but our duties as men are plain — the idea very 
 properly haunted you — and — " 
 
 "And I hastened to exorcise the spectre. I 
 left England — I went to the French town in 
 which poor Matilda died — I could not, of course, 
 make formal or avowed inquiries of a nature to 
 raise into importance the very conspiracy (if 
 conspiracy there were) which threatened me. 
 But I saw the physician who had attended both 
 my daughter and her child — I saw those who 
 had seen them both when living — seen them 
 both when dead. The doubt on my mind was 
 dispelled — not a pretext left for my own self- 
 torment. The only person needful in evidence 
 whom I failed to see was the nurse to whom the 
 infant had been sent. She lived in a village 
 some miles from the town — I called at her house 
 — she was out. I left word I should call the 
 next day — I did so — she had absconded. I 
 might, doubtless, have traced her, but to what 
 end, if she were merely Jasper's minion and 
 tool? Did not her very flight prove her guilt 
 and her terror? Indirectly I inquired into her 
 antecedents and character. The inquiry opened 
 a field of conjecture, from which I hastened to 
 turn my eyes. This woman liad a sister who 
 had been in the service of Gabrielle Desmarets ; 
 and Gabrielle Desmarets had been in the neigh- 
 boxhood during my poor daughter's Hfetime, and 
 just after my daughter's death. And the nurse 
 had had two infants under her charge ; the 
 nurse had removed with one of them to Paris 
 — and Gabrielle Desmarets lived in Paris — and, 
 oh, Alban, if there be really in flesh and life a 
 child by Jasper Losely to be forced upon my 
 purse or my pity — is it his child, not by the ill- 
 fated Matilda, but by the vile woman for whom 
 
 Matilda, even in the first year of wedlock, was 
 deserted? Conceive how credulity itself would 
 shrink appalled from the horrible snare ! — I to 
 acknowledge, adopt, proclaim as the last of the 
 Darrells, the adulterous ofl:spring of a Jasper 
 Losely and a Gabrielle Desmarets ! — or, when I 
 am in mv grave, some claim advanced upon the 
 sum settled by my marriage articles on ilatilda's 
 issue, and which, if a child survived, could not 
 have been legally transferred to its father — a 
 claim with witnesses suborned — a claim that 
 might be fraudulently established — a claim that 
 would leave the representative — not indeed of 
 my lands and wealth, but, more precious far, of 
 mv lineage and blood — in — in the person of — 
 of—" / 
 
 DaiTeU paused, almost stifling, and became 
 so pale that Alban started from his seat in 
 alarm. 
 
 "It is nothing," resumed DaiTcU, faintly; 
 " and, ill or well, I mivst finish this subject now, 
 so that we need not reopen it. 
 
 " I remained abroad, as you know, for some 
 years. During that time two or three letters 
 from Jasper Losely were forwarded to me ; the 
 latest in date more insolent than all preceding 
 ones. It contained demands as if they were 
 rights, and insinuated threats of public expo- 
 sure, reflecting on myself and my pride — ' He 
 was my son-in-law after all, and if he came 
 to disgrace the world should know the tie.' 
 Enough. This is all I knew until the man who 
 now, it seems, thrusts himself forward as Jasper 
 Losely's friend or agent, spoke to me the other 
 nightat Mrs. Haughtou's.. That man you have 
 seen, and you say that he — " 
 
 " Represents Jasper's poverty as extreme ; 
 his temper unscrupulous and desperate ; that he 
 is capable of any amount of scandal or violence. 
 It seems that though at Paris he has (Poole be- 
 lieves) still preserved the name of Hammond, 
 i yet that in England he has resumed that of 
 Losely ; seems, by Poole's date of the time on 
 which he, Poole, made Jasper's acquaintance, 
 to have done so after his baffled attempt on you 
 at Fawley — whether in so doing he intimated 
 the commencement of hostilities, or whether, as 
 is more likely, the sharper finds it convenient to 
 have oiie name in one countiy, and one in an- 
 other, 'tis useless to inquire ; enough that the 
 identity between the Hammond who married 
 poor Matilda and the Jasper Losely whose fa- 
 ther was transported, that unscrupulous rogue 
 has no longer any care to conceal. It is true 
 that the revelation of this identity would now 
 be of slight moment to a man of the world — as 
 thick-skinned as myself, for instance ; but to 
 you it would be disagreeable — there is no de- 
 nying that — and therefore, in short, when ilr. 
 Poole advises a compromise, by which Jasper 
 could be secured from want and yourself from 
 annoyance, I am of the same opinion as ilr. 
 Poole is." 
 I " You are ?" 
 
 " Certainly. 5Iy dear Darrell, if in your se- 
 cret heart there was something so galling in the 
 thought that the man who had married your 
 daughter, though without your consent, was not 
 merely the commonplace adventurer whom the 
 world'supposed, but the son of that poor dear — 
 I mean, that rascal who was transported. Jas- 
 per too, himself a cheat and a shai-per — if this 
 
"WHAT WLLL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 199 
 
 galled vou so that you have concealed the true 
 facts from myself, your oldest friend, till this 
 day — if it has cost you even now so sharp a 
 pang to divulge the true name of that Mr. Ham- 
 mond, whom our society never saw, whom even 
 gossip has forgotten in connection with yourself 
 — how intolerable would be your suffering to 
 have this man watching for you in the streets, 
 some wretched girl in his hand, and crying out, 
 'A penny for your son-in-law and your grand- 
 child!' Pardon me — I must be blunt. You 
 can give him to the police — send him to the 
 tread-mill. Does that mend the matter ? Or, 
 worse still, suppose the man commits some 
 crime that fills all the newspapers with his life 
 and adventures, including, of course, his runaway 
 marriage with the famous Guy Darrell's heiress 
 — no one would blame you, no one respect you 
 less ; but do not tell me that you would not be 
 glad to save your daughter's name from being 
 coupled \yiih such a miscreant's, at the price of 
 half your fortune." 
 
 "Alban," said Darrell, gloomily, "you can 
 say nothing on this score that has not been con- 
 sidered by myself. But the man has so placed 
 the matter that honor itself forbids me to bar- 
 gain with him for the price of my name. So 
 long as he threatens, I can not buy off a threat 
 — so long as he persists in a story by which he 
 would establish a claim on me on behalf of a 
 child whom I have ever}' motive, as well as ev- 
 ery reason, to disown as inheriting my blood — 
 whatever I bestowed on himself v.ould seem like 
 hush-money to suppress that claim." 
 
 " Of course — I understand, and entirely agree 
 with you. But if the man retract all threats, 
 confess his imposture in respect to this pretend- 
 ed offspring, and consent to retire for life to a 
 distant colony, upon an annuity that may suffice 
 for his wants, but leave no surplus beyond, to 
 render more glaring his vices, or more eflective 
 his powers of evil — if this could be aiTanged be- 
 tween Mr. Poole and myself, I think that your 
 peace might be permanently secured without the 
 slightest sacrifice of honor. "Will you leave the 
 matter in my hands, on this assurance — that I 
 will not give this person a farthing except on 
 the conditions I have premised ?" 
 
 " On these conditions, yes, and most grate- 
 fully," said Darrell. '• Do' what you will. But 
 one favor more ; never again speak to me (un- 
 less absolutely compelled) in reference to this 
 dark portion of my inner life." 
 
 Alban pressed his friend's hand, and both 
 were silent for some moments. Then said the 
 Colonel, with an attempt at cheerfulness, '• Dar- 
 rell, more than ever now do I see that the new 
 house at Fawley, so long suspended, must be 
 finished. Marry again you must I You can 
 never banish old remembrances unless you can 
 supplant them by fresh hopes." 
 
 " I feel it — I know it I" cried Darrell, passion- 
 ately. " And oh I if one remembrance could be 
 wrenched away I But it shall — it shall I" 
 
 " Ah 1' thought Alban, " the remembrance of 
 his former conjugal life I — a remembrance which 
 might well make the youngest and the boldest 
 Benedict shrink from the hazard of a similar 
 experiment." 
 
 In proportion to the delicacy, the earnest- 
 ness, the depth of a man's nature, will there be 
 a something in his character which no male 
 
 friend can conceive, and a something in the se- 
 crets of his life which no male friend can ever 
 conjecture. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 j Our old friend the Pocket Cannibal evinces unexpected 
 j patriotism and philosophical moderation, contented 
 I -with a steak off his own succulent friend in the airs of 
 1 his own native sky. 
 
 CoLoxEL MoELET had a second interview 
 with Mr. Poole. It needed not Alban's knowl- 
 edge of the world to discover that Poole was no 
 partial friend to Jasper Losely ; that, for some 
 reason or other, Poole was' no less anxious 
 than the Colonel to get that formidable cli- 
 ent, whose cause he so warmly advocated, pen- 
 sioned and packed off into the region most re- 
 mote from Great Britain, in which a spirit hith- 
 erto so restless might consent to settle. And 
 although Mr. Poole had evidently taken offense 
 ; at ]^Ir. Darrell's discourteous rebuff' of his ami- 
 able intentions, yet no grudge against Darrell 
 furnished a motive for conduct equal to his 
 Christian desire that Darrell's peace should be 
 purchased by Losely's perpetual exile. Accord- 
 ingly, Colonel Morley took leave, with a well- 
 placed confidence in Poole's determination to 
 do all in his power to induce Jasper to listen to 
 reason. The Colonel had hoped to learn some- 
 thing from Poole of the elder Losely "s present 
 1 residence and resources. Poole, as we know, 
 j could give him there no information. The Col- 
 onel also failed to ascertain any particulars rel- 
 ative to that female pretender on whose behalf 
 I Jasper founded his principal claim to Darrell's 
 ! aid. And so great was Poole's emban-assment 
 ' in reply to all questions on that score — Where 
 j was the young person ? With whom had she 
 ] lived ? What was she like ? Could the Colonel 
 j see her, and hear her own tale ? — that Alban 
 I entertained a strong suspicion that no such girl 
 [ was in existence ; that she was a pure fiction 
 and myth ; or that, if Jasper were compelled to 
 produce some petticoated fair, she would be an 
 artful baggage hired for the occasion. 
 
 Poole waited Jaspers next visit with impa- 
 tience and sanguine delight. He had not a 
 doubt that the ruffian would cheerfully consent 
 to allow that, on farther inquiry, he found he 
 had been deceived in Lis belief of Sophy's par- 
 entage, and that there was nothing in England 
 so pecidiarly sacred to his heart but what he 
 might consent to breathe the freer air of Colum- 
 bian skies, or even to share the shepherd's harm- 
 less life amidst the pastures of auriferous Aus- 
 tralia ! But, to Poole's ineffable consternation, 
 Jasper declared sullenly that he would not con- 
 sent to expatriate himself merely for the sake 
 of living. 
 
 " I am not so young as I was," said the bravo ; 
 "I don't speak of years, but feeling. I have 
 not the same energy-; once I had high spirits — 
 they are broken ; once I had hope — I have none : 
 I ain not up to exertion ; I have got into lazy 
 habits. To go into new scenes, fonn new plans, 
 live in a horrid raw new world, every body round 
 me bustling and pushing — No! that may suit 
 your thin dapper light Ilop-o'-my-th umbs ! Look 
 at me ! See how I have increased in weight the 
 last five years — all sohd bone and muscle. I 
 defy any four draymen to move me an inch if I 
 
200 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 am not in the mind to it ; and to be blown off to 
 the antipodes as if I were the down of a pestilent 
 thistle, I am not in the mind for that, Dolly 
 Poole !" 
 
 " Hum I" said Poole, trying to smile. " This 
 is funny talk. You always were a funny fellow. 
 But I am quite sure, from Colonel ilorley's de- 
 cided manner, that you can get nothing from 
 Darrell if you choose to remain in England." 
 
 "Well, when I have nothing else left, I may 
 go to Darrell myself, and have that matter out 
 with him. At present I am not up to it. Dolly, 
 don't bore !" And the bravo, opening a jaw 
 strong enough for any carnivorous animal, 
 yawned — yawned much as a bored tiger does in 
 the face of a philosophical student of savage 
 manners in the Zoological Gardens. 
 
 "Bore I" said Poole, astounded, and recoiling 
 from that expanded jaw. "But I should have 
 thought no subject could bore you less than the 
 consideration of how you are to live?" 
 
 " Why, Dolly, I have learned to be easily con- 
 tented, and you see at present I live upon you." 
 
 "Yes," groaned Poole, "but that can't go on 
 forever; and, besides, you promised that you 
 would leave me in peace as soon as I had got 
 Darrell to provide for you." 
 
 "So I will. Zounds, Sir, do you doubt my 
 word ? So I will. But I don't call exile ' a 
 provision' — Basta .' I understand from you that 
 Colonel Morley offers to restore the niggardly 
 £200 a year Darrell formerly allowed to me, to 
 be paid monthly or weekly, through some agent 
 in Van Diemen's Land, or some such uncom- 
 fortable half-way house to Eternity, that was 
 not even in the Atlas when I studied geography 
 at school. But £200 a year is exactly my in- 
 come in England, paid weekly too, by your 
 agreeable self, with whom it is a pleasure to 
 talk over old times. Therefore that proposal is 
 out of the question. Tell Colonel Morley, with 
 my compliments, that if he will double the sum, 
 and leave me to spend it where I please, I scorn 
 haggling, and say 'done.' And as to the girl, 
 since I can not tind her (which, on penalty of 
 being thrashed to a mummy, you will take care 
 not to let out), I would agree to leave Mr. Dar- 
 rell free to disovrn her. But are you such a 
 dolt as not to see that I put the ace of trumps 
 on my adversary's pitiful deuce, if I depose that 
 my own child is not my own child, when all I 
 get for it is what I equally get out of you, with 
 my ace of trumps still in ray hands? Basta! — 
 I say again Basta ! It is evidently an object to 
 Darrell to get rid of all fear that Sophy should 
 ever pounce upon him tooth and claw : if he be 
 so convinced that she is not his daughter's child, 
 why make a point of my saying that I told him 
 a fib when I said she was? Evidently, too, he 
 is afraid of my power to harass and annoy him ; 
 or why make it a point that I shall only nibble 
 his cheese in a trap at the world's end, stared 
 at by bushmen, and wombats, and rattlesnakes, 
 and alligators, and other American citizens or 
 British settlers? £200 a year, and my own 
 wife's father a millionaire! The offer is an in- 
 sult. Ponder this ; put on the screw ; make 
 them come to terms which I can do them the 
 honor to accept ; meanwhile, I will trouble you 
 for my four sovereigns." 
 
 Poole had the chagrin to report to the Col- 
 onel Jasper's I'efusal of the terms proposed, and 
 
 to state the counter-proposition he was com- 
 missioned to make. Alban was at first sur- 
 prised, not conjecturing the means of supply, in 
 his native land, which Jasper had secured in 
 the coffers of Poole himself. On sounding the 
 unhappy negotiator as to Jasper's reasons, he 
 surmised, however, one part of the truth — viz., 
 that Jasper built hopes of better terms precisely 
 on the fact that terms had been ofi'ei-ed to him 
 at all ; and this induced Alban almost to regret 
 that he had made any such overtures, and to 
 believe that Darrell's repugnance to open the 
 door of conciliation a single inch to so sturdy a 
 mendicant, was more worldly-wise than Alban 
 had originally supposed. Yet ]jartly, even for 
 Darrell's own securit/ and peace, from that per- 
 suasion of his own powers of management which 
 a consummate man of the world is apt to enter- 
 tain, and partly from a strong curiosity to see 
 the audacious son of that poor dear rascal Willy, 
 and examine himself into the facts he asserted, 
 and the objects he aimed at, Alban bade Poole 
 inform Jasper that Colonel iNIorley would be 
 quite willing to convince him, in a personal in- 
 terview, of the impossibility of acceding to the 
 propositions Jasper had made ; and that he 
 should be still more willing to see the young 
 person whom Jasper asserted to be the child of 
 his marriage. 
 
 Jasper, after a moment's moody deliberation, 
 declined to meet Colonel INIorley — partly, in- 
 deed, from the sensitive vanity viiiich once had 
 given him delight, and now only pave him pain. 
 Meet thus — altered, fallen, imbruted — the fine 
 gentleman whose calm eye had quelled him in 
 the widow's drawing-room in his day of com- 
 parative splendor — that in itself was distasteful 
 to the degenerated bravo. But he felt as if he 
 should be at more disadvantage in point of ar- 
 gument with a cool and wary representative of 
 Darrell's interests than he should be even with 
 Darrell himself. And unable to produce the 
 child whom he ascribed the right to obtrude, he 
 should be but exposed to a fire of cross-questions 
 without a shot in his own locker. Accordingly, 
 he declined, point-blank, to see Colonel jNIor- 
 ley ; and declared that the terms he himself had 
 proposed were the lowest he would accept. "Tell 
 Colonel JlorleV, however, that if negotiations 
 fail, / shall not fail, sooner or later, to argue 
 my view of the points in dispute with my kind 
 father-in-law, and in person." 
 
 "Yes, hang it!" cried Poole, exasperated; 
 "go and see Darrell yourself. He is easily 
 found." 
 
 " Ay," answered Jasper, with the hardest look 
 of his downcast sidelong eye — " ay ; some day 
 or other it may come to that. I would rather 
 not, if possiljle. I might not keep my temper. 
 It is not merely a matter of money between us, 
 if we two meet. There are affronts to efiace. 
 Banished his house like a mangy dog — treated 
 by a jackanapes lawyer like the dirt in the ken- 
 nel I The Loselys, I suspect, would have looked 
 down on the Darrells fifty years ago ; and what 
 if my father was born out of wedlock, is the 
 blood not the same? Does the breed dwindle 
 down for want of a gold ring and priest ? Look 
 at me. No ; not what I now am ; not even as 
 you saw me five years ago; but as I leaped into 
 youth ! Was I bom to cast sums and nib pens 
 as a City clerk? Aha, my poor father, you 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 201 
 
 were wrong there ! Blood will out ! Mad devil, 
 indeed, is a racer in a citizen's gig ! Spavined, 
 and wind-galled, and foundered — let the bruta 
 go at last to the knackers ; but by his eye, and 
 his pluck, and his bone, the brute shows the 
 stock that he came from I" 
 
 Dolly opened his eyes and — blinked. Never 
 in his gaudy days had Jasper half so openly re- 
 vealed what, perhaps, had been always a sore 
 in his pride; and his outburst now may possibly 
 aid the reader to a subtler comprehension of the 
 arrogance, and levity, and egotism, which ac- 
 companied his insensibility to honor, and had 
 converted his very claim to the blood of a gen- 
 tleman into an excuse for a cynic's disdain of 
 the very virtues for which a gentleman is most 
 desirous of obtaining credit. But by a very or- 
 dinary process in the human mind, as Jasper 
 had fallen lower and lower into the lees and 
 dregs of fortune, his pride had more prominent- 
 ly emerged from tjie group of the other and 
 more flaunting vices by which, in health and 
 high spirits, it had been pushed aside and out- 
 shone. 
 
 " Humph !" said Poole, after a pause. " If 
 Dan-ell was as uncinl to you as he was to me, 
 I don't wonder that you owe him a grudge. 
 But even if you do lose temper in seeing him, 
 it might rather do good than not. You can 
 make yourself cursedly unpleasant if you choose 
 it ; and perhaps you will have a better chance 
 of getting your own terms if they see you can 
 bite as well as bark ! Set at Darrell and worry 
 him; it is not fair to worry nobody but me I" 
 
 "Dolly, don't bluster! If I could stand at 
 his door, or stop him in the streets, with the 
 girl in my hand, your advice would be judicious. 
 The world would not care for a row between a 
 rich man and a penniless son-in-law. But an 
 interesting young lady, who calls him grandfa- 
 ther, and falls at his knees, he could not send 
 her to hard labor ; and if he does not believe in 
 her birth, let the thing but just get into the 
 newspapers, and there are plenty who will ; 
 and I should be in a very different position for 
 treating. 'Tis just because, if I meet Darrell 
 again, I don't wish that again it should be all 
 bark and no bite, that I postpone the interview. 
 All your own laziness — exert youi-self and find ] 
 the girl." " \ 
 
 " But I can't find the girl, and you know it I ' 
 And I tell you what, Mr. Losely, Colonel Mor- 
 ley, who is a very shrewd man, does not believe 
 in the girl's existence." | 
 
 "Does not he! I begin to doubt it myself. 
 But, at all events, you can't doubt of mine", and 
 I am grateful for yours ; and since you have 
 given me the trouble of coming here to no pur- 
 pose, I may as well take the next week's pay 
 in advance — four sovereigns, if you please, Dol- 
 ly Poole." 
 
 a daughter sufficiently artful to produce. And 
 pleased to think that the sharper was thus un- 
 provided with a means of annoyance, which, 
 skillfully managed, might have been seriously 
 harassing ; and convinced that when Jasper 
 found no farther notice taken of him, he himself 
 would be compelled to petition for the terms 
 he now rejected, the Colonel dryly informed 
 Poole "that his interference was at an end; 
 that if Mr. Losely, either through himself, or 
 through Mr. Poole, or any one else, presumed 
 to address :Mr. Darrell direct, the offer previous- 
 ly made would be peremptorily and irrevocably 
 withdrawn. I myself," added the Colonel, 
 "shall be going abroad veiy shortly, for the 
 rest of the summer ; and should Mr. Loselv, in 
 the mean while, think better of a proposal which 
 secures him from want, I refer him to ]\Ir. Dar- 
 rell's solicitor. To that proposal, according to 
 your account of his destitution, he must come 
 sooner or later; and I am glad to see that he 
 has in yourself so judicious an adviser" — a com- 
 pliment which by no means consoled the miser- 
 able Poole. 
 
 In the briefest words, Alban infonned Dar- 
 rell of his persuasion that Jasper was not only 
 without evidence to support a daughter's claim, 
 but that the daughter herself was still in that 
 part of Virgil's Hades appropriated to souls that 
 have not yet appeared upon the upper earth, and 
 that Jasper himself, although holding back, as 
 might be naturally expected, in the hope of 
 conditions more to his taste, had only to be left 
 quietly to his own meditations in order to rec- 
 ognize the advantages of emigration. Another 
 £100 a year or so, it is true, he might bargain 
 for, and such a demand might be worth conced- 
 ing. But, on the whole, Alban congratulated 
 Darrell upon the probability of hearing very lit- 
 tle more of the son-in-law, and no more at all 
 of the son-in-law's daughter. 
 
 Darrell made no comment nor reply. A 
 grateful look, a warm pressure of the hand', and, 
 when the subject was changed, a clearer brow 
 and livelier smile, thanked the English Alban 
 better than all words. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 Another halt — Change of Horses — and a turn on the road. 
 CoLoyEL MoKLEY, on learning that Jasper 
 declined a personal conference with himself, 
 and that the proposal of an interview with Jas- 
 per's alleged daughter was equally scouted or 
 put aside, became still more confirmed in his 
 beUef that Jasper had not yet been blessed with 
 
 CHAPTER XIH. 
 
 Colonel Morley shows that it is not without reason that 
 he enjoys his reputation <;f knowing something about 
 every body. 
 
 "Well met, "said Darrell, the day after Alban 
 had conveyed to him the comforting assurances 
 which had taken one thorn from his side — dis- 
 persed one cloud in his evening sky. "Well 
 met," said DaiTell, encountering the Colonel a 
 few paces from his own door. " Pray walk with 
 me as far as the New Road. I have promised 
 Lionel to visit the studio of an artist friend of 
 his, in whom he chooses to find a Rafiaelle, and 
 in whom I suppose, at the price of truth, Ishall 
 be urbanely compelled to compliment a daub- 
 er." 
 
 " Do you speak of Frank Vance ?" 
 
 " The same!" 
 
 "You could not visit a worthier man, nor 
 compliment a more premising artist. Vance is 
 one of the few who unite gusto and patience, 
 fancy and brushwork. His female heads, in es- 
 pecial, are exquisite, though they are all, I con- 
 
202 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 fess, too much like one another. The man him- 
 self is a thoroughly line fellow. He has been 
 much made of in good society, and remains un- 
 spoiled. You will find his manner rather off- 
 hand, the reverse of shy ; partly, perhaps, be- 
 cause he has in himself the racy freshness and 
 boldness wliich he gives to his colors ; partly, 
 perhaps, also, because he has in his art the self- 
 esteem that patricians take from their pedigree, 
 and shakes a duke by the hand to prevent the 
 duke holding out to him a finger." 
 
 "Good," said Darrell, with his rare, manly 
 laugh. "Being shy myself, I like men who 
 meet one half-way. I see that we shall be at 
 our ease with each other." 
 
 "And perhaps still more when I tell you that 
 he is connected with an old Eton friend of ours, 
 and deriving great benefit from that connection ; 
 you remember poor Sidney Branthwaite ?" 
 
 " To be sure. He and I were great friends at 
 Eton — somewhat in tlie same position of pride 
 and poverty. Of all the boys in the school we 
 two had the least pocket-money. Poor Branth- 
 waite! I lost sight of him afterward. HeM-ent 
 into the Church, got only a curacy, and died 
 young." 
 
 "And left a son, poorer than himself, who 
 married Frank Vance's sister." 
 
 " You don't say so. The Branthwaites were 
 of good old famih' ; what is Mr. Vance's ?" 
 
 "Respectable enough. Vance's father was 
 one of those clever men who have too many 
 strings to their bow. He, too, was a painter; 
 but he was also a man of letters, in a sort of a 
 way — had a share in a journal, in which he 
 ^\Tote Criticisms on the Fine Arts. A musical 
 composer, too. Rather a fine gentleman, I sus- 
 pect, with a wife who was rather a fine lady. 
 Their house was much frequented by artists and 
 literary men : old Vance, in short, was hospita- 
 ble — las wife extravagant. Believing that pos- 
 terity would do that justice to his pictures which 
 Ills contemporaries refused, Vance left to his 
 family no other pi'ovision. After selling his 
 pictures and paying his debts, there was just 
 
 enough left to bury him. Fortunately, Sir , 
 
 the great painter of that day, had aheady con- 
 ceived a liking to Frank Vance — then a mere 
 boy — who had shown genius from an infant, as 
 
 all true artists do. Sir took him into his 
 
 studio, and gave him lessons. It would have 
 
 been unlike Sir , who was open-hearted but 
 
 close-fisted, to give any thing else. But the boy 
 contrived to support his mother and sister. That 
 fellow, who is now as arrogant a stickler for the 
 dignity of art as you or my Lord Chancellor 
 may be for that of the bar, stooped then to deal 
 clandestinely with fancy-shops, and imitate Wat- 
 teau on fans. I have now two hand-screens that 
 he painted for a shop in Rathbone Place. I sup- 
 pose he may have got 10^\ for tbem, and now 
 any admirer of Frank's would give £100 apiece 
 for them." 
 
 " That is the true soul in which genius lodges, 
 and out of which fire springs," cried Darrell, 
 cordially. "Give me the fire that lurks in the 
 flint, and answers by light the stroke of the hard 
 steel. I'm glad Lionel has won a friend in 
 such a man. Sidney Branthwaitc's son married 
 Vance's sister — after Vance had won reputa 
 tion ?" 
 
 " No ; while Vance was still a boy. Youn^ 
 
 Arthur Branthwaite was an orphan. If he had 
 any living relations, they were too poor to assist 
 him. He wrote poetry much praised by the 
 critics (they deserve to be hanged, those critics !) 
 — scribbled, I suppose, in old Vance's journal; 
 saw Mary Vance a little before her father died ; 
 fell in love with her; and on the strength of a 
 volume of verse, in which the critics all solemnly 
 deposed to his surpassing riches — of imagina- 
 tion, rushed to the altar, and sacrificed a wife 
 to the Muses ! Those villainous critics will have 
 a dark account to render in the next world I 
 Poor Arthur Branthwaite I For the sake of our 
 old friend his father, I bought a copy of his 
 little volume. Little as the volume was, I could 
 not read it through." 
 
 "What! — below contempt?" 
 
 "On the contrary, above comprehension. All 
 poetry praised by critics nowadays is as hard to 
 understand as a hieroglyphic. I own a weakness 
 for Pope and common sense. I could keep up 
 with our age as far as Byron ; after him I M'as 
 thrown out. However, Arthur was declared by 
 the critics to be a great improvement on Byron 
 — more ' poetical in form' — more ' a;sthetically 
 artistic' — more 'objective' or 'subjective' (I am 
 sure I forget which, but it was one or the other, 
 nonsensical, and not English) in his views of 
 man and nature. Very possibly. All I know 
 is — I bought the poems, but could not read 
 them ; the critics read them, but did not buy. 
 All that Frank Vance could make by painting 
 hand-screens and fans and album scraps he 
 sent, I believe, to the poor poet ; but I fear it 
 did not suffice. Arthur, I suspect, must have 
 been publishing another volume on his own ac- 
 count. I saw a Monody on something or other, 
 by Arthur Branthwaite, advertised, and no doubt 
 Frank's fans and hand-screens must have melt- 
 ed into the printer's bill. But the Monody nev- 
 er appeared : the poet died, his young wife too. 
 Frank Vance remains a bachelor, and sneers at 
 gentility — abhors poets — is insulted if you prom- 
 ise posthumotis fame — gets the best price he 
 can for his pictures — and is proud to be thought 
 a miser. Here we are at his door." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Ilomantic Love pathologically regarded by Frank Vance 
 and Alban Morley. 
 
 Vaxce was before his easel, Lionel looking 
 over his shoulder. Never was Darrell more 
 genial than he was that day to Frank Vance. 
 The two men took to each other at once, and 
 talked as familiarly as if the retired la\\yer and 
 the rising painter were old fellow-travelers along 
 the same road of life. Darrell was really an 
 exquisite judge of art, and his praise was the 
 more gratifying because discriminating. Of 
 course he gave the due meed of panegyric to 
 the female heads, by which the artist had become 
 so renowned. Lionel took his kinsman aside, 
 and, with a mournful expression of face, showed 
 him the portrait by which all those varying ideals 
 had been suggested — the poi'trait of Sophy as 
 Titania. 
 
 "And that is Lionel," said the artist, pointing 
 to the rough outline of Bottom. 
 
 "Pish!" said Lionel, angrily. Then turning 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 203 
 
 to DaiTcU— "This is the Sophy we have failed 
 to find, Sir — is it not a lovely face ?"' 
 
 *'It is, indeed," said Darrell. "But that 
 nameless refinement in expression — that arch 
 vet tender elegance in the simple, watchful atti- 
 tude — these, Mr. Vance, must be your additions 
 to the original." 
 
 '•No, I assure you. Sir," said Lionel; "be- 
 sides that elegance, that refinement, there was 
 a delicacy in "the look and air of that child, to 
 which Vance failed to do justice. Own it, 
 Frank." 
 
 "Reassure yourself, Mr. Darrell, " said Vance, 
 " of any fears" which Lionel's enthusiasm might 
 excite.' He tells me that Titania is in Amer- 
 ica; vet, after all, I would rather he saw her 
 ao-ain — no cure for love at first sight like a 
 second sight of the beloved object after a long 
 absence." 
 
 Daerel (somewhat crravely). " A hazardous 
 remedy — it might kill/if it did not cure."' 
 
 CoLOXEL MoKLEY. " I suspect, from Vance's 
 manner, that he has tested its efficacy on his 
 own person." 
 
 Lionel. "Xo, mon Colonel — I'll answer for 
 Vance. 27einlove! Never." 
 
 Vance colored — gave a touch to the nose of a 
 Roman senator in the famous classical picture 
 which he was then painting for a merchant at 
 Manchester — and made no reply. Darrell looked 
 at the artist -with a sharp and searching glance. 
 
 Colonel !Moeley. ' • Then all the more credit 
 to Vance for his intuitive perception of philo- 
 sophical truth. Suppose, my dear Lionel, that 
 we light, one idle day, on a beautiful novel, a 
 glowing romance — suppose that, by chance, we 
 are torn from the book in the middle of the in- 
 terest — we remain under the spell of the illusion 
 — we recall the scenes — we try to guess what 
 should have been the sequel — we think that no 
 romance ever was so captivating, simply because 
 we were not allowed to conclude it. Well, if, 
 some years aftemard, the romance fall again 
 in our way, and we open at the page where Ave 
 left oft', we cry, in the maturity of our sober 
 judgment, 'ZSfawkish stuft"! — is this the same 
 thing that I once thought so beautiful? — how 
 one's tastes do alter !' " 
 
 Darrell. "Does it not depend on the age 
 in which one began the romance?" 
 
 Lionel. " Rather, let me think. Sir, upon the 
 real depth of the interest — the true beauty of 
 the — " 
 
 Vance (interrupting). "Heroine? — Not at 
 all, Lionel. I once fell in love — incredible as 
 it may seem to you — nine years ago last Janu- 
 ary. I was too poor then to aspire to any young 
 lady's hand — therefore I did not tell my love, 
 but 'let concealment,' et cetera, et cetera. She 
 went away with her mamma to complete her 
 education on the Continent. I remained 'Pa- 
 tience on a monument.' She was always before 
 my eyes — the slenderest, shyest creature — ^just 
 eighteen. I never had an idea that she could 
 grow any older, less slender, or less shy. Well, 
 four years afterward (just before we made our 
 excursion into Surrey, Lionel), she returned to 
 England, still unmarried. I went to a party at 
 which I knew she was to be — saw her, and was 
 cured." 
 
 " Bad case of small-pox, or what ?" asked the 
 Colonel, smiling. 
 
 Vance. " Nay ; every body said she was ex- 
 tremely improved — that was the mischief — she 
 had improved herself out of my fancy. I had 
 been faithful as wax to one settled impression, 
 and when I saw a fine, full-formed, young 
 Frenchified lady, quite at her ease, armed with 
 eye-glass and bouquet and bustle, away went 
 my dream of the slim blushing maiden. The 
 Colonel is quite right, Lionel ; the romance 
 once suspended, 'tis a haunting remembrance 
 till thrown again in our way, but complete dis- 
 illusion if we try to renew it ; though I swear 
 that in my case the interest was deep, and the 
 heroine improved in her beauty. So with you 
 and that dear little creature. See her again, 
 and you'll tease me no more to give you that 
 portrait of Titania at watch over Bottom's soft 
 slumbers. All a Mid-summer Night's Dream, 
 Lionel. Titania fades back into the arms of 
 Oberon, and would not be Titania if you could 
 make her — Mrs. Bottom." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Even Colonel ilorley, knowing every body and every 
 thing, is puzzled when it comes to the plain question 
 — '• What will he do with it ":" 
 
 "I AM delighted with Vance," said Darrell, 
 when he and the Colonel were again walking 
 arm in arm. '"His is not one of those meagre 
 intellects which have nothing to spare out of the 
 professional line. He has humor. Humor — 
 strength's rich superfluity." 
 
 " I like your definition," said the Colonel. 
 "And humor in Vance, though fantastic, is not 
 without subtlety. There was much real kind- 
 ness in his obvious design to quiz Lionel out of 
 that silly enthusiasm for — " 
 
 "For a pretty child, reared up to be a stroll- 
 ing player," interrupted Darrell. "Don't call 
 it silly enthusiasm. I call it chivalrous com- 
 passion. Were it other than compassion, it 
 would not be enthusiasm, it would be degrada- 
 tion. But do you believe, then, that Vance's 
 confession of first love, and its cure, was but a 
 whimsical invention?' 
 
 Colonel Morley. "Not so. Many a grave 
 truth is spoken jesting^ly. " I have no doubt 
 that, allowing for the pardonable exaggeration 
 of a raconteur, Vance was narrating an episode 
 in his own life." 
 
 Darrell. "Do you think that a grown man, 
 who has ever really felt love, can make a jest of 
 it, and to mere acquaintances ?" 
 
 Colonel Morley. "Yes; if he be so thor- 
 oughly cured that he has made a jest of it to 
 himself. And the more lightly he speaks of it, 
 perhaps the more solemnly at one time he felt 
 it. Levity is his revenge on the passion that 
 fooled him." 
 
 Darrell. "You are evidently an experienced 
 philosopher in the lore of such folly. ' ConsuU 
 tus insapientis snpienticE.' Yet I can scarcely be- 
 lieve that vou have ever been in love." 
 
 "Yes, I have," said the Colonel, bluntly, 
 " and very often ! Every body at my age has — 
 except yourself. So like a man's obser^-ation, 
 that," co'ntinued the Colonel, with much tartness. 
 "No man ever thinks another man capable of 
 a profound and romantic sentiment 1" 
 
20i 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Darrell. " True ; I own my shallow fault, 
 and beg you ten thousand pardons. So then 
 you really believe, from your own experience, 
 that there is much in Vance's theory and your 
 own very happy illustration ? Could we, after 
 many years, turn back to the romance at the 
 page at which we left off', we should — " 
 
 Colonel Morley. " Not care a straw to read 
 on! Certainly, half the peculiar charm of a 
 person beloved must be ascribed to locality and 
 circumstance." 
 
 Darrell. " I don't quite understand you." 
 
 Colonel Morley. "Then, as you liked my 
 former illustration, I will explain myself by an- 
 other one, more homely. In a room to which 
 you are accustomed, there is a piece of furniture, 
 or an ornament, which so exactly suits the place, 
 that you say — ' The prettiest thing I ever saw !' 
 You go away — you return — the j)iece of furni- 
 ture or the ornament has been moved into an- 
 other room. You see it there, and you say — 
 'Bless me, is that the thing I so much admired !' 
 The strange room does not suit it — losing its 
 old associations and accessories, it has lost its 
 charm. So it is with human beings — seen in 
 one place, tlie place would be nothing without 
 them — seen in another, tlie place without them 
 would be all the better !" 
 
 Darrell (musingly). " There are some puz- 
 zles in life which resemble the riddles a child 
 asks you to solve. Your imagination can not 
 descend low enough for the right guess. Yet, 
 when you are told, you are obliged to say — 'How 
 clever !' Man lives to learn." 
 
 " Since you have arrived at that conviction," 
 replied Colonel Morle^^, amused by liis friend's 
 gravity, "I hope that you will rest satisfied with 
 the experiences of Vance and myself; and that 
 if you have a mind to propose to one of the 
 young ladies whose merits we have already dis- 
 cussed, you will not deem it necessary to try 
 what effect a prolonged abscHce might produce 
 on your good resolution." 
 
 "No!" said Darrell, with sudden animation. 
 " Before three days are over, my mind shall be 
 made up." 
 
 " Bravo ! — as to whom of the three you would 
 ask in mari'iage ?" 
 
 " Or as to the idea of ever marrying again. 
 Adieu. I am going to knock at that door." 
 
 " Mr. Vyvyan's ! Ah, is it so, indeed ? Veri- 
 ly, you are a true Dare-all." 
 
 "Do not be alarmed. I go afterward to an 
 exhibition with Lady Adela, and I dine with 
 the Carr Viponts. My choice is not yet made, 
 and my hand still free." 
 
 "His hand still free!" muttered the Colonel, 
 pursuing his walk alone. "Yes — but, three 
 days hence — What will he do with it ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 Guy Darren's Decision. 
 
 Guy Darrell returned liome from Carr Vi- 
 pont's dinner at a late hour. On his table was 
 a note from Lady Adela's father, cordially in- 
 viting Darrell to pass the next week at his coun- 
 try house. London was now emptying fast. 
 On the table-tray was a parcel, containing a 
 book which Darrell had lent to Miss Vyvyan 
 
 some weeks ago, and a note from herself. In 
 calling at her father's house that morning, he 
 had learned that Mr. Vyvyan had suddenly re- 
 solved to take her into Switzerland, with the 
 view of passing the next winter in Italy. The 
 room was filled with loungers of both sexes. 
 Darrell had staid but a short time. The leave- 
 taking had been somewhat formal — Flora un- 
 usually silent. He opened her note, and read 
 the first lines listlessly ; those that followed, 
 with a changing cheek and an earnest eye. He 
 laid down the note very gently, again took it up, 
 and reperused. Then he held it to the candle, 
 and it dropped from his hand in tinder. "The 
 innocent child," murmured he, with a soft pa- 
 ternal tenderness ; "x«he knows not what she 
 writes." He began to pace the room with his 
 habitual restlessness when in solitary thought — 
 often stopping — often sighing heavily. At 
 length his face cleared — his lips became firm- 
 ly set. He summoned his favorite servant. 
 "Mills," said he, "I shall leave town on horse- 
 back as soon as the sun rises. Put what I may 
 require for a day or two into the saddle-bags. 
 Possibly, however, I may be back by dinner-time. 
 Call me at five o'clock, and then go round to the 
 stables. I shall require no groom to attend me." 
 The next morning, while the streets were de- 
 serted, no houses as yet astir, but the sun bright, 
 the air fresh, Guy Dan-ell rode from his door. 
 He did not return the same day, nor the next, 
 nor at all. But, late in the evening of the sec- 
 ond day, his horse, reeking-hot and evidently 
 hard-ridden, stopped at the porch of Fawley 
 Manor-House ; and Darrell flung himself from 
 the saddle, and into Fairthorn's arms. "Back 
 again — back again — and to leave no more !" said 
 he, looking round ; " Spes et Fortuna valete .'" 
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 A Man's Letter — unsatisfactory and provoking as a 
 man's letters always are. 
 
 Guy Darrell to Colonel Morley. 
 
 Fawley Manou-Housh, August 19, IS — . 
 I HAVE decided, my dear Alban. I did not 
 take three days to do so, though the third day 
 may be just over ere you learn my decision. I 
 shall never marry again. I abandon that last 
 dream of declining years. My object in return- 
 ing to the London world was to try whether I 
 could not find, among the fairest and most at- 
 tractive women that the world produces — at 
 least to an English eye — some one who could 
 inspire me with that singleness of affection 
 which could alone justify the hope that I might 
 win, in return, a wife's esteem and a contented 
 home. That object is now finally relinquished, 
 and with it all idea of resuming the life of cit- 
 ies. I might have re-entered a political career, 
 had I first secured to myself a mind sufficiently 
 serene and healthful for duties that need the 
 concentration of thought and desire. Such a 
 state of mind I can not secure. I have striven 
 for it ; I am battted. It is said that politics are 
 a jealous mistress — that they require the whole 
 man. The saying is not invariably true in the 
 application it commonly receives — that is, a pol- 
 itician may have some other employment of in- 
 tellect, which rather enlarges his powers than 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 205 
 
 distracts their political uses. Successful poli- 
 ticians have united with great parliamentary 
 toil and triumph legal occupations or literary or 
 learned studies. But politics do require that 
 the heart should be free, and at peace from all 
 more absorbing private anxieties — from the 
 gnawing of a memory or a care, which dulls 
 ambition and paralyzes energy. In this sense 
 politics do require the whole man. If I return- 
 ed to politics now, 1 should fail to them, and 
 they to me. I feel that the brief interval be- 
 tween me and the grave has need of repose : I 
 find that repose here. I have therefore given 
 the necessary orders to dismiss the pompous 
 retinue wliich I left behind me, and instructed 
 ray agent to sell my London house for whatever 
 it mtiy fetch. I was unwilling to sell it before 
 — unwilling to abandon the hope, however faint, 
 that I might yet regain strength for action. 
 But the very struggle to obtain such strength 
 leaves me exhausted more. 
 
 You may believe thaylt is not without a pang 
 — less of pride than ot remorse — that I resign 
 unfulfilled the object toward which all my ear- 
 lier life was so resolutely shaped. The house I 
 had promised my father to refound dies to dust 
 in my grave. To my father's blood no heir to 
 my wealth can trace. Yet it is a consolation to 
 think tjiat Lionel Haughton is one on whom my 
 father would have smiled approvingly. At my 
 death, therefore, at least the old name will not 
 die : Lionel Haughton will take and be worthy 
 to bear it. Strange weakness of mine, you will 
 say ; but I can not endure the thought that the 
 old name should be quite blotted out of the 
 land. I trust that Lionel may early form a 
 suitable and happy marriage. Sure that he will 
 not choose ignobly, I impose no fetters on his 
 choice. 
 
 One word only on that hateful subject, con- 
 fided so tardily to your friendship, left so thank- 
 fully to your discretion. Now that I have once 
 more buried myself in Fawley, it is very unlike- 
 ly that the man it pains me to name will seek 
 me here. If he does, he can not molest me as 
 if I were in the London world. Continue, then, 
 I pray you, to leave him alone. And in adopt- 
 ing your own shrewd belief that, after all, there 
 is no such child as he pretends lo claim, my 
 mind becomes tranquilized on all that part of 
 my private griefs. 
 
 Farewell, old school-friend ! Here, so far as 
 I can foretell — here, where my life began, it re- 
 turns, when Heaven pleases, to close. Here I 
 could not ask you to visit me : what is rest to 
 me would be loss of time to you. But in my 
 late and vain attempt to re-enter that existence 
 in which you have calmly and wisely gathered 
 round yourself " all that should accompany old 
 age — honor, love, obedience, troops of friends" 
 — nothing so repaid the effort — nothing now so 
 pleasantly remains to recollection — as the brief 
 renewal of that easy commune which men like 
 me never know, save with those whose laughter 
 brings back to them a gale from the old play- 
 ground. " Vive, vale ,-" I will not add, " Sis 
 inemor mei." So many my obligations to your 
 kindness, that you will be forced to remember 
 me whenever you recall the nut " painful sub- 
 jects" of early friendship and lasting gratitude. 
 Eecall only those when reminded of 
 
 Guy Dakeell. 
 
 CHAPTER XVHL 
 
 I No coinage in circulation so fluctuates in value as the 
 I worth of a JIarriageable Man. 
 
 Colonel Morley was not surprised (that, we 
 know, he could not be, by any fresh experience 
 of human waywardness and caprice), but much 
 disturbed and much vexed by the unexpected 
 nature of Darrell's communication. Schemes 
 for Darrell's future had become plans of his oAvn. 
 Talk with his old school-fellow had, within the 
 last three months, entered into the pleasures of 
 his age. Darrell's abrupt and final renunciation 
 of this social world made at once a void in the 
 business of Alban's mind, and in the affections 
 of Alban's heart. And no adequate reason as- 
 signed for so sudden a flight and so morbid a 
 resolve ! Some tormenting remembrance — some 
 rankling grief— distinct from those of which Al- 
 ban was cognizant, those in which he had been 
 consulted, was implied but by vague and general 
 hints. But what was the remembrance of the 
 grief, Alban Morley, who knew every thing, was 
 quite persuaded that Darrell would never suffer 
 him to know. Could it be in any way connected 
 with those three young ladies to whom Darrell's 
 attentions had been so perversely impartial? 
 The Colonel did not fail to observe that to those 
 yoimg ladies Darrell's letter did not even allude. 
 Was it not possible that he had really felt for 
 one of them a deeper sentiment than a man ad- 
 vanced in years ever likes to own even to his 
 nearest friend — hazarded a proposal, and met 
 with a rebuff? If so, Alban conjectured the fe- 
 male culprit by whom the sentiment had been 
 inspired and the rebuff administered. "That 
 mischievous kitten, Flora Vyvyan," growled the 
 Colonel. " I always felt that she had the claws 
 of a tigress under that jxitte de velours J" Roused 
 by this suspicion, he sallied forth to call on the 
 Vyvyans. Mr. Vyvyan, a widower, one of those 
 quiet gentlemanlike men who sit much in the 
 drawing-room and like receiving morning vis- 
 itors, was at home to him. " So Darrell has 
 left town for tlie season," said the Colonel, 
 pushing straight to the point. 
 
 "Yes, " said Mr. Vyvyan. " I had a note from 
 him this morning, to say he had renounced all 
 hojie of — " 
 
 "What?" cried the Colonel. 
 
 "Joining us in Switzerland. I am so soriy. 
 Flora still more sorry. She is accustomed to 
 have her own way, and she had set her heart on 
 hearing Darrell read ' Manfred' in sight of the 
 Jung Fran!" 
 
 '• Um," said the Colonel. "What might be 
 sport to her might be death to him. A man at 
 his age is not too old to fall in love with a young 
 lady of hers. Btit he is too old not to be ex- 
 tremely ridiculous to such a young lady if he 
 does." 
 
 "Colonel Morley — Fie!" cried an angry 
 voice behind him. Flora had entered the room 
 unobserved. Her face Avas much flushed, and 
 her eyelids looked as if tears had lately swelled 
 beneath them, and were swelling still. 
 
 "What have I said to merit your rebuke?" 
 asked the Colonel, composedly. 
 
 " Said ! Coupled the thought of ridicule with 
 the name of Mr. Darrell !" 
 
 " Take care, Morley," said Mr. Vvvyan, 
 laughing. "Flora is positively superstitious in 
 
206 
 
 WHAT WELL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 her respect for Guy Darrell ; and you can not 
 offend her more than by implying that he is 
 mortal. Nay, child, it is very natural. Quite 
 apart from his fame, there is something in that 
 man's familiar talk, or rather, ])erha])s, in the 
 very sound of his voice, which makes most other 
 society seem flat and insipid. I feel it myself. 
 And when Flora's young admirers flutter and 
 babble round her — ^just after Darrell has quit- 
 ted his chair beside her — they seem very poor 
 company. I'm sure, Flora," continued Vyvyan, 
 kindly, " that the mere acquaintance of such a 
 man has done you a great deal of good ; and I 
 am now in great hopes that, whenever you mar- 
 ry, it will be a man of sense." 
 
 " Urn !" again said the Colonel, eying Flora 
 aslant, but with much attention. " How I wish, 
 for my friend's sake, that he was of an age which 
 inspired Miss Vyvyan with less — veneration !" 
 
 Flora turned her back on the Colonel, look- 
 ing out of the window, and her small foot beat- 
 ing the ground with nervous irritation. 
 
 "It was given out that Darrell intended to 
 marry again," said Mr. Vyvyan. "A man of 
 that sort requires a very superior, highly-edu- 
 cated woman ; and if Miss Carr Vijiont had 
 been a little more of his age she would have 
 just suited him. But I am patriot enough to 
 hope that he will remain single, and have no 
 wife but his country, like Mr. Pitt." 
 
 The Colonel having now satisfied his curiosi- 
 ty, and assured himself that Darrell was, there 
 at least, no rejected suitor, rose and approached 
 Flora to make peace, and to take leave. As he 
 held out his hand he was struck with the change 
 in a countenance usually so gay in its aspect — 
 it spoke of more than dejection, it betrayed dis- 
 tress ; when she took his hand she retained it, 
 and looked into his ej'es wistfully ; evidently 
 there was something on her mind which she 
 wished to express, and did not know how. At 
 length she said in a whisper, *' You are IMr. 
 Darrell's most intimate friend ; I have heard 
 him say so. Shall you see him soon?" 
 
 "I fear not ; but why ?" 
 
 "Why? you, his friend; do j'ou not perceive 
 that he is not happy ? I, a mere stranger, saw 
 it at the first. You should cheer and comfort 
 him ; you have that right — it is a noble privi- 
 lege." 
 
 "My dear young lady," said the Colonel, 
 touched, "you have a better heart than I 
 thought for. It is true Darrell is not a happy 
 man ; but can you give me any message that 
 might cheer him more than an old bachelor's 
 commonplace exhortations to take heart, forget 
 the rains of yesterday, and hope for some gleam 
 of sun on the morrow?" 
 
 " No," said Flora, sadly, " it would be a pre- 
 sumption indeed in me to affect the consoler's 
 part ; but — (her li])S quivered) — but if I may 
 judge by his letter, I may never see him again." 
 
 "His letter! He has written to you, then, as 
 well as to your father ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Flora, confused and coloring, " a 
 few lines in answer to a silly note of mine ; yes, 
 tell him that I shall never forget his kind coun- 
 sels, his delicate, indulgent construction of — of 
 — in short, tell him my father is right, and that 
 I shall be better and wiser all my life for the 
 few short weeks in which I have known Guy 
 Darrell." 
 
 " What secrets are you two whispering there ?" 
 asked Mr. Vyvyan from his easy chair. 
 
 " Ask her ten years hence," said the Colonel, 
 as he retreated to the door. "The fairest leaves 
 in the flower are the last that the bud will dis- 
 close." 
 
 From Mr. Vyvyan the Colonel went to Lord 
 's. His lordship had also heard from Dar- 
 rell that morning; Darrell declined the invita- 
 tion to Hall ; business at Fawley. Lady 
 
 Adela had borne the disappointment with her 
 wonted serenity of temper, and had gone out 
 shopping. Darrell had certainly not offered his 
 hand in that quarter ; had he done so — whether 
 refused or accepted — all persons yet left in Lon- 
 don would have hea^d the news. Thence the 
 Colonel repaired to Carr Vipont's. Lady Seli- 
 na was at home, and exceedingly cross. Carr 
 had been astonished by a letter from Mr. Dar- 
 rell, dated Fawley — left town for the season 
 without even calling to take leave — a most ec- 
 centric man. She feared his head was a little 
 touched — that he knew it, but did not like to 
 own it — perhaps the doctors had told him he 
 must keep quiet, and not excite himself with 
 politics. "I had thought," said Lady Selina, 
 " that he might have felt a growing attachment 
 for Honoria ; and, considering the disparity of 
 years, and that Honoria certainly might marry 
 any one, he was too proud to incur the risk of 
 refusal. But I will tell you in confidence, as a 
 relation and dear friend, that Honoria has a 
 very superior mind, and might have overlooked 
 the mere age : congenial tastes — you under- 
 stand. But on thinking it all over, I begin to 
 doubt whether tliat be the true reason for his 
 running away in this wild sort of manner. My 
 maid tells me that his house-steward called to 
 say that the establishment was to be broken up. 
 That looks as if he had resigned London for 
 good ; just, too, when, Carr says, the crisis, so 
 long put off, is siu-e to burst on us. I'm quite 
 sick of clever men — one never knows how to 
 trust them ; if they are not dishonest, they are 
 eccentric ! I have just been telling Honoria 
 that clever men are, after all, the most tiresome 
 husbands. Well, what makes yon so silent? 
 What do you say ? Why don't you speak ?" 
 
 " I am slowly recovering from my shock," 
 said the Colonel. " So Darrell shirks the 
 CRISIS, and has not even hinted a preference 
 for Honoria, the very girl in all London that 
 would have made him a safe, rational compan- 
 ion. I told him so, and he never denied it. 
 But it is a comfort to think he is no loss. Old 
 monster!" 
 
 "Nay," said Lady Selina, mollified by so 
 much sympathy, "I don't say he is no loss. 
 Honestly speaking — between ourselves — I think 
 he is a very great loss. An alliance between 
 him and Honoria M'ould have united all the Vi- 
 pont influence. Lord JMontfort has the greatest 
 confidence in Darrell ; and if this crisis comes, 
 it is absolutely necessary for the Vipont interest 
 that it should find somebody who can speak. 
 Really, my dear Colonel Morley, you who have 
 s)ich an influence over this very odd man 
 sliould exert it now. One must not be over- 
 nice in times of crisis ; the country is at stake, 
 Cousin Alban." 
 
 "I will do my best," said the Colonel; "I 
 am quite aware that an alliance which would 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 207 
 
 secure Darrell's talents to the House of Vipont, 
 and the House of Vipont to Darrell's talents, 
 would — but 'tis no use talking, we must not sac- 
 rifice Honoria even on the altar of her country's 
 interest I" 
 
 " Sacrifice ! Xonsense ! The man is not 
 young, certainly ; but then, what a grand creat- 
 ure — and so clever!" 
 
 "Clever — yes! But that was your very ob- 
 jection to him five minutes ago." 
 
 "I forgot the crisis. One don't want clever 
 men every day, bat there are days when one 
 does want them !" 
 
 "I envy you that aphorism. But from what 
 you now imply, I fear that Honoria may have 
 allowed her thoughts to settle upon what may 
 never take place; and, if so, she may fret." 
 
 *' Fret I a daughter of mine fret I — and of all 
 my daughters, Honoria ! A girl of the best-dis- 
 ciplined mind I Fret! what a word — vulgar!" 
 
 Colonel Morley. " So it is ; I blush for it ; 
 but let us understand each other. If Dasrell 
 proposed for Honoria, yqn think, ambition apart, 
 she would esteem him sufficiently for a decided 
 preference." 
 
 Ladt Selixa. " If that be his doubt, reassure 
 him. He is shy ; men of genius r.re ; Honoria 
 u-oulj esteem him! Till he has actually pro- 
 posed, it would compromise her to say more 
 even to you." 
 
 Colonel Morlet. "And if that be not the 
 doubt, and if I ascertain that Dan-ell has no 
 idea of proposing, Honoria would — " 
 
 Lady Selina. " Despise him. Ah, I see by 
 your countenance that you think I should pre- 
 pare her. Is it so, frankly ?" 
 
 Colonel MoELEY. " Frankly, then. I think 
 Guy Darrell, like many other men, has been so 
 long making up his mind to marry again that 
 he has lost the right moment, and will never 
 find it." 
 
 Lady Selina smells at her vinaigrette, and re- 
 plies in her softest, affectedest, civilest, 'and 
 crushingest manner — 
 
 " Poor— DEAR— OLD IIAN!" 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Man is not permitted, with ultimate impunity, to exas- 
 perate the envies, and insult the miseries of those 
 around him, by a systematic perseverance in willful — 
 Celibacy. In vain may he scheme, in the marriage 
 of injured friends, to provide arm-chairs, and foot- 
 stools, and prattling babies for the luxurious delecta- 
 tion of his indolent age. The avenging Eumenides 
 (being themselves ancient virgins neglected; shall 
 humble his insolence, baffle his projects, and condemn 
 his declioing years to the horrors of solitude— rarely 
 even wakening his poul to the grace of repentance. 
 
 The Colonel, before returning home, dropped 
 into the Clubs, and took care to give to Darrell's 
 sudden disappearance a plausible and common- 
 place construction. The season was just over. 
 Darrell had gone to the country. The town 
 establishment was broken up, because the house 
 in Carlton Gardens was to be sold. Darrell did 
 not like the situation — found the air relaxing — 
 Park Lane or Grosvenor Square were on higher 
 ground. Besides, the stair-case was bad for a 
 house of such pretensions — not suited to large 
 parties. Next season Darrell might be in a 
 position when he would have to give large par- 
 
 I ties, etc., etc. As no one is inclined to suppose 
 that a man will retire from public life just when 
 \ he has a chance of office, so the Clubs took 
 Alban Morley "s remarks unsuspiciously, and 
 ; generally agreed that Darrell showed great tact 
 , in absenting himself from town during the tran- 
 j sition state of poUtics that always precedes a 
 I CRISIS, and that it was quite clear that he cal- 
 culated on playing a great part when the crisis 
 ■ was over, by finding his house had grown too 
 , small for him. Thus paving the way to Dar- 
 rell's easy return to the world, shouldhe repent 
 of his retreat (a chance which Alban bv no 
 means dismissed from his reckoning), the Col- 
 onel returned home to find his nephew George 
 awaiting him there. The scholarly clergyman 
 had ensconced himself in the back drawing- 
 room, fitted up as a library, and was making 
 free with the books. " What have you there, 
 George?" asked the Colonel, after shaking him 
 by the hand. "You seemed quite absorbed in 
 its contents, and would not have noticed mv 
 presence but for Gip's bark." 
 
 " A volume of poems I never chanced to meet 
 before. Full of true genius." 
 
 "Bless me, poor Arthur Branthwaite's poems. 
 And you were positively reading those — not in- 
 duced to do so by respect for his father ? — Could 
 you make head or tail of them ?" 
 
 "There is a class of poetiy which displeases 
 middle age by the very attributes which render 
 it charming to the young ; for each generation 
 has a youth with idiosyncrasies peculiar to it- 
 self, and a peculiar poetry by which those idio- 
 syncrasies are expressed." 
 
 Here George was beginning to grow meta- 
 physical, and somewhat German, when his un- 
 cle's face assumed an expression which can only 
 be compared to that of a man who dreads a very 
 severe and long operation. George humanely 
 hastened to relieve his mind. 
 
 "But I will not bore you at present." 
 "Thank you," said the Colonel, brightening 
 np. 
 
 "Perhaps you will lend me the book. I am 
 going down to Lady Montfort's by-and-by, and 
 I can read it by the way." 
 
 "Yes, I will lend it to you till next season. 
 Let me have it again then, to put on the table 
 when Frank Vance comes to breakfast with me. 
 The poet was his brother-in-law; and though, 
 for that reason, poets and poetry are a sore sub- 
 ject with Frank, yet, the last" time he break- 
 fasted here, I felt, by the shake of his hand in 
 parting, that he felt pleased by a mark of re- 
 spect to all that is left of poor Arthur Branth- 
 waite. So you are going to Lady Montfort? 
 Ask her why she cuts me !" 
 
 " My dear uncle ! You know how secluded 
 her life is at present ; but she has charged me 
 to assure you of her unalterable regard for you : 
 and whenever her health and spirits are some- 
 what more recovered, I have no doubt that she 
 will ask you to give her the occasion to make 
 that assurance in person." 
 
 Colonel Morley. " Can her health and 
 spirits continue so long affi^cted by grief for the 
 loss of that distant acquaintance whom the law 
 called her husband?" 
 
 George. " She is very far from well, and her 
 spirits are certainly much broken. And now, 
 uncle, for the little favor I came to ask. Since 
 
208 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 you presented me to Mr. Darrell, he kiudly sent 
 me two or three invitations to dinner, which my 
 frequent absence from town would not allow me 
 to accept. I ought to call on him; and, as I 
 feel ashamed not to have done so before, I wish 
 you would accompany me to his house. One 
 happy word from you would save me a relapse 
 into stutter. When I want to apologize, I al- 
 ways stutter." 
 
 '•Darrell has left town," said the Colonel, 
 roughly; "you have missed an opportunity that 
 will never occur again. The most charming 
 companion ; an intellect so manly, yet so sweet I 
 I shall never find such another." And for the 
 first time in thirty years a tear stole to Alban 
 INIorley's eye. 
 
 George. "When did he leave town?" 
 
 Colonel ?.Iorley. "Three days ago." 
 
 George. "Three days ago I and for the Con- 
 tinent again ?" 
 
 Colonel Morlet. "No, for the Hermitage. 
 George, I have such a letter from him! You 
 know how many years he has been absent from 
 the world. When, this year, he reappeared, he 
 and I grew more intimate than we had ever 
 been since we had left school ; for though the 
 same capital held us before, he was then too 
 occupied for much familiarity with an idle man 
 like me. But just when I was intertwining what 
 is left of my life with the bright threads of his, 
 be snaps the web asunder ; he quits this London 
 world again ; says he will return to it no more." 
 
 George. "Yet I did hear that he proposed 
 to renew his parliamentary career; nay, that he 
 was about to form a second marriage with Ho- 
 noria Vipont !" 
 
 Colonel Morlet. "'Mere gossij:i — not true. 
 No, he will never again marry. Tliree days 
 ago I thought it certain that he would — certain 
 that I should find for my old age a nook in his 
 home — the easiest chair in his social circle; 
 that my daily newspaper would have a fresh in- 
 terest in the praise of his name or the report 
 of his speech ; that I should walk proudly into 
 White's, sure to hear there of Guy Darrell ; 
 that I should keep from misanthropical rust my 
 dry knowledge of life, planning shrewd pane- 
 gyrics to him of a young, happy wife, needing 
 all his indulgence — panegyrics to her of the 
 high-minded, sensitive man, claiming tender 
 respect and delicate soothing; that thus, day 
 by day, I should have made more pleasant the 
 home in which I should have planted myself, 
 and found in his children boys to lecture and 
 girls to spoil. Don't be jealous, George. I like 
 your wife, I love your little ones, and you will 
 have all I have to leave. But to an old bache- 
 lor, who would keep young to the last, there is 
 no place so sunny as the hearth of an old school- 
 friend. But my house of cards is blown down 
 — talk of it no more — 'tis a painful subject. 
 You met Lionel Haughton here the last time you 
 called — how did you like him ?" 
 
 "Very much, indeed." 
 
 "Well, then, since you can not call on Dar- 
 rell, call on him." 
 
 George (with animation). " It is just what I 
 meant to do — what is his address ?" 
 
 Colonel Morlet. " There is his card — take 
 it. He was here last night to inquire if I knew 
 where Darrell had gone, though no one in his 
 household, nor I either, suspected till this morn- 
 
 ing that Darrell had left town for good. You 
 will find Lionel at home, for I sent him word 
 I would call. But really I am not up to it now. 
 Tell him from me that ^Ir. Darrell will not re- 
 turn to Carlton Gardens this season, and is gone 
 to Fawley. At present Lionel need not know- 
 more — you understand ? And now, my dear 
 George, good-day." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Each generation has its own critical canons in poeti*y as 
 well as in political creeds, financial systems, or what- 
 pver other changeable matters of taste are called "Set- 
 tled QLiestions" and " Fixed Opinions." 
 
 George, musing 'fiiuch over al! that his un- 
 cle had said respecting Darrell, took his way to 
 Lionel's lodgings. The young man received 
 him with the cordial greeting due from Dar- 
 rell's kinsman to Colonel Morley's nephew, but 
 teippered by the respect no less due to the dis- 
 tinction and the calling of the eloquent preacher. 
 
 Lionel was perceptibly atT'ected by learning 
 that Darrell had thus suddenly returned to the 
 gloomy beech-woods of Fawley ; and he evinced 
 his anxious interest in his benefactor with so 
 much spontaneous tenderness of feeling, that 
 George, as if in sympathy, warmed into the 
 same theme. " I can well conceive," said he, 
 "your aftection for Mr. Darrell. I remember, 
 when I was a boy, how powerfully he impressed 
 me, though I saw but little of him. He was 
 then in the zenith of his career, and had but 
 few moments to give to a boy like me ; but the 
 ring of his voice and the flash of his eye sent 
 me back to school, dreaming of fame, and in- 
 tent on prizes. I spent part of one Easter va- 
 cation at his house in town ; he bade his son, 
 who was my school-fellow, innte me." 
 
 Lionel. " You knew his son ? How Mr. Dar- 
 rell has felt that loss !" 
 
 George. " Heaven often vails its most provi- 
 dent mercy in what to man seems its sternest 
 inflictions. That poor boy must have changed 
 his whole nature, if his life had not to a fatlier, 
 like Mr. Darrell, occasioned grief sharper than 
 his death." 
 
 Lionel. "You amaze me. ilr. DaiTcll spoke 
 of him as a boy of great promise." 
 
 George. " He had that kind of energy which 
 to a father conveys the idea of promise, and 
 which might deceive those older than himself 
 —a fine bright-eyed bold-tongued boy, with just 
 enough awe of his father to bridle his worst 
 qualities before him." 
 
 Lionel. " What were those?" 
 
 George. " Headstrong arrogance — relent- 
 less cruelty. He had a pride which would have 
 shamed his father out of pride, had Gu}' Dar- 
 rell detected its nature — purse pride I I re- 
 member his father said to me with a half-laugh, 
 ' My boy must not be galled and mortified as I 
 was every hour at school — clothes patched and 
 pockets empty.' And so, out of mistaken kind- 
 ness, Mr. Darrell ran into the opposite extreme, 
 and the son was proud, not of his father's fame, 
 but of his father's money, and withal not gen- 
 erous, nor exactly extravagant, but using money 
 as power — power that allowed him to insult an 
 equal or to buy a slave. In a word, his nick- 
 name at schoolwas 'Sir Giles Overreach.' His 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 209 
 
 death was the result of his strange passion for 
 tonnenting others. He had a fag who could 
 not swim, and who had the greatest terror of 
 the M-ater ; and it was while driving this child 
 into the river out of his depth that cramp ssized 
 himself, and he was drowned. Yes, when I 
 think what that boy would have been as man, 
 succeeding to Darrell's wealth — and had Dar- 
 rell persevered (as he would, perhaps, if the boy 
 had lived) in his public career — to the rank and 
 titles he would probably have acquired and be- 
 queathed — again I say, in man's affliction is 
 often Heaven's mercy." 
 
 Lionel listened aghast. George continued, 
 "Would that I could speak as plainly to Mr. 
 Darrell himself! For we find constantly in the 
 world that there is no error that misleads us like 
 the eiTor that is half a truth wrenched from the 
 other half; and nowhere is such an error so 
 common as when man applies it to the judg- 
 ment of some event in his own life, and sepa- 
 rates calamity from consolation." 
 
 Lionel. '-True; buy who could have the 
 heart to tell a mourning father that his dead 
 son was worthless ?" 
 
 George. '*Alas, my young friend, the preach- 
 er must sometimes harden his own heart if he 
 would strike home to another's soul. But I am 
 not sure that I\Ir. Darrell would need so cruel a 
 kindness. I believe that his clear intellect must 
 have divined some portions of his son's nature 
 which enabled him to bear the loss with forti- 
 tude. And he did bear it bravely. But now, 
 Mr. Haughton, if you have the rest of the day 
 free, I am about to make you an unceremonious 
 proposition for its disposal. A lady who knew 
 Mr. Darrell when she was very j-ouug, has a 
 strong desire to form your acquaintance. She 
 resides on the banks of the Thames, a little 
 above Twickenham. I have promised to call on 
 her this evening. Shall we dine together at 
 Eichmond ? And afterward we can take a boat 
 to her villa.'' 
 
 Lionel at once accepted, thinking so little of 
 the lady that he did not even ask her name. He 
 was pleased to have a companion with whom he 
 could talk of Darrell. He asked but delay to vrrite 
 A few lines of aft'ectionate inquiry to his kinsman 
 at Fawley, and, while he wrote, George took out 
 Arthur Branthwaite's poems and resumed their 
 perusal. Lionel having sealed his letter, George 
 extended the book to him. " Here are some re- 
 markable poems by a brother-in-law of that re- 
 markable artist, Frank Vance." ' 
 " Frank Vance ! True, he had a brother-in- 
 law a poet. I admire Frank so much ; and, 
 though he professes to sneer at poetry, he is so 
 associated in my mind with poetical images 
 that I am prepossessed beforehand in favor of 
 all that brings him, despite himself, in connec- 
 tion with poetry." 
 
 " Tell me, then," said George, pointing out 
 a passage in the volume, '"what you think of ; 
 these lines." My good uncle woiild call them 
 gibberish. I am not sure that I can construe 
 them ; but when I was yom- age, I think I could | 
 — what say you?" ! 
 
 Lionel glanced. " Exquisite indeed.' nothing | 
 can be clearer ; they express exactly a sentiment 
 in myself that I could never explain." 
 
 "Just so," said George, laughing. "Youth 
 has a sentiment that it can not explain, and the 
 O 
 
 • sentiment is expressed in a form of poetrv that 
 
 middle age can not construe. It is true that 
 
 poetry of the grand order interests equally all 
 
 ages ; but the world ever throws out a poetry 
 
 not of the grandest ; not meant to be durable— 
 
 j not meant to be universal— but following the 
 
 I shifts and changes of human sentiment, and 
 
 ' just like those pretty sun-dials formed by flowers 
 
 which bloom to tell the hour, open their buds 
 
 to tell It, and, telling it, fade themselves from 
 
 time. 
 
 j Not listening to the critic, Lionel continued 
 I to read the poems, exclaiming, "How exqui- 
 site ! how true !" 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 In Life, as in Art, the Beautiful moves in curves. 
 They have dined. George Morley takes the 
 oars, and the boat cuts through the dance of 
 waves flushed by the golden sunset. Beautiful 
 river! which might furnish the English tale- 
 teller with legends wild as those culled on shores 
 licked by Hydaspes, and sweet as those which 
 Cephisus ever blended with the songs of night- 
 ingales and the breath of violets! But what 
 true English poet ever names thee, O Father 
 Thames! without a melodious tribute? And 
 what child ever whiled away summer noons 
 along thy grassy banks, nor hallowed tbv re- 
 membrance among the fairy days of hfe ? " 
 
 Silently Lionel bent overthe "side of the glid- 
 ing boat, his mind carried back to the same%oft 
 stream five years ago. How vast a space in his 
 short existence those five years seemed to fill I 
 And how far, how immeasurably far from the 
 young man, rich in the attributes of wealth, 
 armed with each weapon of distinction, seemed 
 I the hour when the boy had groaned aloud, 
 " Fortune is so far. Fame so impossible !" Far- 
 ther and farther yet than his present worldly 
 station from his past, seemed the image that 
 had first called forth in his breast the dreamy 
 sentiment, which the sternest of us in after-life 
 never utterly forget. Passions rage and vanish, 
 and when all their storms are gone, yea, it may 
 be, at the verge of the very grave, we look back 
 and see like a star the female face, even though 
 it be a child's, that first set us vaguely wonder- 
 ing at the charm in a human presence, at the 
 void in a smile withdrawn ! How many of us 
 could recall a Beatrice through the gaps of 
 ruined hope, seen, as by the Florentine, on the 
 earth a guileless infant, in the heavens a spirit 
 glorified! Yes — Laura was an affectation — 
 Beatrice a reality I 
 
 George's voice broke somewhat distastefully 
 on Lionel's reverie. " We near our destina- 
 tion, and you have not asked me even the name 
 of the lady to whom you are to render homage. 
 It is Lady Montfort, widow to the last Mar- 
 quis. You have no doubt heard 3Ir. Darrell 
 speak of her ?" 
 
 "Never Mr. Darrell — Colonel Morley often. 
 And in the world I have heard her cited as per- 
 haps the handsomest, and certainly the haughti- 
 est, woman in England." 
 
 " Xever heard Mr. Darrell mention her ! that 
 is strange, indeed," said George Morley, catch- 
 ing at Lionel's fii-st words, and nnnoticing his 
 
210 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 after comment. "She was mucli in his house 
 as a child, shared in his daughter's education." 
 
 " Perhaps for that very reason he shuns her 
 name. Never but once did I liear him allude 
 to his daughter; nor can I wonder at that, if it 
 be true, as I have been told by people who seem 
 to know very little of the particulars, that, while 
 3'et scarcely out of the nursery, she fled from his 
 house with some low adventurer — a Mr. Ham- 
 mond — died abroad the first year of that un- 
 happy marriage." 
 
 * ' Yes, that is tlie correct outline of the story ; 
 and as you guess, it explains why Mr. Darrell 
 avoids mention of one whom he associates with 
 his daughter's name, though, if you desire a 
 theme dear to Lady Montfort, you can select 
 none that more interests her grateful heart than 
 praise of the man who saved her mother from 
 penury, and secured to herself the accomplish- 
 ments and instruction which have been her chief 
 solace." 
 
 "Chief solace! Was she not happy with 
 Lord Montfort? What sort of man was he?" 
 
 "I owe to Lord Montfort the living I hold, 
 and I can remember the good qualities alone of 
 a benefactor. If Lady Montfort was not happy 
 with him, it is just to both to say that she never 
 complained. But there is much in Lady Mont- 
 fort's character which the Marquis apparently 
 failed to appreciate ; at all events, they had lit- 
 tle in common, and what was called Lady Mont- 
 fort's haughtiness was perhaps but the dignity 
 with which a woman of grand nature checks the 
 pity that would debase her — the admiration that 
 would sully — guards her own beauty, and pro- 
 tects her husband's name. Here we are. Will 
 you stay for a few minutes in the boat while I 
 go to prejiare Lady Montfort for your visit ?" 
 
 George leaped ashore, and Lionel remained 
 under the covert of mighty willows that dipped 
 their leaves into the wave. Looking through 
 the green interstices of the foliage, he saw at 
 the far end of the lawn, on a curving bank by 
 which the glittering tide shot oblique, a simple 
 arbor — an arbor like that from which he had 
 looked upon summer stars five years ago — not 
 so densely covered Avith the honey-suckle; still 
 the honey-suckle, recently trained there, was fast 
 creeping uj) the sides ; and through the trellis 
 of the wood-work and the leaves of the flower- 
 ing shrub he just caught a glimpse of some form 
 within — the white robe of a female form in a slow 
 gentle movement — tending, perhaps, the flow- 
 ers t'liat wreathed the arbor. Now it was still, 
 now it stirred again ; now it was suddenly lost 
 to view. Had the inmate left tlie arbor? Was 
 the inmate Lady Montfort? George Morley's 
 step had not passed in that direction. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A quiet scene — an unquiet heart. 
 
 Meanwhile, not far from the willow-bank 
 which sheltered Lionel, but far enough to be 
 out of her sight, and beyond her hearing, George 
 Morley found Lady Montfort seated alone. It 
 was a spot on which Milton might have placed 
 the Lady in " Comus" — a circle of the smooth- 
 est sward, ringed every where (except at one 
 opening which left the glassy river in full view) 
 
 with thick bosks of dark evergreens, and shrubs 
 of livelier verdure ; oak and chestnut backing 
 and overhanging all. Flowers, too, raised on 
 rustic tiers and stages ; a tiny fountain, shoot- 
 ing up from a basin starred with the water-lily; 
 a rustic table, on which lay books and the im- 
 plements of woman's graceful work ; so that the 
 j)lace had the home-look of a chamber, and 
 spoke that intense love of the out-door life which 
 abounds in our old poets, from Chancer down 
 to the day when minstrels, polished into wits, 
 took to Wills's Coffee-house, and the lark came 
 no more to bid bards 
 
 " Good-morrow 
 From his watch-tower in the skies." 
 
 But long since, thanli Heaven, we have again 
 got back the English poetry which chimes to 
 the babble of the waters and the riot of the 
 birds ; and just as that poetry is the freshest 
 which the out-door life has the most nourished, 
 so I believe that there is no surer sign of the 
 rich vitality which finds its raciest joys in 
 sources the most innocent, than the childlike 
 taste for that same out-door life. Whether 
 you take from fortune the palace or the cottage, 
 add to your chambers a hall in the courts of Na- 
 ture. Let the earth but give you room to stand 
 on ; well, look up. Is it nothing to have for 
 your roof-tree — heaven ? 
 
 Caroline Montfort (be her titles dropped) is 
 changed since we last saw her. The beauty is 
 not less in degree, but it has gained in one at- 
 tribute, lost in another ; it commands less, it 
 touches more. Still in deep mourning, the 
 sombre dress throws a paler shade over the 
 cheek. The eyes, more sunken beneath the 
 brow, appear larger, softer. There is that ex- 
 pression of fatigue which cither accompanies 
 impaired health or succeeds to mental struggle 
 and disquietude. But the coldness or pride of 
 mien which was peculiar to Cai'oline, as a wife, 
 is gone — as if in widowhood it was no longer 
 needed. A something like humility pre»'ailed 
 over the look and the bearing which had been 
 so tranquilly majestic. As at the api)roach of 
 her cousin she started from her seat, there was 
 a nervous tremor in her eagerness ; a rush of 
 color to the cheeks ; an anxious quivering of 
 the lip ; a flutter in the tones of the sweet, low 
 voice. " Well, George." 
 
 " Mr. Darrell is not in London ; he went to 
 Fawley three days ago ; at least he is thei'e 
 now. I have this from my uncle, to whom he 
 wrote ; and whom his departure has vexed and 
 saddened." 
 
 " Three days ago ! It must have been he, 
 then ! I was not deceived," murmured Caro- 
 line, and her eyes wandered round. 
 
 "There is no truth in the report you heard 
 that he was to marry Honoria Vipont. i\Iy un- 
 cle thinks he will never marry again, and im- 
 plies that he has resumed his solitary life at 
 Fawley with a resolve to quit it no more." 
 
 Lady Montfort listened silently, bending her 
 face over the fountain, and dropping amidst its 
 playful spray the leaves of a rose which she had 
 abstractedly plucked as George was speaking. 
 
 " I have, therefore, fulfilled your commission 
 so far," renewed George Morley. "I have as- 
 certained that Mr. Darrell is alive, and doubt- 
 less well ; so that it could not have been his 
 ghost that startled you amidst yonder thicket. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 211 
 
 But I have done more : I have forestalled the ized away. And I apprehend that it is this ex 
 wish you expressed to become acquainted with alting or etherealizing attribute of beautv to 
 young Haughton ; and your object in postpon- which all poets, all writers who would poetize 
 ing the accomplishment of that wish while Mr. the realities of life, have unconsciouslv render 
 Darrell himself was in town having ceased with ed homage, in the rank to which theV elevate 
 Mr. Barren's departure, I have ventured to bring what, stripped of such attribute would be but a 
 the young man with me. He is in the boat yon- gaudy idol of painted clav. If from the loftiest 
 der. AVill you receive him ? Or— but, my dear epic to the tritest novel a" heroine is often little 
 cousin, are you not too umvell to-day ? What more than a name to which we are called upon 
 is the matter? Oh, I can easily make an ex- to bow, as to a svmbol representing beauty- 
 case for you to Haughton. I will run and do and if we ourselve's (be we ever so indifferent 
 so." , , ^" °"^ common life to fair faces) feel that in 
 
 "^o, George, no. I am as well as usual. I art, at least, imagination needs an iman-e of the 
 will see Mr. Haughton. All that you have Beautiful— if, in a word, both poet and reader 
 heard of him, and have told me, interests me here would not be left excuseless it is because 
 so much in his fovor; and besides—" She did in our inmost hearts there is a sentiment which 
 not finish the sentence ; but, led away by some links the ideal of beautv with the Super=ensual 
 other thought, asked, " Sasa you no news of Wouldst thou, for instance, form -^ome vague 
 our missing friend ?" : conception of the shape worn bv a pure <=oul 
 
 "^one as yet; but in a few days I shall re- released? wouldst thou give to it the hkeness 
 new my search. Now, then, I will go for of an ugly hag? or wouldst thou not ransack 
 Haughton.' : all thy remembrances, all thv conceptions of 
 
 " Uo so ; and, George, when you have pre- forms most beauteous, to clothe the holv imac^e » 
 sented him to me, will you kindly join that dear. Do so : now bring it thus robed with 'the rich- 
 anxious child yonder ? She is in the new ar- est graces before thv mind's eve. Well <=eest 
 bor. or near it— her favorite spot. You must ! thou now the excuse"for poets in the rank they 
 sustain her spirits and give her hope. You can ; give to Beauty ? Seest thou now how hi^rh 
 not guess how eagerly she looks forward to your ; from the realm of the senses soars the mvsten- 
 visits, and how gratefully she relies on your ex- ! ous Archetype ? Without the idea of beauty, 
 eitions." I couldst thou conceive a form in which to clothe 
 
 George shook his head half-despondently, ! a soul that has entered heaven ? 
 and saying, briefly, " My exertions have estab- 
 lished no claim to her gratitude as yet," went 
 quickly back for Lionel. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV, 
 
 I Agreeable surprises are the perquisites of youth. 
 j If the beauty of Lady Montfort's countenance 
 ' took Lionel by surprise, still more might he won- 
 der at the winning kindness of her address — a 
 kindness of look, manner, voice, which seemed 
 to welcome him not as a chance acquaintance 
 but as a new-found relation. The first few 
 sentences, in giving them a subject of common 
 interest, introduced into their converse a sort 
 of confiding household familiarity. For Lionel, 
 ascribing Lady Montfort's gracious reception to 
 her early recollections of his kinsman, began at 
 once to speak of Guy Darrell ; and in a little 
 time they were walking over the turf, or through 
 the winding alleys of the garden, linking talk to 
 the same theme, she by question, he by answer 
 — he, charmed to expatiate — she, pleased to list- 
 en — and liking each other more and more, as 
 she recognized in all he said a bright young 
 heart, overflowing with grateful and proud af- 
 fection, and as he felt instinctively that he was 
 with one who sympathized in his enthusiasm — 
 one who had known the great man in his busy 
 day, ere the rush of his career had paused, whose 
 childhood had lent a smile to the great man's 
 home before childhood and smile had left it. 
 
 As they thus conversed, Lionel now and then, 
 in the turns of their walk, caught a glimpse of 
 George Morley in the distance, walking also 
 side by side with some young companion, and 
 ever as he caught that glimpse a strange restless 
 curiosity shot across his mind, and distracted it 
 even from praise of Guy Darrell. Who could 
 that be with George ? Was it a relation of Lady 
 Montfort's? The figure was not in moumint^; 
 its shape seemed slight and youthful — now it pass- 
 
 CHAPTER XXm. 
 
 Something, oa an old siibject, which has never been 
 said before. 
 
 Although Lionel was prepared to see a verv 
 handsome woman in Lady Montfort, the beauty 
 of her countenance took him by surprise. No 
 preparation by the eulogies of description can 
 lessen the effect which the first sight of a beau- 
 tiful object produces upon a mind to which re- 
 finement of idea gives an accurate and quick 
 comprehension of beauty. Be it a work of art, 
 a scene in nature, or, 'rarest of all, a human 
 face dinne, a beauty never before beheld strikes 
 us with hidden pleasure, like a burst of light ; 
 and it is a pleasure that elevates. The imagi- 
 nation feels itself richer by a new idea of ex- 
 cellence; for not only is real beautv whollv 
 original, baring no prototype, but its immediat'e 
 influence is spiritual. It' may seem strange — I 
 appeal to every observant artist if the assertion 
 be not true — but the first sight of the most per- 
 fect order of female beauty, rather than court- 
 ing, rebukes and strikes back every grosser in- 
 stinct that would alloy admiration. " There must 
 be some meanness and blemish in the beauty 
 which the sensualist no sooner beholds than he 
 covets. In the higher incarnation of the ab- 
 stract idea which runs through all our notions 
 of moral good and celestial purity — even if the 
 moment the eye sees the heart loves the image 
 — the love has in it something of the reverence 
 which it was said the charms of Virtue would 
 produce could her form be made visible ; nor 
 could mere human love obtrude itself till the 
 sweet awe of the first effect had been familiar- 
 
212 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 es bv that acacia-tree — standing for a moment 
 apart and distinct from George's shadow, but its 
 own outline dim in the deepening twilight — now 
 it has passed on, lost among the laurels. 
 
 Lionel and Lady IMontfort now came before 
 the windows of the house, which was not large 
 for the rank of the owner, but commodious, with 
 no pretense to architectural beauty — dark-red 
 brick, a centuiy and a half old — irregular; jut- 
 ting forth here, receding there, so as to produce 
 that depth of light and shadow which lends a 
 certain picturesque charm even to the least or- 
 nate buildings — a charm to which the Gothic 
 architecture owes half its beauty. Jessamine, 
 roses, woodbine, ivy, trained up the angles and 
 between the windows. Altogether the house 
 had that air of home which had been wanting 
 to the regal formality of Montfort Court. One 
 of the windows, raised above the ground by a 
 short winding stair, stood open. Lights had 
 seemingly just been brought into the room with- 
 in, and Lionel's eye was caught by the gleam. 
 
 Lady Montfort turned up the stair, and Lionel 
 followed her into the apartment. A harp stood 
 at one corner — not far from it the piano and 
 music-stand. On one of the tables there were 
 the implements of drawing — a sketch in water- 
 colors half finished. 
 
 "Our work-room," said Lady Montfort, with 
 a warm cheerful smile, and yet Lionel could see 
 that tears were in her eyes — "mine and my dear 
 pupil's. Yes, that harp is hers. Is he still fond 
 of music — I mean Mr. Darrell ?" 
 
 " Yes, though he does not care for it in crowds ; 
 but he can listen for hours to Fairthorn's lute. 
 You remember Mr. Fairthorn ?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, I remember him," answered Lady Mont- 
 fort, softly. " ilr. Darrell, then, likes his music 
 still ?" 
 
 Lionel here uttered an exclamation of more 
 than surprise. He had turned to examine the 
 water-color sketch — a rustic inn, a honey-suckle 
 arbor, a river in front, a boat yonder— just be- 
 gun. 
 
 "I know the spot!" he cried. "Did you 
 make the sketch of it?" 
 
 " I ? no ; it is hers — my pupil's — my adopted 
 child's." 
 
 Lionel's dark eyes turned to Lady Montfort's 
 wistfully, inquiringly ; they asked what his lips 
 could not presume to ask. " Your adopted child 
 — what is she? — who?" 
 
 As if answering to the eyes, Lady Montfort 
 said — 
 
 "Wait here a moment ; I wiU go for her." 
 She left him, descended the stairs into the 
 garden, joined George Morley and his compan- 
 ion ; took aside the former, whispered him, then 
 drawing the arm of tlie latter within her own, 
 led her back into the room, while George Mor- 
 ley remained in the garden, throwing himself on 
 a "bench, and gazing on the stars as they now 
 came forth, fast and frequent, though one by one. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 "Qaem Fors dienim cnnque dabit 
 Lucro appone." — Hoeat. 
 
 Lionel stood, expectant, in the centre of the 
 room, and as the two female forms entered the 
 
 lights were full upon their faces. That younger 
 face — it is she — it is she, the unforgotten — the 
 long lost. Instinctively, as if no years had rolled 
 between — as if she were still the little child, he 
 the boy who had coveted such a sister — he sprang 
 forward and opened his arms, and as suddenly 
 halted, dropped the arms to his side, blushing, 
 confused, abashed. She I that vagrant child I — 
 she 1 that form so elegant — that great peeress's 
 pupil — adopted daughter, she! the poor wander- 
 ing Sophy ! She '. — impossible ! 
 
 But her eyes, at first downcast, are now fixed 
 on him. She, too, starts — not forward, but in 
 recoil ; she, too, raises her arms, not to open, 
 but to press them to her breast ; and she, too, 
 as suddenly checks anJmpulse, and stands, like 
 him, blushing, confused, abashed. 
 
 " Yes," said Caroline Montfort, drawing Sophy 
 nearer to her breast — " yes, you will both forgive 
 me for the surprise. Yes, you do see before you, 
 grown up to become the pride of those who cher- 
 ish her, that Sophy who — " 
 
 " Sophy I" cried Lionel, advancing ; " it is 
 so, then ! I knew vou were no stroller's grand- 
 child." 
 
 Sophy drew up — "I am, I am his grandchild, 
 and as proud to be so as I was then." 
 
 " Pardon me, pardon me ; I meant to say that 
 he too was not what he seemed. You forgive 
 me," extending his hand, and Sophy's soft hand 
 fell into his forgivingly. 
 
 '•But he lives? is well? is here? is — " 
 Sophy burst into tears, and Lady Montfort 
 made a sign to Lionel to go into the garden 
 and leave them. Eeluctantly and dizzily, as 
 one in a dream, he obeyed, leaving the vagrant's 
 grandchild to be soothed in the fostering arms 
 of her whom, an hour or two ago, he knew but 
 by the titles of her rank and the reputation of 
 her pride. 
 
 It was not many minutes before Lady 3Iont- 
 fort rejoined him. 
 
 "You touched unawares," said she, "npon 
 the poor child's most anxious cause of sorrow. 
 Her grandfather, for whom h<2r affection is so 
 sensitively keen, has disappeared. I will speak 
 of that later; and if you wish, you shall be ta- 
 ken into our consultations. But — " she paused, 
 looked into his face — open, loyal face, face of 
 gentleman — with heart of man in its eyes, soul 
 of man on its brow ; — face formed to look up to 
 the stars which now lighted it — and laying her 
 hand lightly on his shoulder, resumed with hesi- 
 tating voice — "But I feel like a culprit in ask- 
 ing you what, nevertheless, I must ask, as an 
 imperative condition, if your visits here are to 
 be renewed — if your intimacy here is to be es- 
 tablished. And unless you comply with that 
 condition, come no more ; we can not confide in 
 each other." 
 
 "Oh, Lady ilontfort, impose any condition. 
 I promise beforehand." 
 
 " Not beforehand. The condition is this : in- 
 violable secrecy. You will not mention to any 
 one your visits here ; your introduction to me ; 
 your discovery of the stroller's grandchild in my 
 adopted daughter." 
 
 "Not to Mr. Darrell?" 
 "To him least of all; but this I add, it is for 
 IMr. Darrell's sake that I insist on such conceal- 
 ment ; and I trust the concealment will not be 
 long protracted." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 213 
 
 '•For "Mr. Darrell's sake!" 
 
 " For the sake of his happiness," cried Lady 
 Montfort, clasping her hands. "My debt to him 
 is larger far than yours ; and in thus appealing 
 to you, I scheme to pay back a part of it. Do 
 you trust me ?" 
 
 "Ido, Ido." 
 
 And from that evening Lionel Haughton be- 
 came the constant visitor in that house. 
 
 Two or three days afterward Colonel Morley, 
 quitting England for a German Spa at which 
 he annually recruited himself for a few weeks, 
 
 relieved Lionel from the embarrassment of any 
 questions which that shrewd observer might 
 otherwise have addressed to him. London it- 
 self was now empty. Lionel found a quiet lodg- 
 ing in the vicinity of Twickenham. And when 
 his foot passed along the shady lane through 
 yon wicket gate into that region of turf and 
 flowers, he felt as might have felt that famous 
 Minstrel of Ercildoun, when, blessed with the 
 privilege to enter Fairyland at will, the Rhymer 
 stole to the grassy hill-side, and murmured the 
 spell that unlocks the gates of Oberon. 
 
 BOOK VIII. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " A little fire burns up a great deal of corn." 
 
 Old Pkoveeb. 
 
 Gut Darrell resumed the thread of solitary 
 life at Fawley with a calm whicli was deeper in 
 its gloom than it had been before. The experi- 
 ment of return to the social world had failed. 
 The resolutions which had induced the experi- 
 ment were finally renounced. Five years near- 
 er to death, and the last hope that had flitted 
 across the narrowing desponding passage to the 
 grave, fallen like a faithless torch from his own 
 hand, and trodden out by his own foot. 
 
 It was peculiarly in the nature of Darrell to 
 connect his objects with posterity — to regard 
 eminence in the Present but as a beacon-height 
 from which to pass on to the Future the name 
 he had taken from the Past. All his early am- 
 bition, sacrificing pleasure to toil, had placed 
 its goal at a distance, remote from the huzzas 
 of bystanders ; and Ambition halted now, baftled 
 and despairing. Ciiildless, his line would per- 
 ish with himself — himself, who had so vaunted 
 its restoration in the land ! His genius was 
 childless also — it would leave behind it no off- 
 spring of the brain. By toil he had amassed 
 ample wealth; by talent he had achieved a 
 splendid reputation. But the reputation was as 
 perishable as the wealth. Let a half century 
 pass over his tomb, and nothing would be left to 
 speak of the successful lawyer, the ai)plauded 
 orator, save traditional anecdotes, a laudatory 
 notice in contemporaneous memoirs — perhaps, 
 at most, quotations of eloquent sentences lav- 
 ished on forgotten cases and obsolete debates — 
 shreds and fragments of a great intellect, which 
 another half-century would sink without a bub- 
 ble into the depths of Time.* He had enacted 
 no laws — he had administered no state — he had 
 composed no Iwoks. Like the figure on a clock, 
 which adorns the case and has no connection 
 with the movement, he, so prominent an orna- 
 
 * It is so with many a Pollio of the Bar and Senate. 
 Fifty years hence, and how faint upon tlie page of Han- 
 sard will be the vestiges of Follett! No printer's tvpe 
 can record his decorous grace — the persuasion of his'sil- 
 very tongue. Fifty years hence, even Plunkett, weight- 
 iest speaker, on his own subject, in the assembly that 
 contained a Canning and a Brougham, will be a myth to 
 our grandsons. 
 
 ment to Time, had no part in its works. Re- 
 moved, the eye would miss him for a while ; but 
 a nation's literature or history was the same, 
 whether with him or without. Some with a 
 tithe of his abilities have the luck to fasten their 
 names to things that endure; they have been 
 responsible for measures they did not invent, 
 and which, for good or evil, influence long gen- 
 erations. They have written volumes out of 
 which a couplet of verse, a period in prose, may 
 cling to the rock of ages as a shell that survives 
 a deluge. But the orator, whose efl'ects are im- 
 mediate—who enthralls his audience in propor- 
 tion as be nicks the hour — who, were he speak- 
 ing like Burke what, apart from the subject- 
 matter, closet students would praise, must, like 
 Burke, thin his audience, and exchange present 
 oratorical success for ultimate intellectual re- 
 nown — a man, in short, whose oratory is em- 
 phatically that of the Debater, is, like an act- 
 or, rewarded with a loud applause and a com- 
 plete oblivion. Waife on the village stage might 
 win applause no less loud, followed by oblivion 
 not more complete. 
 
 Darrell was not blind to the brevity of his 
 fame. In his previous seclusion he had been 
 resigned to that conviction — now it saddened 
 him. Then, unconfessed by himself, the idea 
 that he might yet reappear in active life, and 
 do something which the world would not willing- 
 ly let die, had softened the face of that tranquil 
 Nature from which he must soon now pass out 
 of reach and sight. On the tree of Time he 
 was a leaf already sere upon the bough — not an 
 inscription graven into the rind. 
 
 Ever slow to yield to weak regrets — ever seek- 
 ing to combat his own enemies within — Darrell 
 said to himself one right, while Fairthorn's flute 
 was breathing an air of romance through the 
 melancholy walls, " Is it too late yet to employ 
 this still busy brain upon works that will live 
 when I am dust, and make Posterity supply the 
 heir that fails to my house ?" 
 
 He shut himself up with immortal authors — 
 he meditated on the choice of a theme ; his 
 knowledge was wide, his taste refined ; — words ! 
 — fie could not want words! Why should he 
 not write? Alas! why indeed? — He who has 
 never been a writer in his youth, can no more 
 be a writer in his age than he can be a painter 
 
21-t 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 — a musician. What ! not write a book ? Oh 
 yes — as he may paint a picture or set a song. 
 But a writer, in tlie emphatic sense of the word 
 — a writer as Darrell was an orator — Oh no I 
 And, least of all, will he be a writer if he has 
 been an orator by impulse and habit — an orator 
 too happily gifted to require, and too laborious- 
 ly occuijied to resort to, the tedious aids of writ- 
 ten jjreparation — an orator as modern life forms 
 orators — not, of course, an orator like those of 
 the classic world, who elaborated sentences be- 
 fore delivery, and who, after delivery, polished 
 each extemporaneous interlude into rhetorical i 
 exactitude and musical perfection. And how 
 narrow the range of compositions to a man bur- '. 
 dened already by a grave reputation! He can 
 not have the self-abandonment — he can not ven- 
 ture the headlong charge — with which Youth ; 
 flings the reins to genius, and dashes into the , 
 ranks of Fame. Few and austere his themes — 
 fastidious and hesitating his taste. Restricted 
 are the movements of him who walks for the , 
 first time into the Forum of Letters with the ', 
 purple hem on his senatorial toga. Guy Dar- i 
 rell, at his age, entering among authors as a nov- 
 ice I — lie, the great lawyer, to whom attorneys i 
 would have sent no briefs had he been suspected ' 
 of coquetting with a muse — he, the great orator, 
 who had electrified audiences in proportion to ■ 
 the sudden effects which distinguish oral inspi- 
 ration from written eloquence — he achieve now, 
 in an art which his whole life had neglected, 
 any success commensurate to his contempora- 
 neous repute; — how unlikely! But a success 
 which should outlive that repute, win the "ev- 
 erlasting inheritance" which could alone have 
 nerved him to adequate effort — how impossible ! 
 He could not himself comprehend why, never at 
 a loss for language felicitously apposite or richly 
 ornate when it had but to flow from his thought 
 to his tongue, nor wanting ease, even eloquence, 
 in epistolary correspondence confidentially fa- 
 miliar — he should find words fail ideas, and 
 ideas fail words, the moment his pen became a 
 wand that conjured up the Ghost of the dread 
 Public 1 The more copious his thoughts, the 
 more embarrassing their selection ; the more 
 exquisite his ])erce]jtion of excellence in others, 
 the more timidly frigid his efforts at faultless 
 style. It would be the same with the most 
 skillful author, if the Ghost of the Public had 
 not long since ceased to haunt him. While he 
 writes, the true author's solitude is absolute or 
 peojjled at his will. But take an audience from 
 an orator, what is he? He commands the liv- 
 ing Public — the Ghost of the Public awes him- 
 self. 
 
 " Surely once," sighed Darrell, as he gave his 
 blurred pages to the flames — " surely once I had 
 some pittance of the author's talent, and have 
 spent it upon lawsuits." 
 
 Tiie author's talent, no doubt, Guy Dairell 
 once liad — the author's temperament, never. 
 What is the autlnjr's temperament? Too long 
 a task to define. But without it a man may 
 write a clever book, a useful book, a book that 
 may live a year, ten years, fifty years. He will 
 not stand out to distant ages a representative of 
 the age that rather lived in him than he in it. 
 The author's temperament is that which makes 
 him an integral, earnest, original unity, distinct 
 from all before and all that may succeed him. 
 
 And as a Father of the Church has said that 
 the consciousness of individual being is the 
 sign of immortality, not granted to the inferior 
 creatures — so it is in this individual tempera- 
 ment one and indivisible ; and in the intense 
 conviction of it, more than in all the works it 
 may throw off", that the author becomes immor- 
 tal. Nay, his works may perish like those of 
 Orpheus or Pythagoras ;* but he himself, in his 
 name, in the footprint of his being, remains, 
 like Orpheus or Pythagoras, undestroyed, in- 
 destructible. 
 
 Resigning literature, the Solitary returned to 
 science. There he was more at home. He had 
 cultivated science, in his dazzling academical 
 career, with ardor and success ; he had renewed 
 the study, on his first Tetirement to Fawley, as a 
 distraction from tormenting memories or unex- 
 tinguished passions. He now for the first time 
 regarded the absorbing abstruse occupation as 
 a possible source of fame. To be one in the 
 starry procession of those sons of light who have 
 solved a new law in the statute-book of heaven ! 
 Surely a grand ambition, not unbecoming to his 
 years and station, and pleasant in its labors to 
 a man who loved Nature's outward scenery with 
 poetic passion, and had studied her inward mys- 
 teries with a sage's minute research. Science 
 needs not the author's art — she rejects its graces 
 — she recoils with a shudder from its fancies. 
 But Science requires in the mind of the dis- 
 coverer a limpid calm. The lightnings that re- 
 veal Diespiter must flash in serene skies. No 
 clouds store that thunder — 
 
 "Quo bruta tellus, et vaga flumina. 
 Quo Styx, et invisi lionida Ta:nari 
 Sedes, Atlanteusque finis 
 Coucutitur!" 
 
 So long as you take science only as a distrac- 
 tion, science will not lead you to discovery. 
 And from some cause or other, Guy Darrell was 
 more unquiet and perturbed in his present than 
 in his past seclusion. Science this time failed 
 even to distract. In the midst of august medi- 
 tations — of close experiment — some haunting 
 angry thought from the far world passed with 
 rude shadow between Intellect and Truth — the 
 heart eclipsed the mind. The fact is, that Dar- 
 rell's genius was essentially formed for Action. 
 His was the true orator's temperament, with the 
 qualities that belong to it — the grasp of affairs 
 — the comprehension of men and states — the 
 constructive, administrative faculties. In such 
 career, and in such career alone, could he have 
 developed all his powers, and achieved an im- 
 perishable name. Gradually as science lost its 
 interest, he retreated from all his former occupa- 
 tions, and would wander for long hours over the 
 wild unpopulated landscapes round him. As if 
 it were his object to fatigue the body, and in 
 that fatigue tire out the restless brain, he would 
 make his gun the excuse for rambles from sun- 
 rise to twilight over the manors he had pur- 
 chased years ago, lying many miles oft' from 
 Fawley. There are times when a man who has 
 passed his life in cultivating his mind finds that 
 the more he can make the physical existence 
 predominate, the more he can lower himself to 
 the rude vigor of his game-keeper or his day- 
 
 * It need scarcely be said that the works ascribed to 
 Orplieus or Pythagoras aie generally allowed not to be 
 genuine. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 215 
 
 laborer — why, the more he can harden his 
 nerves to support the weight of his reflections. 
 
 In tliese rambles he was not always alone. 
 Fairthorn contrived to insinuate himself much 
 more than formerly into his master's habitual 
 companionsliip. The faithful fellow had missed 
 Darrell so sorely in that long unbroken absence 
 of five years, that on recovering him, Fairthorn 
 seemed resolved to make np for lost time. De- 
 parting from his own habits, he would, there- 
 fore, lie in wait for Guy Darrell — creeping out 
 of a, bramble or bush, like a familiar sprite ; and 
 was no longer to be awed away liy a curt sylla- 
 ble or a contracted brow. And Darrell, at llrst 
 submitting reluctantly, and out of compassionate 
 kindness, to the flute-player's obtrusive society, 
 became by degrees to welcome and relax in it. 
 Fairthorn knew the great secrets of bis life. To 
 Fairthorn alone on all earth could he speak with- 
 out reserve of one name and of one sorrow. 
 Speaking to Fairthorn was like talking to him- 
 self, or to his pointers, or to his favorite doe, 
 upon which last he bestowed a new collar, with 
 an inscriijtion that im];iied more of the true 
 cause that had driven him a second time to the 
 shades of Fawley than he would have let out to 
 Alban ilorley or even to Lionel Ilaughton. Al- 
 ban was too old for that confidence — Lionel 
 much too young. But the j\lusician, like Art 
 itself, was of no age ; and iT" ever the gloomy 
 master unbent his outward moodiness and secret 
 spleen in any approach to gaycty, it was in a 
 sort of saturnine playfulness to this grotesque, 
 grown-u]) infant. They cheered each other, and 
 the}' teased each other. Stalking side by side 
 over the ridged fallows, Darrell would some- 
 times jiour furtli his whole soul, as a ];oet does 
 to his muse ; and at Fairthorn's abrupt inter- 
 ruption or rejoinder, turn round on him with 
 fierce objurgation or withering sarcasm, or what 
 the flute-player abhorred more than all else, a 
 truculent cpiotation from Horace, which drove 
 Fairthorn a\\ay into some vanishing covert or 
 hollow, out of which Darrell had to entice him, 
 sure that, in return, Fairthorn would take a 
 sly occasion to send into his side a vindictive 
 prickle. But as the two came home in the 
 starlight, the dogs dead beat and poor Fair- 
 thorn too — ten to one but what the musician 
 was leaning all his weight on his master's nerv- 
 ous arm, and Darrell was looking with tender 
 kindness in the face of the some oxe left to 
 lean upon liim still. 
 
 One evening, as they were sitting together in 
 the library, the two hermits, each in his corner, 
 and after a long silence, the flute-player said 
 abruptly — 
 
 "I have been thinking — " 
 
 " Thinking !" quoth Darrell, with his mechan- 
 ical irony ; •' I am sorry for you. Try not to 
 do so again." 
 
 Fairthorn. " Your poor dear father — " 
 
 Darrell, wincing, startled, and expectant of a 
 prickle — ''Eh? my father — " 
 
 Fairthorn. " Was a great antiquary. How 
 it would have pleased him could he have left a 
 fine collection of antiquities as an heir-loom to 
 the nation ! — his name thus preserved for ages, 
 and connected with the studies of his life. 
 There are the Elgin Marbles. The parson was 
 talking to me yesterday of a new Vernon Gal- 
 lery ; why not in the British Museum an ever- 
 
 lasting Darrell Room ? Plenty to stock it 
 mouldering yonder in the chambers which you 
 will never finish." 
 
 " My dear Dick," cried Darrell, starting up, 
 '•give me your hand. What a brilliant thought! 
 I could do nothing else to preserve my dear 
 father's name. Eureka! You are right. Set 
 the carpenters at work to-morrow. Remove the 
 boards ; open the chambers ; we will inspect 
 their stores, and select what would worthily 
 furnish ' A Darrell Room.' Perish Guy Darrell 
 the lawyer! Philip Darrell the antiquary at 
 least shall live !" 
 
 It is marvelous with what charm Fairthorn's 
 lucky idea seized upon Darrell's mind. The 
 whole of the next day he spent in the forlorn 
 skeleton of the unfinished mansion slowlv de- 
 caying beside his small and homely dwelling. 
 The pictures, many of which were the rarest 
 originals in early Flemish and Italian art, were 
 dusted with tender care, and hung from hasty 
 nails upon the bare ghastly walls. Delicate 
 ivory carvings, wrought by the matchless band 
 of Cellini — early Florentine bronzes — jiriccless 
 specimens of Raft'aelle ware and Venetian glass 
 — the precious trifles, in short, which the col- 
 lector of medieval curiosities amasses for his 
 heirs to disperse among the palaces of kings 
 and the cabinets of nations — were dragged 
 again to unfamiliar light. The invaded sepul- 
 chral building seemed a veiy Pomjieii of the 
 Cinque Cento. To examine, arrange, method- 
 ize, select for national jiurposes, such miscella- 
 neous treasures, would be the work of weeks. 
 For easier access, Darrell caused a slight hasty 
 l^assagc to be thrown over the gap between the 
 two edifices. It ran from the room niched into 
 the gables of the old house, which, originally 
 fitted up for scientific studies, now became his 
 habitual apartment, into the largest of the un- 
 comjdeted chambers which had been designed 
 for the grand reception-gallery of the new build- 
 ing. Into the pompous gallery thus made con- 
 tiguous to his monk-like cell, he gradually gath- 
 ered the choicest specimens of his collection. 
 The damps were expelled by fires on grateless 
 hearth-stones ; sunshine admitted from windows 
 now for the first time exchanging boards for 
 glass ; rough iron sconces, made at the nearest 
 forge, were thrust into the walls, and sometimes 
 lighted at night — Darrell and Fairthorn walking 
 arm in arm along the unpolished floors, in com- 
 pany with Holbein's Nobles, Pemgino's Virgins. 
 Some of that high-bred company displaced and 
 banished the next day, as repeated inspection 
 made the taste more rigidly exclusive. Darrell 
 had found object, amusement, occupation — 
 frivolous if compared with those lenses, and 
 glasses, and algebraical scrawls which had once 
 whiled lonely hours in the attic-room liard by ; 
 but not frivolous even to the judgment of the 
 austerest sage, if that sage had not reasoned 
 away his heart. For here it was not Darrell's 
 taste that was delighted ; it was Darrell's heart 
 that, ever hungry, had found food. His heart 
 was connecting those long-neglected memorials 
 of an ambition baffled and relinquished — here 
 with a nation, there with his father's grave! 
 How Ins eyes sparkled ! how his lip smiled ! 
 Nobody would have guessed it — none of us 
 know each other ; least of all do we know the 
 interior being of those whom we estimate bj 
 
216 
 
 public repute ; but what a world of simple, fond 
 affection, lay coiled and wasted in that proud 
 man's solitarv breast I 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 The learned compute that seven hundred and seven mill- 
 ions of millions of vibrations have penetrated the eve 
 before the eye can distinguish the tints of a violet. 
 What philosophy can calculate the vibrations of the 
 heart before it cau distinguish the colors of love? 
 
 While Guy Darrell thus passed his hours 
 within the unfinished fragments of a dwelling 
 builded for posterity, and among the still relics 
 of remote generations, Love and Youth were 
 weaving their warm eternal idyll on the sunny 
 lawns by the gliding river. 
 
 There they are, Love and Youth, Lionel and 
 Sophv, in the arbor round which her slight hands 
 have "twined the honey-suckle, fond imitation of 
 that bower endeared by the memory of her 
 earliest holiday — she seated coyly, he on the 
 ground at her feet, as when Titania had watch- 
 ed his sleep. He has been reading to her, the 
 book has fallen from his hand. What book? 
 That volume of poems so unintelligibly obscure 
 to all but the dreaming young, who are so un- 
 intelligibly obscure to themselves. But to the 
 merit of those poems, I doubt if even George 
 did justice. It is not true, I believe, that they 
 are not durable. Some day or other, when all 
 the jargon so feelingly denounced by Colonel 
 Morley, about "ffisthetics," and "objective," 
 and '-subjective," has gone to its long home, 
 some critic who can write English will probably 
 bring that poor little volume fairly before the 
 public ; and, with all its manifold faults, it will 
 take a place in the affections, not of one single 
 generation of the young, but — everlasting, ever- 
 dreaming, ever-growing yottth. But you and I, 
 reader, have no other interest in these poems, 
 except this — that they were written by the 
 brother-iu-law of that whimsical, miserly Frank 
 Vance, who perhaps, but for such a brother-in- 
 law, would never have gone through the labor 
 by which he has cultivated the genius that 
 achieved his fame ; and if he had not cultivated 
 that genius, he might never have known Lionel; 
 and if he had never known Lionel, Lionel might 
 never perhaps have gone to the Surrey village, 
 in which he saw the Fhenomenon : And to push 
 farther still that A'oltaireian philosophy of ifs — 
 if eitiier Lionel or Frank Vance had not been 
 30 intimately associated in the minds of Sophy 
 and Lionel with the golden holiday on the beau- 
 tiful river, Sophy and Lionel might not have 
 thought so much of those poems; and if they 
 had not thought so much of those poems, there 
 mi^ht not have been between them that link of 
 poetry without which the love of two young 
 people is a sentiment, always verj* pretty, it is 
 true, but much too commonplace to deserve 
 special commemoration in a work so uncom- 
 monly long as this is likely to be. And thus it 
 i-i clear that Frank Vance is not a superfluous 
 and episodical personage among the characters 
 of this history; but, however indirectly, still 
 essentially, one of those beings without whom 
 the author must have given a very different an- 
 swer to the question, "What will he do with 
 it?" 
 
 Return we to Lionel and Sophy. The poems 
 have brought their hearts nearer and nearer to- 
 gether. And when the book fell from Lionel's 
 hand, Sophy knew that his eyes were on her 
 face, and her own eyes looked away. And the 
 silence was so deep and so sweet ! Neither had 
 vet said to the other a word of love. And in 
 "that silence both felt that they loved and were 
 beloved. Sophy I how childlike she looked still! 
 How little she is changed '. — except that the 
 soft blue eyes are far more pensive, and that 
 her merry "laugh is now never heard. In that 
 luxtirious home, fostered with the tenderest care 
 by its charming owner, the romance of her 
 childhood realized, and Lionel by her side, she 
 misses the old crippled_vagrant. And therefore 
 it is that her mern.* laugh is no longer heard! 
 "Ahl" said Lionel, softly breaking the pause 
 at length, " Do not turn your eyes from me, or 
 I shall think that there are tears in them!" 
 Sophy's breast heaved, but her eyes were averted 
 still. Lionel rose gently, and came to the other 
 side of her quiet form. "Fie! there are tears, 
 and you would hide them from me. Ungrate- 
 ful !" 
 
 Sophy loolied at him now with candid, inex- 
 pressible, guileless affection in those swimming 
 eyes, and said, with touching sweetness, "L^n- 
 grateful ! Should I not be so if I were gay and 
 happy?" 
 
 Atid in self-reproach for not being sufficient- 
 ly unhappy while that young consoler was by 
 lier side, she too rose, left the arbor, and look- 
 ed wistfully along the river. George INIorley 
 was expected ; he might bring tidings of the 
 absent. And now while Lionel, rejoining her, 
 exerts all his eloquence to allay her anxiety and 
 encourage her hopes, and while they thus, in 
 that divmest stage of love, ere the tongue re- 
 peats what the eyes have told, glide along — 
 here in sunlight by lingering flowers — there in 
 shadow under mournful willows, whose leaves 
 are ever the latest to fall, let us explain by what 
 links of circumstance Sophy became the great 
 ladv's guest, and Waife once more a homeless 
 wanderer. 
 
 CILSJPTER in. 
 
 Comprising many needful explanations illustrative of 
 wise saws ; as, ior example. '• He that hath an ill name 
 is half hanged." '-He that hath been bitten by a ser- 
 pent is afraid of a rope." "He that looks for a star 
 puts out his candles;" and, " AYhen God wills, all 
 winds bring rain." 
 
 The reader has been already made aware 
 how, by an impulse of womanhood and human- 
 ity, Arabella Crane had been converted from a 
 persecuting into a tutelary agent in the desti- 
 nies of Waife and Sophy.' That revolution in 
 her moral being dated from the evening on 
 which she had sought the cripple's retreat to 
 warn him of Jasper's designs. We have seen 
 by what stratagem she had made it appear that 
 Waife and his grandchild had sailed beyond 
 the reach of molestation ; with what liberality 
 she had advanced the money that freed Sophy 
 from the manager's claim: and how consider- 
 ately she had empowered her agent to give the 
 reference which secured to Waife the asylum 
 in which we last beheld him. In a few stern 
 sentences she had acquainted Waife ^^•ith her 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 211 
 
 fearless, inflexible resolve to associate her fate 
 henceforth with the life of his lawless son ; and, 
 by rendering abortive all his evil projects of 
 plunder, to compel him at last to depend upon 
 her for an existence neither unsafe nor sordid, 
 provided only that it were not dishonest. The 
 moment that she revealed that design, Waife's 
 trust in her was won. His own heart enabled 
 him to comprehend the effect produced upon a 
 character othenvise unamiable and rugged, by the 
 grandeur of self-immolation and the absorption 
 of one devoted heroic thought. In the strength 
 and bitterness of passion which thus pledged 
 her existence to redeem another's, he obtained 
 the liey to her vehement and jealous nature ; 
 saw why she had been so cruel to the child of a 
 rival; why she had conceived compassion for 
 that child in proportion as the father's unnatu- 
 ral indifference had quenched the anger of her 
 own self-love ; and, above all, why, as the idea 
 of reclaiming and appropriating solely to her- 
 self the man who, for good or for evil, had grown 
 into the all-predominant object of her life, gain- 
 ed more and more the mastery over her mind, 
 it expelled the lesser and the baser passions, 
 and the old mean revenge against an infant 
 faded away before the light of that awakening 
 conscience, which is often rekindled from ashes 
 by the sparks of a single better and worthier 
 thought. And, in the resolute design to re- 
 claim Jasper Losely, Arabella came at once to 
 a ground in common with his father, with his 
 child. Oh what, too, would the old man owe 
 to her, what would be his gratitude, his joy, if 
 she not only guarded his spotless Sophy, but 
 saved from the bottomless abyss his guilty son I 
 Thus when Arabella Crane had, nearly five 
 years before, sought Waife's discovered hiding- 
 place, near the old blood-stained tower, mutual 
 interests and sympathies had formed between 
 them a bond of alliance not the less strong be- 
 cause rather tacitly acknowledged and openly 
 expressed. Arabella had xvritten to Waife from 
 the Continent, for the first half year, pretty oft- 
 en, and somewhat sanguinely, as to tlie chance 
 of Losely's ultimate reformation. Then the in- 
 tenals of silence became gradually more pro- 
 longed, and the letters more brief. But still, 
 whether from the wish not unnecessarily to pain 
 the old man, or, as would be more natural to 
 her character, which, even in its best aspects, 
 was not gentle, from a proud dislike to confess 
 failure, she said nothing of the evil courses | 
 which Jasper had renewed. Evidently she was 
 always near him. Evidently, by some means ' 
 or another, his life, furtive and dark, was ever ; 
 under the glare of her watchful eyes. j 
 
 Meanwhile, Sophy had been presented to Car- ' 
 oline Montfort. As Waife had so fondly antici- ! 
 pated, the lone childless lady had taken with 
 kindness and interest to the fair motherless '' 
 child. Left to herself often for months togeth- t 
 er in the grand forlorn house, Caroline "soon | 
 found an object to her pensive walks in the ' 
 basket-maker's cottage. Sophy's charming face 
 and charming ways stole more and more into 
 affections which were denied all nourishment 
 at home. She entered into Waife's desire to 
 improve, by education, so exquisite a nature ; i 
 and. familiarity growing by degrees, Sophy was I 
 at length coaxed up to the great house ; and ; 
 during the hours which Waife devoted to his j 
 
 rambles (for even in his settled industry he 
 could not conquer his vagrant tastes, but wouJd 
 weave his reeds or osiers as he sauntered through 
 solitudes of turf or wood), became the docile, 
 delighted pupil in the simple chintz room which 
 Lady ]Montfort had reclaimed from the desert 
 of her surrounding palace. Lady Montfort was 
 not of a curious turn of mind; profoundly in- 
 different even to the gossip of drawing-rooms, 
 she had no rankling desire to know the secrets 
 of tillage hearth-stones. Little acquainted even 
 with the great world — scarcely at all with any 
 world below that in which she had her being, 
 save as she approached humble sorrows bv del- 
 icate charity — the contrast between Waife's call- 
 ing and his conversation roused in her no vi<Ti- 
 lant suspicions. A man of some education, and 
 bom in a rank that touched upon the order of 
 gentlemen, but of no practical or professional 
 culture — with whimsical tastes — with roving, 
 eccentric habits — had, in the course of hfe, 
 picked up much harmless Misdom, but, perhaps 
 from want of worldly prudence, failed of for- 
 tune. Contented with an obscure retreat and 
 an humble livelihood, he might yet naturally be 
 loth to confide to others the painful history of 
 a descent in life. He might have relations in 
 a higher sphere, whom the confession would 
 shame; he might be silent in the manly pride 
 which shrinks from alms and pity and a tale of 
 fall. Nay, grant the worst — grant that Waife 
 had suffered in repute as well as fortune — grant 
 that his character had been tarnished by some 
 plausible circumstantial evidences which he 
 could not explain away to the satisfaction of 
 friends or the acquittal of a short-sighted world 
 — had there not been, were there not always, 
 many innocent men similarly afflicted? And 
 who could hear Waife talk, or look on his arch 
 smile, and not feel that he was innocent? So, 
 at least, thought Caroline Montfort. Natural- 
 ly ; for if in her essentially womanlike charac- 
 ter there was one all-penading and all-predomi- 
 nant attribute, it was Pixr. If Fate had placed 
 her under circumstances fitted to ripen into ge- 
 nial development all her exquisite forces of 
 soul, her true post in this life would have been 
 that of the Soother. What a child to some 
 grief-worn father! "^Tiat a wife to some toil- 
 ing, aspiring, sensitive man of genius I What 
 a mother to some suffering child ! It seemed 
 as if it were necessar}- to her to have something 
 to compassionate and foster. She was sad when 
 there was no one to comfort ; but her smile was 
 like a simbeam from Eden when it chanced on 
 a sorrow it could brighten away. Out of this 
 ver}- sympathy came her faults — faults of rea- 
 soning and judgment. Prudent in her own chill- 
 ing path through what the world calls tempta- 
 tions, because so ineffably pure — because, to 
 Fashion's light tempters, her very thought was 
 as closed, as 
 
 "Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave," 
 was the ear of Sabrina to the comrades of Co- 
 mus — yet place before her some gentle scheme 
 that seemed fraught with a blessing for others, 
 and straightway her fancy embraced it, prudence 
 faded — she saw not the obstacles, weighed not 
 the chances against it. Charity to her did not 
 come alone, but with its sister twins, Hope and 
 Faith. 
 
 Thus, benignly for the old man and the fair 
 
JIS 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 child, years rolled on till Lord Montfort's sud- 
 den deatli, and liis widow was called iijjon to 
 exclianse Montfort Court (which passed to the 
 new heir) for the distant jointure house ofTwick- 
 cnham. By this time she had s^wn so at- 
 tached to Sophy, and Sophy so gratefully fond 
 of her, that she projiosed to Waife to take his 
 sweet {grandchild as her permanent companion, 
 complete her education, and assure her future. 
 This had heen tlie old man's cherished day- 
 dream ; but he had not contemplated its reali- 
 zation until he himself were in the grave. He 
 turued pale, he staggered, when the proposal 
 which would separate him from his grandchild 
 was first brought before him. But he recovered 
 ere Lady Montfort could be aware of the acutc- 
 ness of the pang she inflicted, and accepted the 
 generous offer with warm protestations of joy 
 and gratitude. But Sophy ! Sophy consent to 
 leave her grandfather afar and aged in his soli- 
 tary cottage ! Little did either of them know 
 Sophy, with her soft heart and determined soul, 
 if they supposed such egotism possible in her. 
 Waife insisted — Waife was angry — Waife was 
 authoritative — Waife was imploring — Waife was 
 pathetic — all in vain! But to close every argu- 
 ment, the girl went boldly to Lady Montfort, 
 and said, " If I left him, his heart would break 
 — never ask it." Lady Montfort kissed Sophy 
 tenderly as mother ever kissed a child for some 
 sweet loving trait of a noble nature, and said 
 simply, "But he shall not be left — he shall 
 come too." 
 
 She offered Waife rooms in her Twickenham 
 house — she wished to collect books — he should 
 be librarian. The old man shivered and re- 
 fused — refused firmly. He had made a vow 
 not to be a guest in any house. Finally, the 
 matter was compromised ; Waife would remove 
 to the neighborhood of Twickenham ; there hire 
 a cottage; there jjly his art; and Sophy, living 
 with him, should spend a part of each day Avith 
 Lady Montfort as now. 
 
 So it was resolved. Waife consented to oc- 
 cupy a small house on the verge of the grounds 
 belonging to the jointure villa, on the condition 
 of paying rent for it. And George Morley in- 
 sisted on the jjrivilege of preparing that house 
 for his old teacher's reception, leaving it sitnple 
 and rustic to outward appearance, but fitting its 
 pleasant chambers with all that his knowledge 
 of the old man's tastes and habits suggested for 
 comfort or humble luxury ; a room for Sophy, 
 hung with the prettiest paper, all butterflies and 
 flowers, commanding a view of the river. Waife, 
 desjiite his proud scruples, could not refuse stich 
 gifts from a man whose fortune and career had 
 been secured by his artful lessons. Indeed, he 
 had already i)ermitted George to assist, though 
 not largely, his own efforts to rej)ay the £100 
 advanced by Mrs. Crane. The years he had 
 devoted to a craft which his ingenuity made 
 lucrative, had just enabled the basket-maker, 
 with his pupil's aid, to clear off tliat debt by 
 installments. lie had the satisfaction of think- 
 ing that it was iiis industry which had rejjlaced 
 the sum to which his grandchild owed her re- 
 lease from the execrable Kugge. 
 
 Lady Montfort's departure (which preceded 
 Waife's by some weeks) was more mourned by 
 the poor in her immediate neighborhood than 
 by the wealthier families wlio composed what a 
 
 province calls its society, and the gloom which 
 that event cast over the little village round the 
 kingly mansion was increased when Waife and 
 his grandchild left. 
 
 For the last three years, emboldened by Lady 
 Montfort's protection, and the conviction that 
 he was no longer pursued or spied, the old 
 man had relaxed his earlier reserved and se- 
 cluded habits. Constitutionally sociable, he had 
 made acquaintance with his humbler neighbors ; 
 lounged by their cottage palings in his rambles 
 down the lanes ; diverted their children with 
 Sir Isaac's tricks, or regaled them with nuts an4 
 apples from his little orchard; given to the more 
 diligent laborers many a valuable hint how to 
 eke out the daily wage with garden ])roduce, or 
 bees, or poultry ; doctored farmers' cows ; and 
 even won the heart of the stud groom by a 
 mysterious sedative ball, which had reduced to 
 serene docility a highly nervous and hitherto 
 unmanageable four-year-old. Sophy liad been 
 no less popular. No one grudged her the favor 
 of Lady Montfort — no one wondered at it. 
 They were loved and honored. Perhaps the 
 hajipiest years Waife had known since his young 
 wife left the earth were passed in the hamlet 
 which he fancied her shade haunted ; for was 
 it not there— there, in that cottage — there, in 
 sight of those green osiers, that her first modest 
 virgin replies to his letters of love and hope had 
 soothed his confinement and animated him — 
 till then little fond of sedentary toils — to the 
 very industry which, learned in sport, now gave' 
 subsistence, and secured a home. To that home 
 ]jersecution had not come — gossip had not jiryed 
 into its calm seclusion — even chance, when 
 threatening disclosure, had seemed to jjass by 
 innocuous. For once — a year or so before he 
 left — an incident had occurred which alarmed 
 him at the time, but led to no annoying results. 
 The banks of the great sheet of water in Montfort 
 Park were occasionally made the scene of rural 
 picnics by the families of neighboring farmers 
 and tradesmen. One day Waife, while care- 
 lessly fashioning his baskets on his favorite spot, 
 was recognized by a party on the opposite mar- 
 gin to whom he liimself had paid no attention. 
 He was told the next day by the landlady of the 
 village inn, the main chimney of which he had 
 undertaken to cure of smoking, that a " lady" 
 in the picnic symposium of the day before had 
 asked many questions about him and his grand- 
 child, and had seemed pleased to hear they 
 were both so comfortably settled. The " lady" 
 had been accompanied by another "lady," and 
 by two or three yoinig gentlemen. They had 
 arrived in a "'buss," which they had hired for 
 the occasion. They had come from Humbers- 
 ton the day after those famous races which an- 
 nually filled Humberston with strangers — the 
 time of year in which Eugge's grand theatrical 
 exhibition delighted that ancient town. From 
 the description of the two ladies, Waife sus- 
 pected that they belonged to Rugge's comjiany. 
 But they had not claimed Waife as a cidcvant 
 comrade ; they had not spoken of Sophy as the 
 Phenomenon or the Fugitive. No molestation 
 followed this event ; and, after all, the Re- 
 morseless Baron had no longer any claim to 
 the Persecuted Bandit or to Juliet Araminta. 
 
 But the ex-comedian is gone from the osiers 
 — the hamlet. He is in his new retreat by the 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 219 
 
 lordly river — within an hour of tlie smoke and 
 roar of tumultuous London. lie tries to look 
 cheerful and happy, but his repose is troubled — 
 his heart is anxious. Ever since Sophy, on his 
 account, refused the offer which would have 
 transfei-red her, not for a few daily hours, but 
 for liabitual life, from a basket-maker's roof to 
 all the elegances and refinements of a sphere 
 in which, if freed from him, her charms and 
 virtues might win her some such alliance as 
 seemed impossible while he was thus dragginc; 
 her do^^Ti to his own le^el — ever since that day 
 the old man had said to himself, "I live too 
 long." While .S'ojihy was by his side, he ap- 
 peared busy at his work and merry in his hu- 
 mor ; the moment she left him for Lady Mont- 
 fort's house tlue work dropped from his hands, 
 and he sank into moody thought. 
 
 Waife had written to ]Mrs. Crane (her address 
 then was at Paris) on removing to Twickenham, 
 and begged her to warn him, should Jasper med- 
 itate a return to England, by a letter directed to 
 him at the General Post-office, London. Despite 
 his later trust in Mrs. Crane, lie did not deem 
 it safe to confide to her Lady Montfort's ofier to 
 Sophy, or the affectionate nature of that lady's 
 intimacy v.ith the girl now gi-o\vn into woman- 
 hood. Witli that insight into the human heart, 
 w^hich was in him not so habitually clear and 
 steadfast as to be always useful, but at times 
 singularly if erratically lucid, he could not feel 
 assured that Arabella Crane's ancient hate to 
 Sophy (which, lessening in proportion to the 
 girl's destitution, had only ceased when the 
 stern woman felt, with a sentiment borderin,:i 
 on revenge, that it was to her that Sojihy owed 
 an asylum obscure and humble) might not re- 
 vive, if she learned that the cliild of a detested 
 rival was raised above the necessity of her pro- 
 tection, and brought within view of that station 
 so much loftier than her own, from which she 
 had once rejoiced to knovv- that the offspring of 
 a marriage which had darkened her life was ex- 
 cluded. For indeed it had been only on Waife 's 
 promise that he would not repeat the attempt 
 that had proved so abortive, to enforce Sophy's 
 claim on Guy Darrell, that Arabella Crane had 
 in the first instance resigned the child to his 
 care. His care — his — an attainted outcast! As 
 long as Arabella Crane could see in Sophy but 
 an object of compassion she might haughtily 
 protect her; but could Sophy become an object 
 of envy, would that protection last ? Ko, he did 
 not venture to confide in Mrs. Crane further 
 than to say that he and Sophy had removed 
 from Montfort village to the vicinity of London. 
 Time enough to say more when ]\Irs. Crane re- 
 turned to England; and then not by letter, but 
 in personal interview. 
 
 Once a month the old man went to London 
 to inquire at the General Post-ofnce for any com- 
 munications his correspondent might there ad- 
 dress to him. Only once, however, had he heard 
 from Mrs. Crane since the announcement of his 
 migration, and her note of reply was extremely 
 brief, until in the fatal month of June, when 
 Guy Darrell and Jasper Losely had alike re- 
 turned, and on the same day, to the metropolis ; 
 and then the old man received from her a letter 
 which occasioned him profound alarm. It ap- 
 prised him not only that his terrible son was in 
 England — in London ; but that Jasper had dis- 
 
 I covered that the persons embarked for America 
 were not the veritable Waife and Sophy, whose 
 names they had assumed. Mrs. Crane ended 
 with these ominous words: "It is right to say- 
 now that he has descended deeper and deeper. 
 Could you see him, you would wonder that I 
 neither abandon him nor my resolve. He hates 
 me worse than the gibbet. To me, and not to 
 the gibbet, he shall pass — fitting punishment to 
 both. I am in London, not in my old house, 
 but near him. His confidant is my hireling. 
 Ilis life and his projects are clear to my eyes — • 
 clear as if he dwelt in glass. Soi)hy is" now of 
 an age in which, were she ]jlaced in" the care of 
 some person whose respectability could not be 
 impugned, she could not be legally forced away 
 against her will ; but if under your roof, those 
 whom Jasper has induced to institute a search, 
 that he has no means to institute ven.- actively 
 himself, might make statements which (as you 
 are already a vvare)might persuade others, thot gh 
 well-meaning, to assist him in sep-arating her 
 from you. He might publicly face even a po- 
 lice court if he thus hoped to shame the rich 
 man into buying off an intolerable scandal. He 
 might, in the first instance, and more probably, 
 decoy her into his power through stealth ; and 
 what might become of her before she was re- 
 covered? Separate yourself from her for a time. 
 It is )'ou, notwithstanding your arts of disguise, 
 that can be the more easily tracked. She, now 
 almost a woman, will have grown out of recog- 
 nition. Place her in some secure asylum until 
 at least j"ou hear from me again." 
 
 "Waife read and re-read this e]<istle (to v>hich 
 there w^as no direction that enabled him to rej ly) 
 in the private room of a httle coffee-house to 
 which he had retired from the gaze and press- 
 ure of the streets. The determination he had 
 long brooded over now began to take shape — to 
 be hurried on to prompt decision. On recover- 
 ing his first shock, he formed and matured his 
 jdans. That same evening he saw Lady i\Iont- 
 fort. He felt that the tim.e had come when, for 
 Sophy's sake, he must lift the vail from the 
 obloquy on his own name. To guard against 
 the same concession to Jasper's authority that 
 had betrayed her atGatesboro', it was necessary 
 that he should ex]jlain the mystery of Sophy's 
 parentage and position to Lady Montfort, and 
 go tlu-ough the anguish of denouncing his cv,n 
 son as the last person to whose hands she should 
 be consigned. He approached this subject not 
 only with a sense of profound humiliation, but 
 with no unreasonable fear lest Lady Montfort 
 might at once decline a charge which would 
 possibly subject her retirement to a harassing 
 invasion. But, to his surprise as well as relief, 
 no sooner had he named Sophy's parentage than 
 Lady Montfort evinced emotions of a joy which 
 cast into the shade all more painful or disci-cd- 
 itable associations. " Henceforth, believe mo," 
 she said, "your Sophy shall be my own child, 
 my own treasured darling! no humble comj.an- 
 ion — my equal as well as my charge. Fear not 
 that any one shall tear her from me. Yen are 
 right in thinking that my roof should be l;er 
 home — that she should have the rearing and the 
 station which she is entitled as well as fitted to 
 adorn. But you nnist not part from her. I 
 have listened to your tale ; my experience of 
 you supplies the defense you suppress — it re- 
 
220 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 verses the judgment wLich has aspersed you. 
 And, more ardently than before, I press on you 
 a refuge in the Home that will shelter your 
 grandchild." Noble-hearted woman ! and no- 
 bler for her ignorance of the practical world, in 
 the proposal which would have blistered with 
 scorching blushes the cheek of that Personifica- 
 tion of all " Solemn Plausibilities," the House 
 of Vipont! Gentleman Waife was not scamp 
 enough to profit by the ignorance which sprang 
 from generous virtue. But, repressing all argu- 
 ment, and appearing to acquiesce in the possi- 
 bility of such an arrangement, he left her be- 
 nevolent delight unsaddened — and before the 
 morning he was gone. Gone in stealth, and by 
 the starlight, as he had gone years ago from the 
 bailiff's cottage — gone, for Sophy, in waking, to 
 find, as she had found before, farewell lines, 
 that commended hope and forbade grief. "It 
 was," he wrote, "for both their sakes that he 
 had set out on a tour of pleasant adventure. 
 He needed it ; he had felt his spirits drooj) of 
 late in so humdrum and settled a life. And 
 there was danger abroad — danger that his brief 
 absence would remove. He had confided all 
 his secrets to Lady IMontfort ; she must look on 
 that kind lady as her sole guardian till he return- 
 ed — as return he surely would ; and then they 
 would live happy ever afterward as in fairy tales. 
 He should never forgive her if she were silly 
 enough to fret for him. He should not be alone ; 
 Sir Isaac would take care of him. He was not 
 without plenty of money — savings of several 
 months ; if he wanted more, he would apply to 
 George Morley. He would write to her occa- 
 sionally ; but she must not expect frequent let- 
 ters ; he might be away for months — -what did 
 that signify ? He was old enough to take care 
 of himself; she was no longer a child to cry her 
 eyes out if she lost a senseless toy, or a stupid 
 old cripple. She was a young lady, and he ex- 
 pected to find her a famous scholar when he re- 
 turned." And so, with all flourish and bravado, 
 and suppressing every attempt at pathos, the old 
 man went his way, and Sophy, hurrying to Lady 
 Alontfort's, weeping, distracted, imploring her to 
 send in all directions to discover and bring back 
 the fugitive, was there detained a captive guest. 
 But Waife left a letter also for Lady JMontfort, 
 cautioning and adjuring her, as she valued So- 
 phy's safety from the scandal of Jasper's claim, 
 not to make any imprudent attempts to discover 
 him. Such attempt would only create the very 
 publicity from the chance of which he was seek- 
 ing to escape. The necessity of this caution was 
 so obvious, that Lady Mont'fort could only send 
 her most confidential servant to inquire guarded- 
 ly in the neighborhood, until she had summoned 
 George Morley from Humberston, and taken 
 him into counsel. Waife had permitted her to 
 relate to him, on strict promise of secrecy, the 
 tale he had confided to her. George entered 
 with the deepest sympathy into Sophy's dis- 
 tress ; but he made her comprehend the indis- 
 cretion and peril of any noisy researches. He 
 promised that he himself would sjxire no jiains 
 to ascertain the old man's hiding-j)lace, and sec, 
 at least, if he could not be persuaded either to 
 return or suffer her to join him, that he was not 
 left destitute and comfortless. Nor was this an 
 idle promise. George, though his inquiries were 
 unceasing, crippled by the restraint imposed on | 
 
 them, was so acute in divining, and so active in 
 following up each clew to the wanderer's artful 
 doublings, that more than once he had actually 
 come upon the track, and found the very spot 
 where Waife or Sir Isaac had been seen a few 
 days before. Still, up to the day on which Mor- 
 ley had last reported progress, the ingenious ex- 
 actor, fertile in all resources of stratagem and 
 disguise, had baftled his research. At first, 
 however, Waife had greatly relieved the minds 
 of these anxious friends, and cheered even 
 Sophy's heavy heart, by letters, gay though 
 brief. These letters having, by their postmarks, 
 led to his trace, he had stated, in apparent an- 
 ger, that reason for discontinuing them. And 
 for the last six weeks, no line from him had 
 been received. In fact, the old man, on resolv- 
 ing to consummate his self-abnegation, strove 
 more and more to wean his grandchild's thoughts 
 from his image. He deemed it so essential to 
 her whole future, that, now she had found a 
 home in so secure and so elevated a sphere, she 
 should gradually accustom herself to a new rank 
 of life, from which he was an everlasting exile ; 
 should lose all trace of his very being; eflace a 
 connection that, ceasing to protect, could hence- 
 forth only harm and dishonor her ; that he tried, 
 as it were, to blot himself out of the world which 
 now smiled on her. He did not underrate her 
 grief in its fii'st freshness : he knew that, could 
 she learn where he was, all else would be for- 
 gotten — she would insist on flying to him. But 
 he continually murmured to himself, " Youth is 
 ever proverbially short of memory; its sorrows 
 poignant, but not endui-ing; now the wounds 
 are already scarring over — they will not reopen 
 if they are left to heal." 
 
 He had, at first, thought of hiding some- 
 where not so far but that once a week, or once 
 a month, he might have stolen into the grounds, 
 looked at the house that held her — left, per- 
 haps, in her walks some little token of himself. 
 But, on reflection, he felt that that luxury would 
 be too imprudent, and it ceased to tempt him in 
 proportion as he reasoned himself into the stern 
 wisdom of avoiding all that could revive her 
 grief for him. At the commencement of this 
 tale, in the outline given of that grand melo- 
 drama in which Juliet Araminta played the 
 part of the Bandit's child, her efi^brts to decoy 
 pursuit from the lair of the persecuted Mime 
 were likened to the arts of the sky-lark to lure 
 eye and hand from the nest of its young. ]\Iore 
 appropriate that illustration now to the parent- 
 bird than then to the fledgeling. Farther and 
 farther from the nest in which all his love was 
 centred fled the old man. What if Jasper did 
 discover him now; that very discovery would 
 mislead the pursuit from Sophy. Most improba- 
 ble that Losely would ever guess that they could 
 become separated ; still more improbable, un- 
 less Waife, imprudently lurking near her home, 
 guided conjecture, that Losely should dream of 
 seeking under the roof of the lofty peeress the 
 child that had fled from IMr. Rugge. 
 
 I'oor old man! his heart was breaking; but 
 his soul was so brightly comforted, that there, 
 where many, many long miles off, I see him 
 standing, desolate and patient, in the corner of 
 yon crowded market-place, holding Sir Isaac by- 
 slackened string, with listless hand — Sir Isaac 
 unshorn, travel-stained, draggled, with drooping 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 221 
 
 head and melancholy eyes — yea, as I see him 
 there, jostled by the crowd, to wliom, now and 
 then, pointing to that huge pannier on his arm, 
 filled with some homely peddler-wares, he me- 
 chanically mutters, "Buy" — yea, I say, verily, 
 as I see liim thus, I can not draw near in pity — 
 I see what the crowd does not — the shadow of 
 an angel's wing over his gray head ; and I stand 
 reverentially aloof, with bated breath and bend- 
 ed knee. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A woman too often reasons from lier lieart — lience two- 
 thirds of her mistakes and her troubles. A man of 
 genius, too, often reasons from his heart — hence, also, 
 two-thirds of his troubles and mistakes. Wherefore, 
 between woman and genius there is a sympathetic af- 
 finity; each has some intuitive comprehension of the 
 secrets of the other, and the more feminine the woman, 
 the more exquisite the genius, the more subtle the in- 
 telligence between the two. But note well that this 
 tacit understanding becomes obscui"ed if human love 
 pass across its relations. Shakspearo interprets aright 
 the most intricate riddles in woman. A woman was 
 the first to interpret aright the art that is latent in 
 Sluilcspeare. But did Anne Hathaway and Shakspeare 
 understand each other ? 
 
 Unobserved by the two young people, Lady 
 Montfort sate watching them as they moved 
 along the river banks. She was seated where 
 Lionel had first seen her- — in the kind of grassy 
 chamber that had been won from the foliage 
 and the sward, closed round with interlaced au- 
 tumnal branches, save where it opened toward 
 the water. If ever woman's brain can conceive 
 and plot a scheme thoroughly pure from one 
 ungentle, selfish thread in its web, in such a 
 scheme had Caroline Montfort brouglit together 
 those two fair young natures. And yet they 
 were not uppermost in her thoughts as she now 
 gazed on them ; nor was it wholly for them that 
 her eyes were filled with tears at once sweet, 
 yet profoundly mournful — holy, and yet intense- 
 ly human. 
 
 Women love to think themselves uncompre- 
 hended — nor often without reason in that foi- 
 ble; for man, howsoever sagacious, rarely does 
 entirely comprehend woman, howsoever simple. 
 And in this her sex has the advantage over ours. 
 Our hearts are bare to their eyes, even though 
 they can never know what have been otir lives. 
 But we may see every action of their lives, 
 guarded and circumscribed in conventional 
 forms, wliile their liearts will have many mys- 
 teries to which we can never have tlie key'. But, 
 in more than the ordinary sense of the word, 
 Caroline Montfort ever had been a woman nn- 
 comprehended. Nor even in her own sex did 
 she possess one confidante. Only the outward 
 leaves of that beautiful flower opened to the 
 sunlight. The leaves round the core were gath- 
 ered fold upon fold closely as when life itself 
 was in the bud. 
 
 As all the years of her wedded existence her 
 heart had been denied the natural household 
 vents, so, by some strange and unaccountable 
 chance, her intellect also seemed restrained and 
 pent from its proper freedom and play. During 
 those barren years she had read — she had pon- 
 dered — she had enjoyed a commune with those 
 whose minds instyict others, and still her own 
 intelligence, which, in early youth, had been 
 characterized by singular vivacity and bright- 
 
 ness, and which Time had enriched with every 
 womanly accomplishment, seemed chilled and 
 objectless. It is not enough that a mind should 
 be cultured — it should have movement as well 
 as culture. Caroline Montfort's lay quiescent, 
 like a beautiful form spell-bound to repose, but 
 not to sleep. Looking on her once, as he stood 
 among a crowd whom her beauty dazzled, a poet 
 said, abruptly, " Were my guess not a sacrilege 
 to one so spotless and so haughty, I should say 
 tliat I had hit on the solution of an enigma 
 that long perplexed me ; and in the core of that 
 queen of the lilies, could we strip the leaves 
 folded round it, we should find lie/norse." 
 
 Lady Montfort started; the shadow of an- 
 other form than her own fell upon the sward. 
 George Morley stood behind her, liis finger on 
 his lips. "Hush," he said in a whisper ; "see, 
 Sophy is looking for me up the river. I knew 
 she would be — I stole this way on purpose — for 
 I would speak to you before I face her ques- 
 tions." 
 
 "What is the matter? — you alarm me!" said 
 Lady Montfort, on gaining a part of the grounds 
 more remote from the river, to which George 
 had silently led the way. 
 
 " Nay, my dear cousin, there is less cause for 
 alarm than for anxious deliberation, and that 
 upon more matters than those which directly 
 relate to our poor fugitive. You know that I 
 long shrunk from enlisting the police in aid of 
 our search. I was too sensible of the pain and 
 offense which such an application would occa- 
 sion Waife — (let us continue so to call him) — 
 and the discovery of it might even induce him 
 to put himself beyond our reach, and quit En- 
 gland. But his jn-olonged silence, and my fears 
 lest some illness or mishap might have befallen 
 him, together with my serious apprehensions of 
 the effect which unrelieved anxiety might pro- 
 duce on Sophy's health, made me resolve to 
 wave former scruples. Since I last saw you I 
 have applied to one of the higher police-officers 
 accustomed to confidential investigations of a 
 similar nature. The next day he came to tell 
 me that he had learned that a "friend of his, who 
 had been formerly a distinguished agent in the 
 detective police, had been engaged for months 
 in tracking a person whom he conjectured to be 
 the same as the one whom I had commissioned 
 him to discover, and with somewhat less caution 
 and delicacy than I had enjoined. The fugi- 
 tive's real name had been given to this ex-agent 
 — tlie cause for search, that he had abducted 
 and was concealing his grand-daughter from her 
 father. It w-as easy for me to perceive why this 
 novel search had hitherto failed, no suspicion be- 
 ing entertained that Waife had separated him- 
 self from Sophy, and the inquiry being therefore 
 rather directed toward the grandcluld than the 
 grandfather. But that inquiry had altogether 
 ceased of late, and for this terrible reason — a 
 different section of the police had fixed its eye 
 upon the father on whose behalf the search had 
 been instituted. This Jasper Losely (ah I our 
 poor friend might well shudder to think Sophy 
 should fall into his hands I) haunts the resorts 
 of the most lawless and formidable desperadoes 
 of London. He appeais to be a kind of author- 
 ity among them ; but there is no evidence that 
 as yet he has committed himself to any partici- 
 pation in their habitual coiu'ses. He lives pro- 
 
222 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 fiisely, for a person in such society (rea;alinp: 
 Daredevils, whom he awes by a strength and 
 coiirap;e which are described as extraordinary), 
 but without any visible means. It seems that 
 the ex-a^ent, who had been thus previously em- 
 ployed in Jasper Losely's name, had been en- 
 ga-^ed, not by Jasper himself, but by a person 
 in verv respectable circumstances, whose name 
 I have ascertained to be Poole. And the ex- 
 a,cjent deemed it right to acquaint this Mr. Poole 
 with Jasper's evil character and ambiguous mode 
 of life, and to intimate to his employer that it 
 mi^ht not be prudent to hold any connection 
 with such a man, and still less proper to assist 
 in restoring a young girl to his care. On this Mr. 
 Poole became so much agitated, and expressed 
 himself so incoherently as to his relations with 
 Jasper, that the ex-agent conceived suspicions 
 against Poole himself, and reported the whole 
 circumstances to one of the chiefs of the former 
 service, through whom they reached the very 
 man whom I myself was employing. But this 
 ex-agent, who liad, after his last interview with 
 Poole, declined all farther interference, had 
 since then, through a correspondent in a coun- 
 try town, whom he had employed at the first, 
 obtained a clew to my dear old friend's wander- 
 ings, more recent, and I think more hopeful, 
 than any I had yet discovered. You will re- 
 member that when questioning Sophy as to any 
 friends in her former life to whom it was proba- 
 ble Waife might have addressed himself, she 
 coald think of no one so probable as a cobbler 
 named Merle, with whom he and she had once 
 lodged, and of whom he had often spoken to her 
 with much gratitude, as having put him in the 
 way of recovering herself, and having shown 
 him a peculiar trustful kindness on that occa- 
 sion. But you will remember also that I could 
 not find this Merle ; he had left the village, near 
 this very place, in which he had spent the great- 
 er part of his life — his humble trade having been 
 neglected in consequence of some strange super- 
 stitious occupations in which, as he had grown 
 older, he had become more and more absorbed. 
 He had fallen into poverty ; his effects had been 
 sold off; he had gone away no one knew whith- 
 er. Well, the ex-agent, who had also been di- 
 rected to this Merle by his employer, had, through 
 his correspondent, ascertained that the cobbler 
 was living at Norwich, where he passed under 
 the name of the Wise Man, and where he was 
 in perpetual danger of being sent to the house 
 of correction as an impostor, dealing in astrology, 
 crystal-seeing, and such silly or nefarious prac- 
 tices. Very odd, indeed, and very melancholy 
 too," quoth the scholar, lifting up his hands and 
 eyes, "that a man so gifted as our poor friend 
 should ever have cultivated an acquaintance with 
 a cobbler who deals in the Black Art!" 
 
 " Sophy has talked to me much about that 
 cobbler," said Lady Montfort, with her sweet 
 half-smile. "It was under his roof that she 
 first saw Lionel Haughton. But though the 
 poor man may be an ignorant enthusiast, he is 
 certainly, by her account, too kind an I simple- 
 hearted to be a designing impostor." 
 
 George. "Possibly. But, to go on with my 
 story : A few weeks ago, an elderly lame man, 
 accompanied by a dog, who was evidently poor 
 dear Sir Isaac, lodged two days with Merle at 
 Norwich. On hearing this, I myself went yes- 
 
 terday to Norwich, saw and talked to ^lerle, and 
 through this man I hope, more easily, delicate- 
 ly, and expeditiously than by any other means, 
 to achieve our object. He evidently can assist 
 us, and, as evidently, Waife has not told him 
 that he is flying from Sophy and friends, but 
 from enemies and persecutors. For Merle, who 
 is impervious to bribes, and who at first was 
 churlish and rude, became softened as my hon- 
 est affection for the fugitive grew clear to him, 
 and still more when I told him how wretched 
 Sophv was at her grandfather's disappearance, 
 and that she might fret herself into a decline. 
 And we parted with this promise on his side, 
 that if I would bring down to him either Sophy 
 herself (which is out of the question), or a line 
 from her, which, in refen'ing to any circum- 
 stances while vmder his roof that could only be 
 known to her and himself, should convince him 
 that the letter was from her hand, assuring him 
 that it was for Waife's benefit and at her prayer 
 that he should bestir himself in the search for 
 her grandfather, and that he might implicitly 
 trust to me, he would do all he could to help 
 us. So far, then, so good. But I have now 
 more to say, and that is in reference to Sophy 
 herself. While we are tracking her grandfather, 
 the peril to her is not lessened. Never was that 
 peril thoroughly brought before my eyes until I 
 had heard actually from the police agent the 
 dreadful character and associations of the man 
 who can claim her in a father's name. Waife, 
 it is true, had told you that his son was profli- 
 gate, spendthrift, lawless — sought her, not from 
 natural affection, but as an instrument to be 
 used, roughly and coarsely, for the purpose of 
 extorting money from Mv. Darrell. But this 
 stops far short of the terrible reality. Imagine 
 the effect on her nerves, so depressed as they now 
 are, nay, on her very life, should this audacious 
 miscreant force himself here and say, 'Come 
 with me, you are my child !' And are we quite 
 sure that out of some refining nobleness of con- 
 science she might not imagine it her duty to obey, 
 and to follow him ? The more abject and friend- 
 less his condition, the more she might deem it 
 her duty to be by his side. I have studied her 
 from childhood. She is capable of any error in 
 judgment, if it be made to appear a martyr's 
 devoted self-sacrifice. You may well shudder, 
 my dear cousin. But grant that she were swayed 
 bv us and by the argument that so to act would 
 betray and kill her beloved grandfather, still, in 
 resisting this ruffian's paternal authority, what 
 violent and painful scenes might ensue ! What 
 dreadful publicity to be attached forever to her 
 name! Nor is this all. Grant that her father 
 does not discover her, but that he is led by his 
 associates into some criminal offense, and suffers 
 by the law — her relationship, both to him from 
 whom you would guard her, and to him whose 
 hearth you have so tenderly reared her to grace, 
 suddenly dragged to day — would not the shame 
 kill her? And in that disclosure how keen would 
 be the anguish of Darrell !" 
 
 " Oh Heavens !" cried Caroline Montfort, 
 white as ashes, and wringing her hands, " you 
 '"reeze me with terror. But this man can not be 
 so fallen as you describe. I have seen him — 
 spoken with'him in his youth — hoped then to 
 assist in a task of conciliation, pardon. No- 
 thintr about him then forboded so fearful a cor- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 223 
 
 ruption. He might be vain, extravagant, self- 
 ish, false — ah, yes ! he was false indeed ! — but 
 still the ruffian you paint, banded with common 
 criminals, can not be the same as the gay, dain- 
 ty, perfumed, fair-faced adventurer with whom 
 my ill-fated playmate fled her father's house. 
 You shake your head — what is it you advise ?" 
 " To expedite your own project — to make at 
 once the resolute attempt to secure to this poor 
 child her best, her most rightful protector — to 
 let whatever can be done to guard her from 
 danger, or reclaim her father from courses to 
 which despair may be driving him — to let, I 
 say, all this be done by the person whose in- 
 terest in doing it effectively is so paramount — 
 whose ability to judge of and decide on the 
 wisest means is so immeasurably superior to all 
 that lies within our own limited experience of 
 life." 
 
 " But you forget that our friend told me that 
 he had appealed to — to Mr. Darrell on his return 
 to England ; that I\Ir. Darrell had peremptorily 
 refused to credit the claim ; and had sternly 
 said ihat, even if Sophy's birth could be proved, 
 he would not place under her father's roof the 
 grandchild of William Losely." 
 
 " True ; and yet you hoped reasonably enough 
 to succeed where he, poor outcast, had failed." 
 " Yes, yes ; I did hope that Sophy — her man- 
 ners formed, her education completed — all her 
 natm-al exquisite graces so cultured and refined 
 as to justify pride in the proudest kindred — I 
 did hope that she should be brought, as it were 
 by accident, imder his notice ; tbat she would 
 interest and charm him; and that the claim, 
 when made, might thus be welcomed with de- 
 light. Mr. Darrell's abrupt return to a seclu- 
 sion so rigid forbids the opportunity that might 
 easily have been found or made if he had re- 
 mained in London. But suddenly, violently to 
 renew a claim that such a man has rejected, 
 before he has ever seen that dear child — before 
 his heart and his taste plead for her — who would 
 dare to do it ? or, if so daring, who could hope 
 success?" 
 
 '■ My dear Lady Montfort, my noble cousin, 
 with repute as spotless as the ermine of your 
 robe — -who but you?" 
 
 " Who but I '? Any one. Mr. Darrell would 
 not even read through a letter addressed to him 
 by me?" 
 
 George stared with astonishment. Caroline's 
 face was downcast — her attitude that of pro- 
 found humihated dejection. , 
 
 " Incredible !" said he, at length. " I have 
 always suspected, and so indeed has my un- 
 cle, that Darrell had some cause of complaint 
 against your mother. Perhaps he might have 
 supposed that she had not sufficiently watched 
 over his daughter, or had not sufficiently in- 
 quired into the character of the governess whom 
 she recommended to him ; and that this had led 
 to an estrangement between Darrell and your 
 mother which could not fail to extend some- 
 what to yourself. But such misunderstandings 
 can surely now be easily removed. Talk of his 
 not reading a letter addressed to him by vou! 
 Why, do I not remember, when I was on'avisit 
 to my school-fellow, his son, what influence you, 
 a mere child yourself, had over that grave, busy 
 man, then in the height of his career — how you 
 alone could run without awe into his study — 
 
 how you alone had the privilege to arrange his 
 books, sort his papers — so that we two bovs 
 looked on you with a solemn respect, as the 
 depositary of all his state secrets — how vainly 
 you tried to decoy that poor timid Matilda, his 
 daughter, into a share of your own audacitv .' — 
 Is not all this true ?" 
 
 j " Oh yes, yes — old days, gone forever!" 
 I " Do I not remember how you promised that, 
 before I went back to school, I should hear Dar- 
 rell read aloud — how you brought the volume 
 of Milton to him in the evening— how he said, 
 ' No, to-morrow night ; I must go now to the 
 House of Commons' — how I man-eled to hear 
 you answer, boldly, 'To-morrow night George 
 will have left us, and I have promised that he 
 sliall hear you read' — and how, looking at you 
 I under those dark brows with serious softness^ he 
 said, ' Right ; promises, once given, must be 
 kept. But was it not rash to promise in anoth- 
 er's name?' — and you answered, half gently, 
 half pettishly, ' As if you could fail me !' He 
 took the book without another word, and read. 
 What reading it was, too ! And do you not re- 
 member another time, how — " 
 
 Lady Moxtfort (interrupting with nervous 
 impatience). " Ay, a}- — I need no reminding of 
 all — all ! Kindest, noblest, gentlest friend to a 
 giddy, heedless child, unable to appreciate the 
 blessing. But now, George, I dare not, I can 
 not write to Mr. Darrell."" 
 
 George mused a moment, and conjectured 
 that Lady Montfort had, in the inconsiderate, 
 impulsive season of youth, aided in the clandes- 
 tine marriage of Darrell's daughter, and had be- 
 come thus associated in his mind with the af- 
 fliction that had imbittered his existence. Were 
 this so, certainly she would not be the fitting in- 
 tercessor on behalf of Sophy. His thoughts then 
 turned to his uncle, Darrell's earliest friend, not 
 suspecting that Colonel Morleywas actually the 
 person whom DaiTcll had already appointed his 
 adviser and representative in all transactions 
 that might concern the very parties under dis- 
 cussion. But just as he was about to suggest 
 the expediency of writing to Alban to return to 
 England, and taking him into confidence and 
 consultation. Lady Montfort resumed, in a calm- 
 er voice, and with a less troubled countenance, 
 "Who should be the pleader for one whose 
 claim, if acknowledged, would affect his own 
 fortunes, but Lionel Haughton ? Hold ! — look 
 where yonder they come into sight — there, by 
 the gap in the evergreens. May vre not hope 
 that Providence, bringing those" two beautiful 
 lives together, gives a solution to the difficulties 
 which thwart our action and embarrass our 
 judgment ? I conceived and planned a blissful 
 romance the first moment I gathered from So- 
 phy's artless confidences the effect that had 
 been produced on her whole train of thought 
 and feeling by the first meeting with Lionel in 
 her childhood; by his brotherly, chivalrous kind- 
 ness, and, above all, by the chance words he let 
 fall, which discontented her with a life of shift 
 and disguise, and revealed to her the instincts 
 of her own honest, truthful nature. An alli- 
 ance between Lionel Haughton and Sophy seem- 
 ed to me the happiest possible event that could 
 befall Guy DaiTcll. The two branches of his 
 family united — a painful household secret con- 
 fined to the circle of his own kindred — grant- 
 
oo^ 
 
 WEL.^.T WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 ing Sophy's claim never perfectly cleared up, 
 but subject to a tormenting doubt — her future 
 equally assured — her possible rights equally es- 
 tablished — Darrell's conscience and pride rec- 
 onciled to each other. And how, even but as 
 vnfe to his young kinsman, he would learn to 
 love one so exquisitely endearing!" [Lady 
 ^Montfort paused a moment, and then resumed.] 
 '• When I heard that ^Ir. Darrell was about to 
 marrv again, my project was necessarily arrest- 
 ed." ■ 
 
 '• Certainly," said George, "if he formed new 
 ties, Sophy would be less an object in his exist- 
 ence, whether or not he recognized her birth. 
 The alliance between her and Lionel would lose 
 many of its advantages ; and any address to him 
 on Sophy's behalf would become yet more un- 
 gi'aciously received." 
 
 La.dy Moxtfort. " In that case I had re- 
 solved to adopt Sophy as my own child ; lay by 
 from my abundant income an ample dowry for 
 her ; and whether Mr. Darrell ever knew it or 
 not, at least I should have the secret joy to think 
 that I was saving him from the risk of remorse 
 hereafter — should she be, as we believe, his 
 daughter's child, and have been thrown upon 
 the world destitute ; — yes, the secret joy of feel- 
 ing that I was sheltering, fostering as a mother, 
 one whose rightful home might be with him 
 who in my childhood sheltered, fostered me 1" 
 
 George (much affected). " How, in propor- 
 tion as we know you, the beauty which you vail 
 from the world outshines that which you can 
 not prevent the world from seeing I But you 
 must not let this grateful enthusiasm blind your 
 better judgment. You think these young per- 
 sons are beginning to be really attached to each 
 other. Then it is the more necessary that no 
 time should be lost in learning how Mr. Darrell 
 would regard such a marriage. I do not feel 
 so assured of his consent as you appear to do. 
 At all events, this should be ascertained before 
 their happiness is seriously involved. I agree 
 with you that Lionel is the best intermediator 
 to plead for Sophy ; and his very generosity in 
 urging her prior claim #o a fortune that might 
 otherwise pass to him, is likely to have weight 
 with a man so generous himself as Guy Darrell 
 is held to be. But does Lionel yet know all ? 
 Have you yet ventured to confide to him, or 
 even to Sophy herself, the nature of her claim 
 on the man who so proudly denies it?' 
 
 "Xo — I deemed it due to Sophy's pride of 
 sex to imply to her that she would, in fortune 
 and in social position, be entitled to equality 
 with those whom she might meet here. And 
 that is true, if only as the child whom I adopt 
 and enrich. I have not said more. And only 
 since Lionel has appeared has she ever seemed 
 interested in any thing that relates to her par- 
 entage. From the recollection of her father 
 she naturally shrinks — she never mentions his 
 name. But two days ago she did ask timidly, 
 and with great change of countenance, if it was 
 through her mother that she was entitled to a 
 rank higher than she had hitherto known ; and 
 when I answered ' Yes,' she sighed, and said, 
 'But my dear grandfather never spoke to me 
 of her ; he never even saw my mother.' " 
 
 George. "And you, I suspect, do not much 
 like to talk of that mother. I have gathered 
 from you, unawares to yourself, that she was 
 
 not a person you could highly praise ; and to 
 me, as a boy, she seemed, with all her timidity, 
 wapvard and deceitful." 
 
 Ladv Montfoet. "Alas I how bitterly she 
 must have suffered — and how young she was! 
 But you are right ; I can not speak to Sophy 
 of her mother, the subject is connected with so 
 much sorrow. But I told her ' that she should 
 know all soon ;' and she said, with a sweet and 
 melancholy patience, ' When my poor grandfa- 
 ther will be by to hear: I can wait.' " 
 
 George. " But is Lionel, with his quick in- 
 tellect and busy imagination, equally patient ? 
 Does he not guess at the truth ? You have told 
 ' him that you do meditate a project which af- 
 • fects Guy Darrell, and required his promise not 
 I to divulge to Darrell his visits In this house." 
 I Ladt iloxTFORT. "He knows that Sophy's 
 j paternal grandfather was William Losely. From 
 I your uncle he heard William Losely's story, 
 [ and — ■' 
 I George. " My uncle Alban ?" 
 
 Lady Mostfort. " I'es ; the Colonel was 
 I well acquainted with the elder Losely in former 
 days, and spoke of him to Lionel with great af- 
 fection. It seems that Lionel's father knew 
 him also, and thoughtlessly involved him in his 
 own pecimiary difficulties. Lionel was not long 
 a visitor here before he asked me abruptly if 
 Mr. Waife's real name was not Losely. I was 
 obliged to own it, begging him not at present to 
 question me further. He said, then, with much 
 emotion, that he had a hereditary debt to dis- 
 charge to WilUam Losely, and that he was the 
 last person who ought to relinquish belief in the 
 old man's innocence of the crime for which the 
 law had condemned him, or to judge him harsh- 
 ly if the innocence were not substantiated. You 
 remember with what eagerness he joined in 
 your search, until you positively forbade his in- 
 terposition, fearing that should our poor friend 
 hear of inquiries instituted by one whom he 
 could not recognize as a friend, and might pos- 
 sibly consider an emissary of his son's, he would 
 take yet greater pains to conceal himself. But 
 from the moment that Lionel learned that So- 
 phy's grandfather was William Losely his man- 
 ner to Sophy became yet more tenderly respect- 
 ful. He has a glorious nature, that young man ! 
 But did your uncle never speak to you of Will- 
 iam Losely ?" 
 
 "Xo. I am not surprised at that. 5Iy un- 
 cle Alban avoids -painful subjects.' I am only 
 surprised ihat he should have revived a painful 
 subject in talk to Lionel. But I now understand 
 why, when Waife first heard my name, he seem- 
 ed aftected, and why he so specially enjoined 
 me never to mention or describe him to my 
 friends and relations. Then Lionel knows 
 Losely's story, but not his son's connection with 
 Darrell ?" 
 
 "Certainly not. He knows but what is gen- 
 erally said in the world, that Darrell's daugh- 
 ter eloped with a IMr. Hammond, a man of in- 
 ferior birth, and died abroad, leaving but one 
 child, who is also dead. Still Lionel does sus- 
 pect — my verv- injunctions of secrecy must make 
 him more than suspect — that the Loselys are 
 somehow or other mixed up with Darrell's fam- 
 ily historv". Hush! I hear his voice yonder — 
 they approach." 
 
 " My dear cousin, let it be settled between 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 us, tlien, that you frankly and without delay 
 communicate to Lionel the whole truth, so far 
 as it is known to us, and put it to him how best 
 and most touchingly to move Mr. Darrell to- 
 ward her, of whom we hold him to be the natu- 
 ral protector. I will write to my uncle to re- 
 turn to England, that he may assist us in the 
 same good work. ^leanwhile, I shall have only 
 good tidings to communicate to Sophy in my 
 new hopes to discover her grandfather through 
 Merle." 
 
 Here, as the sun was setting, Lionel and So- 
 phy came in sight ; above their heads, the west- 
 ern clouds bathed in gold and purple. Sophy, 
 perceiving George, bounded forward, and reach- 
 ed his side, breathless. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Lionel Haughton having lost liis heart, it is no longer a 
 question what HE will do with it. lint what wiil be 
 done with it is a very grave question indeed. 
 
 Lionel forestalled Lady Montfort in the del- 
 icate and embarrassing subject which her cousin 
 had urged her to open. For while George, lead- 
 ing away Sojihy, informed her of his journey to 
 Norwich, and his interview with Merle, Lionel 
 drew Lady Montfort into the house, and with 
 much agitation, and in abrupt, hurried accents, 
 implored her to withdraw the promise which 
 forbade him to inform his benefnctor how^ and 
 where his time had been spent of late. He 
 burst forth with a declaration of that love with 
 which Sophy had inspired him, and which Lady 
 Montfort could not be but prepared to hear. 
 "Nothing," said he, "but a respect for her 
 more than filial anxiety at this moment could 
 have kept my heart thus long silent. But that 
 heart is so deeply pledged — so utterly hers — that 
 it has grown an ingratitude, a disrespect to my 
 generous kinsman, to conceal from him any lon- 
 ger the feelings which must color my whole fu- 
 ture existence. Nor can I say to her, ' Can 
 you return my affection ? — will you listen to my 
 vo-fts ? — will you accept them at the altar ?' — 
 until I have won, as I am sure to win, the ap- 
 proving consent of my more than father." 
 
 " You feel sure to win that consent, in spite 
 of the stain on her grandfather's name ?" 
 
 "When Darrell learns that, but for my poor 
 father's fault, that name might be spotless now 
 — yes ! I am not IMr. Darrell's son — the trans- 
 mitter of his line. I believe yet that he will 
 form new ties. By my mother's side I have no 
 ancestors to boast of; and you have owned to 
 me that Sophy's mother was of gentle birth. 
 Alban Morley told me, when I last saw him, 
 that Darrell wishes me to marry, and leaves me 
 free to choose my bride. Yes ;" I have no doubt 
 of ilr. Darrell's consent. My dear mother will 
 welcome to her heart the prize so coveted by 
 mine ; and Charles Haughton's son will have a 
 place at his hearth for the old age of William 
 Losely. Withdraw your interdict at once, dear- 
 est Lady Montfort, and confide to me all that 
 you have -hitherto left unexplained, but have 
 promised to reveal when the time came. The 
 time has come." 
 
 " It has come," said Lady Montfort, solemn- 
 ly ; "and Heaven grant that it may bear the 
 blessed results which vrere in mv thoughts when 
 P 
 
 I took Sophy as my own adopted daughter, and 
 hailed in yourself the reconciler of conflicting 
 circumstance. Not under this roof should you 
 woo William Losely's grandchild. Doubly arc 
 you bound to ask Guy Darrell's consent and 
 blessing. At his hearth woo your Sophy — at 
 his hands ask a bride in his daughter's child." 
 And to her wondering listener, Caroline Mont- 
 fort told her grounds for the belief that con- 
 nected the last of the Darrells with the convict's 
 grandchild. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Credulous ciystal-seers, j-oung lovers, and grave wise 
 men — all in the same category. 
 
 George Morlet set out the next day for Nor- 
 wich, in which antique city, ever since the Dane 
 peo]jled it, some wizard or witch, star-reader, or 
 crystal-seer has enjoyed a mysterious renown, 
 perpetuating thus through allchange inour land's 
 social progress the long line of Vala and Saga, 
 who came with the Raven and Valkyr from the 
 Scandinavian ])ine shores. Merle's reserve van- 
 ished on the perusal of Sophy's letter to him. 
 He informed George that Waife declared he had 
 plent}' of money, and had even forced a loan 
 upon Jlerle ; but that he liked an active, wan- 
 dering life ; it kept him from thinking, and that 
 a peddler's pack would give him a license for va- 
 grancy, and a budget to defray its expenses ; 
 that Merle had been consulted b)- him in the 
 choice of light popular wares, and as to the route 
 he might find the most free from competing 
 rivals. Merle willingly agreed to accompany 
 George in quest of the wanderer, whom, by the 
 help of his crystal, he seemed calmly sure he 
 could track raid discover. Accordingly, they 
 both set out in the somewhat devious and de- 
 sultory road which Merle, who had some old 
 acquaintances among the ancient profession of 
 hawkers, had advised Waife to take. But Merle, 
 unhappily confiding more in his crystal than 
 Waife's steady adherence to the chart prescribed, 
 led the Oxford scholar the life of a will-of- 
 the-wisp ; zigzag, and shooting to and fro, here 
 and there, till, just when George had lost all 
 patience, Jlerle chanced to see, not in the crj's- 
 tal, a. pelerine on the neck of a fiirmer's daugh- 
 ter, wdiich he was morally certain he had him- 
 self selected for Waife's pannier. And the girl 
 stating, in reply to his inquiry, that her father 
 had bought that pelerine as a present for her, 
 not many days before, of a peddler in a neighbor- 
 ing town, to the market of which the farmer re- 
 sorted weekly, ^lerle cast a horary scheme, and 
 finding the Third House (of short joui'neys) in 
 favorable aspect to the Seventh House (contain- 
 ing the object desired), and in conjunction with 
 the Eleventh House (friends), he gravely inform- 
 ed the scholar that their toils were at an end, and 
 that the Hour and the Man were at hand. Not 
 oversanguine, George consigned himself and 
 the seer to an early train, and reached the fa- 
 mous town of Ouzelford, whither, when the 
 chronological order of our narrative (which we 
 have so far somewhat forestalled) will permit, 
 we shall conduct the inquisitive reader. 
 
 IMeanwhile Lionel, subscribing without a mur- 
 mur to Lady ilontfort's injunction to see Sophy- 
 no more till Darrell had been conferred with 
 
226 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 and his consent won, returned to his lodgings 
 in London, sanguine of success and flushed with 
 joy. His intention was to set out at once to 
 Fawlev ; but on reaching town he found there 
 a few lines from Darrell himself, in reftly to a 
 long and affectionate letter which Lionel had 
 written a few days before, asking permission to 
 visit the old manor-house ; for amidst all his ab- 
 sorbing love for Sophy, the image of his lonely 
 benefactor in that gloomy hermitage often rose 
 before him. In these lines Darrell, not unkind- 
 ly, but very peremptorily, declined Lionel's over- 
 tures. "In truth, my dear young kinsman," 
 T\T0te the recluse — "in truth I am, with slow- 
 ness, and with frequent relapses, laboring through 
 convalescence from a moral fever. My nen'es 
 are yet unstrung. I am as one to whom is pre- 
 scribed the most complete repose — the visits, 
 even of friends the dearest, forbidden as a peril- 
 ous excitement. The sight of you — of any one 
 from the great world — but especiallyof one whose 
 rich vitality of youth and hope affronts and mocks 
 my own fiitigued exhaustion, would but irritate, 
 unsettle, torture me. When I am quite well I 
 will ask you to come. I shall enjoy your visit. 
 Till then, on no account, and on no pretext, let 
 my morbid ear catch the sound of your footfall 
 on my quiet floor. Write to me often, but tell 
 me nothing of the news and gossip of the world. 
 Tell me only of yourself, your studies, your 
 thoughts, your sentiments, your wishes. Nor 
 forget my injunctions. Marry young, marry for 
 love ; let no ambition of power, no greed of gold, 
 ever mislead you into giving to j-our life a com- 
 pa;;ion who is not the half of your soul. Choose 
 with the heart of a man ; I know that you will 
 choose with the self-esteem of a gentleman ; and 
 be assured beforehand of the sympathy and sanc- 
 tion of your 
 
 " Churlish but LovrsG Kixsmax." 
 
 After this letter, Lionel felt that, at all events, 
 he could not at once proceed to the old manor- 
 house in defiance of its owner's prohibition. He 
 wrote briefly, entreating Darrell to forgive him 
 if he persisted in the prayer to be received at 
 Fawley, stating that his desire for a personal 
 interview was now suddenly become special and 
 urgent; tliat it not only concerned himself, but 
 affected his benefactor. By return of post Dar- 
 rell replied with curt frigidity, repeating, with 
 even sternness, his refusal to receive Lionel, but 
 professing himself ready to attend to all that his 
 kinsman might address to him by letter. '"If 
 it be as you state," wrote Darrell, with his ha- 
 bitual irony, " a matter that relates to myself, 
 I claim, as a lawyer for my own affairs — the pre- 
 caution I once enjoined to my clients — a written 
 brief should always precede a personal consult- 
 ation." 
 
 In fact, the proud man suspected that Lionel 
 had been directly or indirectly addressed on be- 
 half of Jasper Losely ; and certainly that was 
 the last subject on which he would have grant- 
 ed an inteniew to his young kinsman. Lionel, 
 however, was not perhaj)s sorry to be thus com- 
 pelled to tiT.st to writing his own and Sophy's 
 cause. Darrell was one of those men whose 
 presence insjures a certain awe — one of those 
 men whom we feel, upon great occasions, less 
 embarrassed to address by letter than in person. 
 Lionel's pen moved rapidly — his whole heart 
 
 and soul suffused with feeling, and, rushing over 
 the page, he reminded Darrell of the day when 
 he had told to the rich man the tale of the love- 
 ly wandering child, and how, out of his s}Tnpathy 
 for that child, Darrell's apjiroving. fostering ten- 
 derness to himself had grown. Thus indirectly 
 to her forlorn condition had he owed the rise in 
 his own fortunes. He went through the story 
 of William Losely as he had gathered it from 
 Alban ^lorley, and touched pathetically on his 
 own father's share in that dark history. If Will- 
 iam Losely really was hurried into crime by the 
 tempting necessity for a comparatively trifling 
 sum, but for Charles Haughton, would the ne- 
 cessity have arisen ? Eloquently then the lover 
 united grandfather and grandchild in one touch- 
 ing picture — their love for eaclt-other, their de- 
 pendence on each other. He enlarged on Sophy's 
 charming, unselfish, simple, noble character ; 
 he told how he had again found her ; he dwelt 
 on the refining accomplishments she owed to 
 Lady Montfort's care. How came she with Lady 
 Montfort ? Why had Lady Montfort cherished, 
 adopted her ? Because Lady Montfort told him 
 how much her own childhood had owed to Dar- 
 rell ; because, should Sophy be, as alleged, the 
 offspring of his daughter, the heiress of his line, 
 Caroline Montfort rejoiced to guard her from 
 danger, save her from poverty, and ultimately 
 thus to fit her to be not only acknowledged with 
 delight, but with pride. Why had he been en- 
 joined not to divulge to Darrell that he had again 
 found, and under Lady ^lontfort's roof, the child 
 whom, while yet unconscious of her claims, Dar- 
 rell himself had vainly sought to find, and be- 
 nevolently designed to succor? Because Lady 
 ^lontfort wished to fulfill her task — complete 
 Sophy's education, interrupted by grief for her 
 missing grandfather, and obtain indeed, when 
 William Losely again returned, some proofs (if 
 such existed) to corroborate the assertion of 
 Sophy's parentage. "And," added Lionel, 
 "Lady ISIontfort seems to fear that she has giv- 
 en you some cause of displeasure — what I know 
 not, but which might have induced you to dis- 
 approve of the acquaintance I had begun with 
 her. Be that as it may, v.ould you could hear 
 the reverence with which she ever alludes to 
 your worth — the gratitude with which she attests 
 her mother's and her own early obligations to 
 your intellect and heart !" Finally, Lionel wove 
 all his threads of recital into the confession of 
 the deep love into which his romantic memories 
 of Sophy's wandering childhood had been ripen- 
 ed by the sight of her graceful, cultured youth. 
 " Grant," he said, "that her father's tale be false 
 — and no doubt you have sufficient reasons to 
 discredit it — still, if you can not love her as 
 your daughter's- child, receive, know her, I im- 
 ]dore — let her love and revere you — as my wife ! 
 Leave me to protect her from a lawless father — 
 leave me to redeem, by some deeds of loyalty 
 and honor, any stain that her grandsire's sen- 
 tence may seem to fix upon our union. Oil ! if 
 ambitious before, how ambitious I should be now 
 — to efface, for her sake as for mine, her grand- 
 sire's sliame, my father's en-ors ! But if, on the 
 other hand, she should, on the requisite inqui- 
 ries, be ])roved to descend from your ancestry — 
 3'our father's blood in her pure veins — I know, 
 alas! then that I should have no right to aspire 
 to such nuptials. Who would even think of her 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 227 
 
 descent from a William Losely ? Who would 
 not be too proud to remember only her descent 
 from you ? All spots would vanish in the splen- 
 dor of your renown ; the highest in the land 
 would court her alliance. And I am but the 
 pensioner of your bounty, and only on my father's 
 side of gentle origin. But still I think you would 
 not reject me — you would place the future to my 
 credit ; and I would wait, wait patiently, till I 
 hud won such a soldier's name as would entitle 
 me to mate with a daughter of the Darrells." 
 
 Sheet upon' sheet the young eloquence flowed 
 on— seeking, with an art of which the writer 
 was unconscious, all the arguments and points 
 of view which might be the most captivating to 
 the superb jiride or to the exquisite tenderness 
 which seemed to Lionel the ruling elements of 
 Darrell's character. 
 
 He had not to wait long for a reply. At the 
 first glance of the address on its cover his mind 
 misgave him ; the hopes that had hitherto elated 
 his spirit yielded to abrupt forebodings. Dar- 
 rell's handwriting was habitually in harmony 
 with the intonations of his voice — singularly 
 clear, formed with a peculiar and original ele- 
 gance, yet with the undulating ease of a natu- 
 ral, candid, impulsive character. And that 
 decorous care in such mere trifles as the very 
 sealing of a letter, which, neglected by musing 
 poets and abstracted authors, is observable in 
 men of high public station, was in Guy Darrell 
 significant of the Patrician dignity that im- 
 parted a certain stateliness to his most ordinary 
 actions. 
 
 But in the letter which lay in Lionel's hand 
 the writer was scarcely recognizable — the di- 
 rection blurred, the characters dashed off from 
 a pen fierce yet tremulous ; the seal a great 
 blotch of wax ; the device of the heron, with its 
 soaring motto, indistinct and mangled, as if the 
 stamping instrument had been i)lucked wrath- 
 fully away before the wax had cooled. And 
 when Lionel opened the letter, the handwriting 
 M'ithin was yet more indicative of mental dis- 
 order. The very ink looked menacing and 
 angry — blacker as the pen had been forcibly 
 driven into the page. 
 
 '■L'nhappy boy!" began the ominous epistle, 
 "is it through you that the false and detested 
 woman who has withered up the noonday of 
 my life seeks to dishonor its blighted close ? 
 Talk not to me of Lady Montfort's gratitude 
 and reverence ! Talk not to me of her amiable, 
 tender, holy aim, to obtrude upon my childless 
 house the grand-daughter of a convicted felon ! 
 Show her these lines, and ask her by what 
 knowledge of my nature she can assume that 
 ignominy to my name would be a blessing to 
 my hearth ? Ask her, indeed, how she can 
 dare to force herself still u]>on my thoughts — 
 dare to imagine she can lay me under obliga- 
 tions—dare to think she can be a something 
 still in my forlorn existence ! Lionel Haun-hton, 
 I command you, in the name of all the dead 
 whom we can claim as ancestors in common, to 
 tear from j'our heart, as you would tear a thou dit 
 of disgrace, this image which has bewitched 
 your reason. Jly daughter, thank Heaven, left 
 no pledge of an execrable union. Bat a girl 
 who has been brought up by a thief — a girl 
 whom a wretch so lost to honor as Jasjier Losely 
 sought to make an instrument of fraud to my 
 
 harassment and disgrace, be her virtues and 
 beauty what they may, I could not, without in- 
 tolerable anguish, contemplate as the wife of 
 Lionel Haughton. But receive her as your wife ! 
 Admit her within these walls! Never, never; 
 I scorn to threaten you with loss of favor, loss 
 of fortune. Marry her if you will. You shall 
 have an ample income secured to you. But 
 from that moment our lives are separated — our 
 relation ceases. You will never agqin see nor 
 address me. But oh, Lionel ! can you — can you 
 inflict upon me this crowning sorrow? Can 
 you, for the sake of a girl of whom you have 
 seen but little, or in the Quixotism of atone- 
 ment for your father's fault, complete the in- 
 gratitude I have experienced from those who 
 owed me most ? I can not think it. I rejoice 
 that you wrote — did not urge this suit in per- 
 son. I should not have been able to control my 
 jjassion ; we might have parted foes. As it is, 
 I restrain myself with difficulty ! That woman, 
 that child, associated thus to tear from me the 
 last affection left to my ruined heart! No! 
 You will not be so cruel ! Send this, I com- 
 mand you, to Lady IMontfort. See again neither 
 her nor the impostor she has been cherishing 
 for my disgrace . This letter will be your excuse 
 to break off with both — with both ! ' 
 
 "Guy Dakrell." 
 
 Lionel was stunned. Not for several hours 
 could he recover self-possession enough to ana- 
 lyze his own emotions, or discern the sole course 
 that lay before him. After such a letter from 
 such a benefactor, no option was left to him. 
 Sophy must be resigned ; but the sacrifice crushed 
 him to the earth — crushed the ver}' manhood 
 out of him. He threw himself on the floor, 
 sobbing— sobbing, as if body and soul were torn, 
 each from each, in convulsive spasms. 
 
 But send this letter to Lady Montfort ! A 
 letter so wholly at variance with Darrell's dig- 
 nity of character — a letter in which rage seemed 
 lashed to unreasoning frenzy ! Such bitter lan- 
 guage of hate and scorn, and even insult, to a 
 woman, and to the very woman who had seemed 
 to Lionel so reverently to cherish the writer's 
 name — so tenderly to scheme for the writer's 
 happiness ! Could he obey a command that 
 seemed to lower Darrell even more than it could 
 himible her to whom it was to be sent? 
 
 Yet disobey ! What but the letter itself could 
 explain! Ah — and was there not some strange 
 misunderstanding with respect to Lady INIont- 
 fort, which tlie letter itself, and nothing but the 
 letter, would enable her to dispel ; and if dis- 
 pelled, might not Darrell's whole mind undergo 
 a change ? A flash of joy suddenly broke on 
 his agitated, tempestuous thoughts. Ho forced 
 himself again to read those blotted, impetuous 
 lines. Evidently — evidently, while writing to 
 Lionel — the subject Sop>hy — the man's wrathful 
 heart had been addressing itself to neither. A 
 suspicion seized him ; with tliat susjjicion, hope. 
 He would send the letter, and with but few 
 words from himself — words that revealed his 
 immense despair at the thought of relinquishing 
 Sophy — intimated his belief tluit Dan-ell here 
 was, from some error of judgment which Lio- 
 nel could not com])rehend, avenging himself on 
 Lady Montfort; and closed with his prayer to 
 her, if so, to forgive lines colored by hasty pas- 
 
228 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 sion, and, for the sake of all, not to disdain 
 that self-vindication which might perhaps yet 
 soften a nature possessed of such dcjjths of 
 sweetness as that which appeared now so cruel 
 and so bitter! He would not yet despond — not 
 yet commission her to <^ive his last farewell to 
 Sophy. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The Man-eater continues to take his quiet steak out of 
 Dolly Poole, and is in turn subjected to the anatomical 
 knife of the dissecting Author. Two traps are laid for 
 him — one by his fellow Man-eaters — one by that dead- 
 ly persecutrix, the Woman who tries to save him in 
 spite of all he can do to be hanged. 
 
 Meanwhile the unhappy Adolphus Poole 
 had been the reluctant but unfailing source 
 from which Jasper Losely had weekly drawn 
 the supplies to his worthless and workless exist- 
 ence. Never, was a man more constrainedly be- 
 nevolent, and less recompensed for pecuniary 
 sacrifice by applauding conscience, thaia the 
 doomed inhabitant of Alhambra Villa. In the 
 utter failure of his attempts to discover Sophy, 
 or to induce Jasper to accept Colonel Morley's 
 proposals, he saw this parasital monster fixed 
 upon his entrails, like the vulture on those of 
 the classic sufferer in mythological tales. Jas- 
 per, indeed, had accommodated himself to this 
 regular and unlaborious mode of gaining ^^ sa 
 pauvra vie." To call once a week upon his old 
 acquaintance, frighten him with a few threats, 
 or force a death-like smile from agonizing lijjs 
 by a few villainous jokes, carry off his four sov- 
 ereigns, and enjoy himself thereon till pay-day 
 duly returned, was a condition of things that Jas- 
 per did not greatly care to improve ; and truly had 
 he said to Poole that his earlier energy had left 
 him. As a sensualist of Jasper's stamp grows 
 older and falls lower, indolence gradually usurps 
 the place once occupied by vanity or ambition. 
 Jasper was bitterly aware that his old comeli- 
 ness was gone; that never more could he en- 
 snare a maiden's heart or a widow's gold. And 
 when this truth was fully brought home to him, 
 it made a strange revolution in all his habits. He 
 cared no longer for dress and gewgaws — sought 
 rather to hide himself than to parade. In the 
 neglect of the person he had once so idolized— 
 in the coarse roughness which now characterized 
 his exterior — there was that sullen despair which 
 the vain only know when what had made them 
 dainty and jocund is gone forever. The liuman 
 mind, in deteriorating, fits itself to the sj)here 
 into which it declines. Jasper would not now, 
 if he could, have driven a cal)riolet down St. 
 James's Street. He had taken more and more 
 to the vice of drinking as the excitement of 
 gambling was withdrawn from him. For how 
 gamlile with those who had notliing to lose, and 
 to whom he himself would liavc been pigeon, 
 not hawk? And as ho found that, on what he 
 thus drew regularly from Dolly Poole, he could 
 command all the comforts that his inibruted 
 tastes now desired, so an odd kind of ])rudence, 
 for the first time in liis life, came with what 
 he chose to consider "a settled income." He 
 mixed with ruffians in their niglitly orgies ; 
 treated them to cheap potations ; swaggered, 
 bullied, boasted, but shared in no jjroject of 
 
 theirs vvliich might bring into jeopardy the life 
 which Dolly Poole rendered so comfortable and 
 secure. His energies, once so restless, were 
 lulled, j)artly by habitual intoxication, partly by 
 tlie physical pains which had nestled themselves 
 into his robust fibres, eftbrts of an immense and 
 still tenacious vitality to throw ofi' diseases re- 
 pugnant to its native magnificence of health. 
 The finest constitutions are those which, when 
 once seriously im])aired, occasion the direst 
 pain ; but they also enable the suflPerer to bear 
 pain that would soon wear away the delicate. 
 And Jasper bore his pains stoutly, though at 
 times they so exasperated his temper, that woe 
 then to any of his comrades whose want of cau- 
 tion or i-espect gave him the occasion to seek re- 
 lief in wrath! His hand was asTieavy, liis arm 
 as stalwart as ever. George Morley had been 
 rightly informed. Even by burglars and cut- 
 throats, whose dangers he shunned, while fear- 
 lessly he joined their circle, Jasper Losely was 
 regarded with terror. To be the awe of reck- 
 less men, as he had been the admiration of fool- 
 ish women, this was delight to his vanity — the 
 last delight that was left to it. But he thus pro- 
 voked a danger to which his arrogance was blind. 
 His boon companions began to grow tired of 
 him. He had been welcomed to their resort on 
 the strength of the catch-word or passport which 
 confederates at Paris had communicated to him, 
 and of the reputation for great daring and small 
 scruple which he took from Cutts, who was of 
 high caste among their mysterious tribes, and 
 who every now and then flitted over the Conti- 
 nent, safe and accursed as the Wandering Jew. 
 But when they found that this Achilles of the 
 Greeks would only talk big, and employ his wits 
 on his private exchequer and his thews against 
 themselves, they began not only to tire of his 
 imperious manner, but to doubt his fidelity to 
 the cause. And all of a sudden, Cutts, who 
 had at first extolled Jasjjcr as one likely to be a 
 valuable acquisition to the Family of Night, al- 
 tered his tone, and insinuated that the bravo 
 was not to be trusted ; that his reckless temper 
 and incautious talk when drunk would unfit him 
 for a safe accomplice in any skillful project of 
 plunder; and that he was so unscrupulous, and 
 had so little sympathy with their class, that he 
 might be quite capable of playing spy or turning 
 king's evidence ; that, in short, it would be well 
 to rid themselves of his domineering presence. 
 Still there was that j)hysical power in this lazy 
 Hercules — still, if the Do-naught, he w^as so 
 fiercely the Dread-naught — that they did not 
 dare, despite the advantage of numbers, openly 
 to brave and defy him. ^Jo one would bell the 
 cat — and such a cat I They began to lay plots 
 to get rid of him through the law. Nothing 
 could be easier to such knowing adepts in guilt 
 than to transfer to his charge any deed of vio- 
 lence one of their own gang had committed — 
 heap damning circumstances round him — privi- 
 ly apprise justice — falsely swear away his life. 
 In short, the man was in their way, as a wasp 
 that has blundered into an ant's nest; and, 
 while frightened at the size of the intruder, 
 these honest ants were resolved to get him out 
 of their citadel alive or dead. Probable it was 
 that Jasper Losely w^ould meet with his deserts 
 at last for an ottense of which he was innocent 
 as a babe unborn. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 229 
 
 It is at this juncture that we are readmitted 
 to the presence of Arabella Crane. 
 
 She was standing by a window on the upper 
 floor of a house situated in a narrow street. The 
 blind was let down, but she had drawn it a little 
 aside, and was looking out. By the fireside was 
 seated a thin, vague, gnome-like figure, perched 
 comfortless on the edge of a rush-bottomed chair, 
 with its shadowy knees drawn up till they near- 
 ly touched its shadowy chin. There was some- 
 thing about the outline of this figure so indefin- 
 ite and unsubstantial, that you might have taken 
 it for an optical illusion, a spectral apparition 
 on the \)oint of vanishing. This thing was. how- 
 ever, possessed of voice, and was speaking in a 
 low but distinct hissing whisjier. As the whis- 
 per ended, Arabella Crane, without turning her 
 face, spoke, also under her breath. 
 
 "You are sure that, so long as Losely draws 
 this v,-eekly stipend from the man whom he has 
 in his power, he will persist in the same course 
 of life. Can you not warn him of the danger ?" 
 
 '•Peach against pals! I dare not. No trust- 
 ing him. He would come down, mad with 
 brandy, make an infernal row, seize two or 
 three by the throat, dash their heads against 
 each other, blab, bully, and a knife w'ould be 
 out, and a weasand or two cut, and a carcass or 
 so drop])ed into the Thames, mine certainly — 
 his perhaps." 
 
 " You say you can keep back this plot against 
 him for two or three days ?" 
 
 "For two days— yes. I should be glad to 
 save General Jas. He has the bones of a fine 
 fellow, and if he had not destroyed himself by 
 brandy, he might have been at the top of the 
 tree— in the ])rofession. But he is fit for no- 
 thing now." 
 
 " Ah ! and you say the brand}' is killing him ?" 
 
 "Xo, he will not be killed by brandy, if he 
 continues to drink it among the same jolly set." 
 
 "And if he were left without the money to 
 spend among these terrible companions, he 
 would no longer resort to their meetings ? You 
 are right there. The same vanity that makes 
 him pleased to be the great man in that society 
 would make him shrink from coming among 
 them as a beggar." 
 
 "And if he had not the wherewithal to pay 
 the weekly subscrijnion, there would be an ex- 
 cuse to shut the door in his face. All these fel- 
 lows wish to do is to get rid of him ; and if by fair 
 means, there would be no necessity to resort to 
 foul. The only danger would be that from which 
 you have so often saved him. In despair would 
 he not commit some violent, rash action — a 
 street-robbery, or something of the kind? He 
 has courage for any violence, but no longer the 
 cool head to plan a scheme which would not be 
 detected. Y'ou see I can prevent mj' pals join- 
 ing in such risks as he may propose, or letting 
 him (if he were to ask it) into any adventure 
 of their own, for they know that I am a safe ad- 
 viser ; they respect me ; the law has never been 
 able to lay hold of me ; and when I say to them, 
 'That fellow drinks, blabs, and boasts, and would 
 bring us all into trouble,' they will have nothing 
 to do with him ; but I can not prevent his doing 
 what he pleases out of his own muddled head, 
 and with his own reckless hand." 
 
 " But you will keep in his confidence, and let 
 me know all that he proposes?" 
 
 "l''es." 
 
 " And meanwhile he must come to me. And 
 this time I have more hope than ever, since his 
 health gives way, and he is weary of crime it- 
 self. Mr. Cutts, come near — softly. Look — 
 nay, nay, he can not see you from below, and 
 you are screened by the bhnd. Look, I say, 
 where he sits." 
 
 She pointed to a room on the ground-floor in 
 the opposite house, where might be dimly seen 
 a dull, red fire in a sordid grate, and a man's 
 form, the head ijillowed upon arms that rested 
 on a small table. On the table a glass, a bottle. 
 
 "It is thus that his mornings pass," said Ara- 
 bella Crane, with a wild, bitter pity in the tone 
 of her voice. "Look, I say, is he formidable 
 now ? can you fear him ?" 
 
 " Very much indeed," muttered Cntts. " He 
 is only stupefied, and he can shake off a doze as 
 quickly as a biill-dog does when a rat is let into 
 his kennel." 
 
 "Mr. Cutts, you tell me that he constantly 
 carries about him the same old ]:ocket-book 
 which he says contains his fortune; in other 
 words, the papers that frighten his victim into 
 giving him the money which is now the cause 
 of his danger. There is surely no pocket 3'ou 
 can not pick or get picked, Mr. Cutts ? Fifty 
 pounds for that book in three hours." 
 
 "Fifty pounds are not enough ; the man he 
 sponges on would give more to have those pa- 
 pers in his power." 
 
 "Possibly; but Losely has not been dolt 
 enough to trust you sufficiently to enable you to 
 know how to commence negotiations. Even if 
 the man's name and address be among those pa- 
 pers, you could not make use of the knowledge 
 without bringing Jasper himself upon you ; and 
 even if Jasper were out of the way, you would 
 not have the same hold over his victim : you 
 know not the circumstances ; you could make 
 no story out of some incoherent rambling let- 
 ters ; and the man, who, I can tell you, is by 
 nature a +)ully, and strong, compared with any 
 other man but Jasper, would seize you by the 
 collar ; and you would be lucky if you got out 
 of his house with no other loss than the letters, 
 and no other gain but a broken bone. Pooh! 
 you know all that, or you would have stolen the 
 book, and made use of it before. Fifty pounds 
 for that book in three hours ; and if Jasper 
 Losely be safe and alive six months hence, fifty 
 pounds more, Mr. Cutts. See! he stirs not — 
 he must be fast asleep. Now is the moment." 
 
 "AVhat, in his own room!" said Cutts, with 
 contempt. "Why, he would know who did it; 
 and where should I be to-morrow ? No — in the 
 streets ; any one has a right to pick a pocket in 
 the Queen's highways. In three hours you shall 
 have the book." 
 
 CHAPTER VHI. 
 
 Jlercury i3 the Patron Deity of Mercantile Speculators, 
 as well as of crack-brained Poets; indeed, he is much 
 more favorable, more a friend at a pinch, to the former 
 class of his proteges than he is to the latter. 
 "PooLrii per hoftes Mercurius celer 
 DenbO paventem su-tulit aere." 
 
 Poole was sitting with his wife after dinner. 
 He had made a good speculation that day ; little 
 
330 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Johnny would be all the better for it a few years 
 hence, and some other man's little Johnnys all 
 the worse — but each for himself in this world ! 
 Poole was therefore basking in the light of his 
 gentle helpmate's approving smile. He had 
 taken an extra glass of a venerable port-wine, 
 which had passed to his cellar from the bins of 
 Uncle Sam. Commercial prosperity without, 
 conjugal felicity within, the walls of Alhambra 
 Villa; surely Adolphus Poole is an enviable man I 
 Does he look so ? The ghost of what he was 
 but a few months ago! His cheeks have fallen 
 in ; his clothes hang on him like bags ; there is 
 a won-ied, haggard look in his eyes, a nervous 
 twitch in his lips, and every now and then he 
 looks at the handsome Parisian clock on the 
 chimney-piece, and then shifts his posture, snubs 
 his connubial angel, who asks "what ails him?" 
 refills his glass, and stares on the fire, seeing 
 strange shapes in the mobile aspects of the 
 coals. 
 
 To-morrow brings back this weekly spectre! 
 To-morrow Jasper Losely, punctual to the stroke 
 of eleven, returns to remind him of that past 
 which, if revealed, will blast the future. And re- 
 vealed it might be any hour, despite the biibe for 
 silence which he must pay with his own hands, 
 under his own roof. Would he trust another with 
 the secret of that payment ? — horror ! Would 
 he visit Losely at his own lodging, and pay him 
 there ? — murder ! Would he appoint him some- 
 where in the streets — run the chance of being 
 seen with such a friend ? Respectability con- 
 fabulating with offal I — disgrace ! And Jasper 
 had on the last two or three visits been pecul- 
 iarly disagreeable. He had talked loud. Poole 
 feared that his wife might have her ear at the 
 keyhole. Jasper had seen the parloi'-raaid in 
 the passage as he went out and caught her 
 round the waist. The parlor-maid had com- 
 plained to INIrs. Poole, and said she should leave 
 if so insulted by such anuglv blackguard. Fan- 
 cy I what the poor lady-killer has come to I ^Irs. 
 Poole had grown more and more inquisitive and 
 troublesome on the subject of such extraordinary 
 visits ; and now, as her husband stirred the fire 
 — having roused her secret ire by his previous 
 unmanly snubbings, and Mrs. Poole being one 
 of those incomparable wives who have a perfect 
 command of temper, who never reply to angry 
 words at the moment, and who always, with ex- 
 quisite calm and self-possession, pay off every 
 angry word by an amiable sting at a right mo- 
 ment — Mrs. Poole, I say, thus softly said : 
 
 " Sammy, duck, we know what makes oo so 
 cross; but it sha'n't vex 00 long, Sammy. That 
 dreadful man comes to-morrow. He always 
 comes the same day of tlie week." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Mrs. Poole." 
 
 "Yes, Sammy dear, I'll hold my tongue. 
 But Sammy sha'n't be imposed upon by mendi- 
 cants ; for I know he is a mendicant — one of 
 those sharpers or black-legs who took oo in, 
 poor innocent Sam, in oo wild l)achelor days, 
 and 00 good heart can't bear to see him in dis- 
 tress ; but there must be an end to all things." 
 
 " Mrs. Poole — Mrs. Poole — will you stop your 
 fool's jaw or not ?" 
 
 " ^ly poor dear hubby," said the angel, 
 squeezing out a mild tear, " oo will be in good 
 hands to advise oo ; for I've been and told Pal" 
 
 " You have," faltered Poole, " told your father 
 
 — ^v^ou have I" and the expression of his face be- 
 came so ghastly that Mrs. Poole grew seriously 
 terrified. She had long felt that there was 
 something very suspicious in her husband's sub- 
 mission to the insolence of so rude a visitor. 
 But she knew that he was not brave ; the man 
 might intimidate him by threats of personal 
 violence. The man might probably be some 
 poor relation, or some one whom Poole had 
 ruined, either in by-gone discreditable sporting 
 days, or in recent respectable mercantile specu- 
 lations. But at that ghastly look a glimpse of 
 the real truth broke upon her ; and she stood 
 speechless and appalled. At this moment there 
 was a loud ring at the street-door bell. Poole 
 gathered himself up, and staggered out of the 
 room into the passage. 
 
 His wife remained without motion; for the 
 first time she conceived a fear of her husband. 
 Presently she heard a harsh female voice in the 
 hall, and then a joyous exclamation from Poole 
 himself. Recovered by these unexpected sounds, 
 she v>-ent mechanically forth into the passage, 
 just in time to see the hems of a dark iron-gray 
 dress disappearing within Poole's study, while 
 Poole, who had opened the study door, and was 
 bowing in the iron-gray dress obsequiously, 
 turned his eye toward his wife, and striding to- 
 ward her for a moment, whispered — '• Go up 
 stairs, and stir not," in a tone so unlike his 
 usual gi'uff accents of command, that it cowed 
 her out of the profound contempt with which 
 she habitually received, while smilingly obey- 
 ing, his marital authority. 
 
 Poole, vanishing into his study, carefully 
 closed his door, and would have caught his lady 
 visitor by both her hands ; but she waved him 
 back, and, declining a seat, remained sternly- 
 erect. 
 
 '• ^Ir. Poole, I have but a few words to say. 
 The letters which gave Jasper Losely the power 
 to extort money from you are no longer in his 
 possession ; they are in mine. Yon need fear 
 him no more — you will fee him no more." 
 
 " Oh I" ci-ied Poole, falling on his knees, "the 
 blessing of a father of a family — a babe not six 
 weeks born — be on your blessed, blessed head !" 
 
 " Get up, and don't talk nonsense. I do not 
 give you these papers at present, nor burn them. 
 Instead of being in the power of a muddled, ir- 
 resolute diimkard, you are in the power of a 
 vigilant, clear-brained woman. You are in my 
 j)ower, and you will act as I tell you." 
 
 " You can ask nothing wrong, I am sure," 
 said Poole, his grateful enthusiasm much abated. 
 "Command me; but the papers can be of no 
 use to you ; I will pay for them handsomely." 
 
 " Be silent and listen. I retain these papers 
 — first, because Jas])er Losely must not know 
 that they ever passed to my hands ; secondly, 
 because you must inflict no injury on Losely 
 himself Betray me to him, or try to render 
 himself up to the law, and the documents will 
 be used against you ruthlessly. Obey, and you 
 have nothing to fear, and nothing to pay. 
 When Jasper Losely calls on you to-morrow, 
 ask him to show you the letters. He can not ; 
 he will make excuses. Decline peremptorily, 
 but not insultingly (his temper is fierce), to pay 
 him farther. He' will perliaps charge you with 
 having hired some one to purloin his pocket- 
 book; let him think it. Stoi) — your window 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 231 
 
 here opens on the ground ; a garden without : 
 — Ah I have three of the poUce in that garden, 
 in sight of the window. Point to them if he 
 threaten you ; summon them to your aid, or 
 pass out to them, if he actually attempt violence. 
 But when he has left the house, you must urge 
 no charge against him ; he must be let olf un- 
 scathed. You can be at no loss for excuse in 
 this mercy: a friend of former times — needy, 
 unfortunate, whom habits of drink maddened 
 for the moment — necessary to eject him, inhu- 
 man to prosecute— any story you please. The 
 next day you can, if you choose, leave London 
 for a short time ; I adrise it. But his teeth will 
 be drawn ; he v.ill most probably never trouble 
 you again. I know his character. There, I 
 have done ; open the door. Sir." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 The wreck and the life-boat ia a fog. 
 
 The next day, a little after noon, Jasper 
 Losely, coming back from Alhambra Yilla — 
 furious, desperate, knowing not where to turn 
 for bread, or on whom to pour his rage — beheld 
 suddenly, in a quiet, half-built street, which led 
 from the suburb to the New Road, Arabella 
 Crane standing right in his path. She had 
 emerged from one of the many straight inter- 
 secting roads which characterize that crude 
 nebula of a future city : and the woman and 
 the man met thus face to face ; not another 
 passer-by visible in the thoroughfare ; at a dis- 
 tance the dozing hack cab-stand; round and 
 about them carcasses of brick and mortar — 
 some with gaunt scaffolding fixed into their 
 ribs, and all looking yet more weird in their 
 raw struggle into shape tlirough the livid haze 
 of a yellow fog. 
 
 Losely, seeing Arabella thus planted in his 
 way, recoiled; and the superstition in which 
 he had long associated her image with baiHed 
 schemes and perilous hours, sent the ^vrathful 
 blood back through his veins so quickly that he 
 heard his heart beat I 
 
 3Ies. Cr-^xe. " So ! Tou see we can not 
 help meeting, Jasper dear, do what you wiU to 
 shun me." 
 
 LosELT. "I — I — you always startle me sol 
 — you are in town, then ? — to stay ? — your old 
 quarters?" 
 
 !Mrs. Ceaxe. " Why ask ? You can not wish 
 to know where I am — you would not call. But 
 how fares it ? — what do you do ? — how do you 
 live ? You look ill — Poor Jasper I' 
 
 Losely (fiercely). "Hang your pity, and give 
 me some money." 
 
 :Mes. Ceaxe (calmly laying her lean hand on 
 the arm which was darted forward more in men- 
 ace than entreaty, and actually terrifying the 
 Gladiator as she linked that deadly arm into her 
 own). "I said you would always find me when 
 at the worst of your troubles. And so, Jasper, 
 it shall be till this right hand of yours is power- 
 less as the clay at our feet. Walk — walk ; you 
 are not afraid of me ? — walk on, tell me all. 
 TMiere have you just been?" 
 
 Jasper, therewitli reminded of his wrongs, 
 poured out a volley of abuse on Poole, commu- 
 nicating to ilrs. Crane the whole story of his 
 
 claims on that gentleman — the loss of the pock- 
 et-book filched from him, and Poole's knowl- 
 edge that he was thus disarmed. 
 
 "And the coward," said he, grinding his 
 teeth, " got out of his window — and three po- 
 licemen in his garden. He must have bribed a 
 pickpocket — low knave that he is. But I shall 
 find out — and then — " 
 
 '•And then, Jasper, how will you be better 
 oft"? — the letters are gone ; and Poole has yon 
 in his power if you threaten him again. Kow, 
 hark you ; you did not murder the Italian who 
 : was found stabbed in the fields yonder a week 
 ago? £100 reward for the murderer." 
 I "I — no. How coldly you ask! I have hit 
 hard in fair fight — murdered, never. If ever I 
 take to that, I shall begin with Poole." 
 
 " But I tell you, Jasper, that you are suspected 
 of that murder ; that j^lk ^iH t)e accused of 
 that murder; and if I hSS not thus fortunately 
 met you, for that murder you would be tried 
 and hanged." 
 
 " Are you serious ? Who could accuse me ?" 
 
 " Those who know that you are not guilty — 
 
 ! those who coYild make you appear so — the ril- 
 
 ! lains with whom you horde, and drink, and 
 
 brawl! Have I ever been wi-ong in my wam- 
 
 1 ings yet ?" 
 
 " This is too hon-ible," faltered Losely, think- 
 
 ' ing not of the conspiracy against his life but of 
 
 her prescience in detecting it. '• It must be 
 
 I witchcraft, and nothing else. How cotild you 
 
 I learn what you tell me ?" 
 
 "That is my affair; enough for you that I 
 
 1 am right. Go no more to those black haunts ; 
 
 they are even now full of snares and pitfalls for 
 
 you. Leave London, and you are safe. Trust 
 
 to me." 
 
 " And where shall I go?" 
 " Look you, Jasper ; you have worn out this 
 Old World — no refuge for you but the New. 
 Whither went your father, thither go you. 
 Consent, and you shall not want. You can not 
 discover Sophy. You have failed in all attempts 
 on Darrell's purse. But agree to sail to Aus- 
 tralasia, and I will engage to you an income 
 larger than you sa\- you extorted from Poole, 
 to be spent in those safer shores." 
 
 " And you will go with me, I suppose," said 
 Losely, with ungracious snllenness. 
 
 " Go with you, as you please. Be where you 
 are — yes." 
 The rufiian bounded with rage and loathing. 
 "Woman, cross me no more, or I shall be 
 goaded into — " 
 
 " Into killing me — you dare not ! Meet my 
 eye if you can — you dare not ! Harm me, yea 
 a hair of my head, and yoiu' moments are num- 
 bered — ^your doom sealed I Be we two togeth- 
 er in a desert — not a human eye to see the deed 
 ; — not a human ear to receive my groan, and 
 still I should stand by your side unharmed. I, 
 ■ who have returned the wrongs received from 
 you by vigilant, untiring benefits — I, who have 
 saved you from so many enemies and so many 
 dangers — I, who, now when all the rest of earth 
 shun you, when all other resource fails — I, who 
 I now say to you, ' Share my income, but be hon- 
 lestl' — /receive injury from that hand! No; 
 the guilt would be too unnatural — Heaven would 
 not permit it. Try, and your arm will fall pal- 
 sied bv vour side I" 
 
"WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 Jasper's bloodshot eves dropped beneath the 
 woman's fixed and scorching gaze, and his lips, 
 white and tremulous, refused to breathe the 
 fierce curse into which his brutal nature con- 
 centrated its fears and its hate. He walked 
 on in gloomy silence ; but some words she had 
 let fall suggested a last resort to his own dar- 
 ing. 
 
 She had ui-ged him to quit the Old World for 
 the Xew, but that had been the very proposition 
 conveyed to him from Darrell. If that proposi- 
 tion, so repugnant to the indolence that had 
 grown over him, must be embraced, better, at 
 least, sail forth alone, his own master, than be 
 the dependent slave of this abhorred and ]jerse- 
 cuting benefactress. His despair gave him the 
 determination he had hitlierto lacked. He 
 would seek Darrell himself, and make the best 
 compromise he couldj^.This resolve passed into 
 his mind as he stalked on through the yellow 
 fog, and his nei'ves recovered from their irrita- 
 tion, and his thoughts regained something of 
 their ancient craft, as the idea of escaping from 
 Mi's. Crane's vigilance and charity assumed a 
 definite shape. 
 
 " Well," said he, at length, dissimulating his 
 repugnance, and with an eflfort at his old half- 
 coaxing, half-rollicking tones, "you certainly 
 are the best of creatures ; and, as you say, 
 
 'Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 
 I ne'er could injure you,' 
 
 ungi-ateful dog though I must seem, and very 
 likely am. I own I have a horror of Australia 
 — such a long sea-voyage ! New scdnes no lon- 
 ger attract me ; I am no longer young, though 
 I ought to be ; but, if you insist on it, and will 
 really condescend to accompany me, in spite of 
 all my sins to you, why, I can make up my mind. 
 And as to honesty, ask those infernal rascals 
 who, you say, would swear away my life, and 
 they will tell you that I have been as innocent 
 as a lamb since my return to England ; and 
 that is my guilt in their villainous eyes. As 
 long as that infamous Poole gave me enough 
 for my humble wants I was a reformed man. I 
 wish to keep reformed. Very little suffices for 
 me now. As you say, Australia may be the 
 best place for me. When shall we sail?" 
 
 " Are you serious?" 
 
 " To be sure." 
 
 " Then I will inquire the days on which the 
 vessels start. You can call on me at my own 
 old home, and all shall be arranged. Oh, Jas- 
 per Losely, do not avoid this last chance of es- 
 cape from the perils that gather round you." 
 
 I " No ; I am sick of life — of all things except 
 repose. Arabella, I suffer horrible pain." 
 I He groaned, for he spoke truly. At that mo- 
 ment the gnaw of the monster anguish, which 
 fastens on the nerves like a wolfs tooth, was so 
 keen that he longed to swell his groan into a 
 roar. The old fable of Hercules in the poison- 
 ed tunic was surely invented by some skilled 
 physiologist to denote the truth that it is only in' 
 the strongest frames that pain can be pushed 
 into its extremest torture. The heart of the 
 grim woman was instantly and thoroughly soft- 
 ened. She paused ; she made him lean on her 
 arm; she wiped the drops from his brow; she 
 addressed him in the most soothing tones of 
 pity. The spasm passed av.-ay _suddenly, as it 
 does in neuralgic agonies, and with it any grat- 
 itude or any remorse in the breast of the suf- 
 ferer. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I will call on you; but 
 meanwhile I am without a farthing." Oh, do 
 not fear that if you helped me now I should 
 again shun you. I have no other resource left ; 
 nor have I now the spirit I once had. I no lon- 
 ger now laugh at fatigue and danger." 
 
 " But will you swear by all that you yet hold 
 sacred — if, alas ! there be aught which is sacred 
 to you — that you will not again seek the com- 
 pany of those men who are conspiring to entrap 
 you into the hangman's hands?" 
 
 " Seek them again, the uhgrateful, cowardly 
 blackguards ! No, no ; I promise you that — sol- 
 emnly ; it is medical aid that I want ; it is rest, 
 I tell you — rest, rest, rest." 
 
 Arabella Crane drew forth her purse. "Take 
 what you will," said she, gently. Jasper, wheth- 
 er from the desire to deceive her, or because her 
 alms were really so distasteful to his strange 
 kind of pride that he stinted to bare necessity 
 the appeal to them, contented himself with a 
 third or a fourth of the sovereigns that the purse 
 contained ; and after a few words of thanks and 
 promises he left her side, and soon vanished in 
 the fog that grew darker and darker as the 
 night-like wintery day deepened over the silenced 
 thoroughfares. 
 
 The woman went her way through the mists, 
 hopeful — through the mists went the man, hope- 
 ful also. Recruiting himself by slight food and 
 strong drink at a tavern on his road, he stalked 
 on to Darrell's house in Carlton Gardens ; and, 
 learning there that Darrell was at Fawley, hast- 
 ened to the station from which started the train 
 to the town nearest to the old Manor House ; 
 reached that town safely, and there rested for 
 the night. 
 
ATHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 203 
 
 BOOK IX. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The secret Trliich Guy Darrell did not confide to Altian 
 iloi'lev. 
 
 It was a serene noonday in that melancholy 
 interlude of the seasons when autumn has real- 
 ly ceased — winter not yet visibly begun. The 
 same hired vehicle which had bfcnie Lionel to 
 Fawley, more tlian five years ago, stopped at 
 the pate of the wild, umbrageous sirass-land 
 that surrounded the antique !Manor House. It 
 had been engaged, from the nearest railway 
 station on the London Road, by a lady, with 
 a female companion who seemed her servant. 
 The di-iver dismounted, opened the door of the 
 vehicle, and the lady, bidding him wait there 
 till her return, and saying a few words to her 
 comj^anion, descended, and drawing her cloak 
 around her, walked on alone toward the Manor 
 House. At first her step was firm, and her pace 
 quick. She was still under the excitement of 
 the resolve in v.-hich the journey from her home 
 had been suddenly conceived and promptly ac- 
 complished. But as the path wound on through 
 the stillness of venerable groves, her courage 
 began to fail her. Her feet loitered, her eyes 
 wandered round vaguely, timidly. The scene 
 was not new to her. As she gazed, rushingly 
 gathered over her sorrowful, shrinking mind 
 memories of sportive, happy summer days, spent 
 in childhood amidst those turt's and shades — 
 memories, more agitating, of the last visit (child- 
 hood then ripened into blooming youth) to the 
 ancient dwelling which, yet concealed from view 
 by the swells of the undulating ground and the 
 yellow boughs of the giant trees, betrayed its 
 site by the smoke rising thin and dim against 
 the limpid atmosjihere. She bent down her 
 head, closing her eyes as if to shut out less the 
 face of the landscape than the images that rose, 
 ghost-like, up to people it, and sighed heavily, 
 heavily. Xow — hard by, roused from its bed 
 among the fern, the doe that Darrell had tamed 
 into companionship had watched with curiosity 
 this strange intruder on its solitary range. But 
 at the sound of that heavy sigh, "the creature, 
 emboldened, left its halting-place, and stole 
 close to the saddened woman, touching her very 
 dress. Doubtless, as Darrell's companion in his 
 most musing hours, the doe was famiHarized to 
 the sound of sighs, and associated the sound 
 with its gentlest notions of humanitv. 
 
 The lady, starting, raised her drooping lids, 
 and met those soft dark eyes, dark and soft as 
 her own. Round the animal's neck there was 
 a simple collar, with a silver plate, fresh and 
 new, evidently placed there recently ; and as 
 the creature thrust forward its head, as if for 
 the caress of a wonted hand, the lady read the 
 inscription. The words were in Italian, and 
 may be construed thus : '• Female, yet not faith- 
 less ; fostered, yet not ungrateful." As she read, 
 her heart so swelled, and her resolve so desert- 
 ed her, that she turned as if she had received a 
 
 sentence of dismissal, and went back some liastj 
 paces. The doe followed her till she ];aused 
 again, and then it went slowly down a narrow 
 path to the left, which led to 'the banks of the 
 little lake. 
 
 The lady had now recovered herself. " It is 
 a duty, and it must be done," she muttered ; 
 and letting down the vail she had raised on en- 
 tering the demesne, she humed on, not retrac- 
 ing her steps in the same pfih, but taking that 
 into which the doe had stricken — perhaps in the 
 confused mistake of a mind absorbed and absent 
 — perhaps in revived recollection of vhe locali- 
 ties ; for the way thus to the house was shorter 
 than by the weed-grown carriage-road. The 
 lake came in view, serene and glassy ; half leaf- 
 less woodlands reflected far upon its quiet wa- 
 ters ; the doe halted, lifted its head and sniffed 
 the air, and, somewhat quickening its pace, van- 
 ished behind one of the hillocks clothed with 
 brushwood, that gave so primitive and forest- 
 like a character to the old ground. Advancing 
 still, there now, at her right hand, grew out of 
 the landscajje the noble turrets of the unfinished 
 pile ; and, close at her left, under a gnarled fan- 
 tastic thorn-tree, the still lake at his feet reflect- 
 ing his stiller shadow, reclined Guy Darrell, the 
 doe nestled at his side. 
 
 So unexpected this sight — he, whom she came 
 to seek yet feared to see, so close upon her way 
 — the lady uttered a fiiint btit sharp cry, and 
 Darrell sprang to his feet. She stood "before 
 him, vailed, mantled, bending as a suppliant. 
 
 '•AvauntI" he faltered, wildly. "Is this a 
 spirit my own black solitude conjures up — or is 
 it a delusion, a dream ?" 
 
 "It is I — I ! — the Caroline dear to you once, 
 if detested now! Forgive me! Xot for myself 
 I come." She flung back her vail — her eyes 
 pleadingly sought his. 
 
 " So," said DaiTell, gathering his arms round 
 his breast in the gesture peculiar to him when 
 seeking either to calm a more turbulent move- 
 ment, or to confirm a sterner resolution of his 
 heart — " so ! Caroline, Marchioness of ilont- 
 fort, we are then fated to meet face to face at 
 last ! I understand — Lionel Haughton sent, or 
 showed to you, my letter ?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Darrein how could you have the 
 heart to write in such terms of one who — "' 
 
 " One who had taken the heart from my bo- 
 som and trampled it into the mire. True, frib- 
 bles will saj-, 'Fie ! the vocabulary of fine gen- 
 tlemen has no harsh terms for women.' Gal- 
 lants, to whom love is pastime, leave or are left 
 with elegant sorrow and courtly bows. ]Madam, 
 I was never such airy gallant. I am but a man, 
 unhappily in earnest — a man who placed in those 
 hands his life of life — who said to you, while yet 
 in his prime, ' There is my future — take it, till 
 it vanish out of earth I' You have made that 
 life substanceless as a ghost — that future barren 
 as the grave. And when you dare force your- 
 self again upon my way, and would dictate laws 
 
234 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 to my very hearth — when I speak as a man 
 what plain men must feel — 'Oh, Mr. Darrell!' 
 says your injured ladyship, 'how can you have 
 the heart ?' Woman ! were you not false as the 
 falsest? Falsehood has no dignity to awe re- 
 buke — falsehood no privilege of sex." 
 
 " Darrell — Darrell — Darrell — spare me, 
 spare me ! I have been so jiuuished"- — I am so 
 miserable !" 
 
 " You I — punished ! — What ! j^ou sold your- 
 self to youth, and sleek looks, and grand titles, 
 and the flattery of a world ; and your rose-leaves 
 were crumpled in the gorgeous marriage-bed. 
 Adequate punishment I — a crumpled rose-leaf! 
 True, the man was a — But why should I speak 
 ill of him ? It was he who was punished, if, ac- 
 cepting his rank, yon recognized in himself a 
 nothingness that you could neither love nor 
 honor. False and ungrateful alike to the man 
 you chose — to the man you forsook ! And now 
 you have, buried one, and you have schemed to 
 degrade the other." 
 
 "Degrade I — Oh, it is that charge which has 
 stung me to the quick ! All the others I de- 
 serve. But that charge ! Listen — you shall 
 listen I" 
 
 " I stand here resigned to do so. Say all you 
 will now, for it is the last time on earth I lend 
 my ears to your voice." 
 
 '•Be it so — the last time." She paused to 
 recover speech, collect thoughts, gain strength ; 
 and strange though it may seem to those who 
 have never loved, amidst all her grief and hu- 
 miliation, there was a fearful delight in that 
 presence from which she had been exiled since 
 her youth — nay, delight unaccountable to her- 
 self, even in that rough, vehement, bitter tem- 
 pest of reproach; for an instinct told her that 
 there would have been no hatred in the lan- 
 guage had no love been lingering in the soul. 
 
 " Speak," said Darrell, gently softened, de- 
 spite himself, by her evident struggle to control 
 emotion. 
 
 Twice she began — twice voice failed her. At 
 last her words came forth audibly. She began 
 with her plea for Lionel and Sophy, and gath- 
 ered boldness by her zeal on their behalf. She 
 proceeded to vindicate her own motives — to ac- 
 quit herself of his harsh charge. She scheme 
 for Ills degradation! She had been too carried 
 away by her desire to promote his happiness — 
 to guard him from the i>ossibility of a self-re- 
 proach. At first he listened to her with a 
 haughty calmness, merely saying, in reference 
 to Sophy and Lionel, " I have nothing to add 
 or to alter in the resolution I have communi- 
 cated to Lionel." But when siie thus insensi- 
 bly mingled their cause with her own, his im- 
 patience broke out. " 'Sly happiness ! Oli, well 
 have you proved the sincerity with which you 
 schemed for that ! Save me from self-reproach ! 
 — me I Has Lady Montfort so wliolly forgotten 
 that slie was once Caroline Lyndsay that she 
 can assume the part of a warning angel against 
 the terrors of self-reproach ?" 
 
 "Ah!" she murmured, faintly, "can you 
 suppose, however fickle and thankless I may 
 seem to you — " 
 
 " Seem !" he repeated. 
 
 " Seem !" she said again, but meekly — " seem, 
 and seem justly ; yet can you suj)pose that when 
 I became free to utter my remorse — to sj>eak of 
 
 gratitude, of reverence — I was insincere ? Dar- 
 rell, Darrell, you can not think so! That let- 
 ter which reached you abroad nearly a year ago, 
 in which I laid my pride of woman at your feet, 
 as I lay it now in coming here — that letter, in 
 which I asked if it were impossible for you to 
 pardon, too late for me to atone — was Mritten 
 on my knees. It was the outburst of my veiy 
 heart. Js ay, nay, hear me out. Do not imagine 
 that I would again obtrude a hope so contempt- 
 uously crushed !" (A deep blush came over her 
 cheek.) "I blame j'ou not, nor, let me say it, 
 did your severity bring that shame which I 
 might have justly felt had I so written to any 
 man on earth but you — you, so reverenced from 
 my infancy, that — " 
 
 "Ay," interrupted Darrell, fiercely, "aj-, do 
 not fear that I should misconceive you ; you 
 would not so have addressed the young, the fair, 
 the hapjiy. Xo ! you, proud beauty, witli hosts, 
 no doubt, of supplicating wooers, would have 
 thrust that hand into the flames before it wrote 
 to a young man, loved as the young are loved, 
 what without shame it wrote to the old man, rev- 
 erenced as the old are reverenced! But my 
 heart is not old, and your boasted reverence was 
 a mocking insult. Your letter, torn to pieces, 
 was returned to you without a word — insult for 
 insult! You felt no shame that I should so 
 rudely reject 3'our pity. Why should you ? Re- 
 jected pity is not rejected love. The man was 
 not less old because he was not reconciled to 
 age." 
 
 This construction of her tender penitence — 
 this explanation of his bitter scorn — took Caro- 
 line Montfort wholly by surprise. From wliat 
 writhing agonies of lacerated self-love came that 
 pride which was but self-depreciation ? It was 
 a glimpse into the deeper rents of his charred 
 and desolated being, which increased at once 
 her yearning affection and her passionate de- 
 spair. Vainly she tried to utter the feelings tliat 
 ; crowded upon her! — vainly, vainly! Woman 
 'can murmur, "I have injured you — forgive!" 
 j when she can not exclaim, "You disdain me, 
 I but I love !" Vainly, vainly her bosom heaved 
 j and her lips moved under the awe of his fiash- 
 j ing eyes and the grandeur of his indignant 
 fro^^^l. 
 
 "Ah !" he resumed, pursuing his own thoughts 
 j with a sombre intensity of passion that rendered 
 
 I him almost unconscious of her presence — " Ah ! 
 
 I I said to myself, 'Oh, she believes that she has 
 ! been so mourned and missed that my soul would 
 
 spring back to her false smile ; that I could be 
 so base a slave to my senses as to pardon the 
 traitress because her face was fair enough to 
 haunt my dreams. She dupes herself; she is no 
 necessity to my existence — I have wrenched it 
 from her power years, long years ago ! I will 
 show lier, since again she deigns to remember 
 me, that I am not so old as to be grateful for 
 the leavings of a heart. I will Jove another — I 
 will be beloved. She shall not say with secret 
 triumph, ' The old man dotes in rejecting me.' " 
 
 "Darrell, Darrell — unjust — cruel; kill me 
 rather tlian talk tlius !" 
 
 He heeded not her cry. His words rolled on 
 in that wonderful, varying music which, whether 
 in tenderness or in wrath, gave to his voice a 
 magical power — fascinating, hushing, overmas- 
 terins; human souls. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 " But — vou have the triumph ; see, I am still 
 alone I I sought the world of the young — the 
 marriage mart of the Beautiful once more. 
 Alas I if my eye was cajjtured for a moment, it 
 was by something that reminded me of you. I 
 saw a faultless face, radiant with its virgin 
 blush ; moved to it. I drew near — sighing, turned 
 awav : it was not you ! I heard the silvery '[ 
 laugh of a life fresh as an April morn. ' Hark !' ; 
 I said, ' is not that the sweet mirth-note at 
 which all my cares were dispelled ?' Listening, 
 I forgot my weight of years. Why ! because 
 listening, I remembered you. ' Heed not the j 
 treacherous blush and the beguiling laugh,' 
 whispered Prudence. ' Seek in congenial mind : 
 a calm companion to thine own.' 31ind I — oh 
 frigid pedantry I ilind I — had not yours been a ■ 
 volume open to my eyes, in every page, me- ; 
 thought, some lovely poet-truth never revealed [ 
 to human sense before ! Ko ; you had killed to j 
 me all womanhood ! Woo another I — wed an- 1 
 other! 'Hush,' I said, 'it shall he. Eighteen I 
 years since we parted — seeing her not, she re- i 
 mains eternally the same ! Seeing her again, 
 the very change that time must have brought 
 will cure.' I saw you — all the Past rushed back j 
 in that stolen moment. I fled — never more to ^ 
 dream that I can shake oft" the curse of memory- 
 — blent with each drop of my blood — woven i 
 with each tissue — throbbing in each nerve — bone ■ 
 of my bone, and flesh of my flesh — poison-root ' 
 from which every thought buds to wither — the 
 curse to have loved and to have trusted you I" 
 
 " Merciful Heaven I can I bear this ?" cried 
 Caroline, clasping her hands to her bosom. 
 " And is my sin so great — is it so unpardonable ! 
 Oh, if in a heart so noble, in a nature so great, 
 mine was the unspeakable honor to inspire an 
 aflection thus enduring, must it be only — only 
 as a curse I Why can I not repair the past ? 
 You have not ceased to love me. Call it hate 
 — it is love still I And now, no barrier between 
 our lives, can I never, never again — never, now 
 that I know I am less unworthy of you by the 
 very anguish I feel to have so stung you — can I 
 never again be the Caroline of old !" 
 
 "Ha, hal"' burst forth the unrelenting man, 
 with a bitter laugh I — "see the real coarseness 
 of a woman's nature under all its fine-spun frip- 
 pery ! Behold these delicate creatures, that we 
 scarcely dare to woo ! how little they even com- 
 prehend the idolatry they inspire ! The Caro- 
 line of old I Lo, the virgin whose hand we 
 touched with knightly homage, v.-hose first bash- 
 ful kiss was hallowed as the gale of paradise, 
 deserts us — sells herself at the altar — sanctifies 
 there her very infidelity to us ; and when years 
 have passed, and a death has restored her free- 
 dom, she comes to us as if she had never pillowed 
 her head on another's bosom, and says, ' Can I 
 not again be the Caroline of old !' We men are 
 too rude to forgive the faithless. Where is the 
 Caroline I loved? You — are — my Lady ^lont- 
 fort I Look round. On these turfs you, then 
 a child, played beside my children. They are 
 dead, but less dead to me than you. Never 
 dreamed I then that a creature so fair would be 
 other than a child to my grave and matured 
 existence. Then, if I glanced toward your fu- 
 ture, I felt no pang to picture you grown to wo- 
 manhood — another's bride. My hearth had for 
 years been widowed. I had no thought of second 
 
 nuptials. My son would gipw up to enjoy my 
 wealth, and realize my cherished dreams — he 
 was snatched from me I Who alone had the 
 power to comfort ? — who alone had the courage 
 to steal into the darkened room where I sate 
 mourning? sure that in her voice there would 
 be consolation, and the sight of her sympathizing 
 tears would chide away the bitterness of mine ? 
 — who but the Caroline of old! Ah, you are 
 weeping now. But Lady Montfort's tears have 
 no talisman to me ! You v.ere then still a child 
 — as a child, my soothing angel — A year or so 
 more, my daughter, to whom all my pride of 
 House — all my hope of race, had been consigned 
 — she whose happiness I valued so much more 
 than my ambition, that I had refused her hand 
 to your young Lord of Montfort — puppet that, 
 stripped of the millinery of titles, was not wor- 
 thy to replace a doll! — my daughter, I folded 
 her one night in my arms — I implored her to 
 confide in me if ever she nursed a hope that I 
 could further — knew a grief that I could banish ; 
 and she promised — and she bent her forehead 
 to my blessing — and before daybreak she had 
 fled with a man whose very touch was dishonor 
 
 and pollution, and was lost to me forever 
 
 Then, v.hen I came hither to vent at my father's 
 gi'ave the indignant grief I suSered not the world 
 to see, you and your mother (she who professed 
 for me such loyal friendship, such ineflaceable 
 gratitude), you two came kindly to share my 
 solitude — and then, then you were a child no 
 more I — and a sun that had never gilt my life, 
 brightened out of the face of the Caroline of 
 old I" He paused a moment, heeding not her 
 bitter weeping; he was rapt from the present 
 hour itself by the excess of that anguish which 
 is to woe what ecstasy is to joy — swept along by 
 the flood of thoughts that had been pent within 
 his breast through the solitar}- days and haunted 
 nights, which had made the long transition-state 
 from his manhood's noon to its gathering eve. 
 And in that pause the^e came from afar off 
 a melodious, melancholy strain — softly, softly 
 borne over the cold blue waters — softly, softly 
 through the sere autumnal leaves — the music 
 of the magic flute ! 
 
 "Hark!" he said, "do yon not remember? 
 Look to that beech -tree yonder! Summer 
 clothed it then ! Do you not remember ! as 
 under that tree we stood — that same, same note 
 came, musical as now, undulating with rise and 
 fall — came, as if to inteqjret, by a voice from 
 fairy-land, the beatings of m}' own mysterious 
 heart. You had been pleading for pardon to 
 one less ungrateful — less perfidious — than my 
 comforter proved herself. I had listened to you, 
 vrondering why anger and wrong seemed ban- 
 ished from the world ; and I murmured, in 
 answer, without conscious thought of myself, 
 ' ' Happy the man whose faults your bright char- 
 ity will admonish — whose griefs your tenderness 
 will chase away ! But when, years hence, chil- 
 dren are born to yourself, spare me the one who 
 shall most resemble you, to replace the daugh- 
 ter whom I can only sincerely pardon when 
 something else can spring up to my desolate 
 being — something that I can cherish without the 
 meraoiy of falsehood and the dread of shame.' 
 Yes, as I ceased, came that music ; and as it 
 thrilled through the summer air, I turned and 
 , met your eyes — turned and saw your blush — 
 
236 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 turned and heard some faint faltering words 
 drowning the music witli diviner sweetness ; and 
 suddenly I knew as by a revelation, that the 
 Cliild I had fostered had grown the Woman 
 whom I loved. — My own soul was laid bare to 
 me by the flash of hope. Over the universe 
 rushed light and color! Oil, the Caroline of 
 old ! What wonder that she became so fatally, 
 so unspeakably beloved ! As some man in an- 
 cient story, banished from his native land, is 
 told by an oracle to seek a happier isle in un- 
 discovered seas — freights with his all a single 
 bark — collects on his wandering altar the last 
 embers of his abandoned hearth — places beside 
 it his exiled household gods ; so all that my life 
 had left to me, hallowing and hallowed, I stored 
 
 in you I tore myself from the old native 
 
 soil, the old hardy skies. Through Time's wide 
 ocean I saw but the promised golden isle. Fa- 
 bles, fables ! — lying oracle ! — sunken vessel ! — 
 visionary isle ! And life to me had till then 
 been so utterly without love ! — had passed in 
 such arid labors — without a holiday of romance 
 —all the fountains of the unknown passion seal- 
 ed till the spell struck tlie rock, and every wave, 
 every drop sparkled fresh to a single star. Yet 
 my boyhood, like other men's, had dreamed of 
 its Ideal. There at last that Ideal, come to 
 life, bloomed before me ; there, under those 
 beech-trees, the Caroline of old. Oil wretched 
 woman, now weeping at my side, well may you 
 weep ! Never can earth give you back such love 
 as you lost in mine." 
 
 "I know it, I know it — fool that I was — mis- 
 erable fool !" 
 
 "Ay, but comfort yourself— wilder and sad- 
 der folly in myself! Your mother was right. 
 ' The vain child,' she said, 'knows not her own 
 heart. Siie is new to the world — has seen none 
 of her own years. For your sake, as for hers, I 
 must insist on the experiment of absence. A 
 year's ordeal — see if she is then of the same 
 mind.' I marveled at .her coldness; proudly I 
 submitted to her reasonings; fearlessly I con- 
 fided the result to you. Ah! how radiant was 
 your smile, when, in the parting hour, I said, 
 ' Summer and you will return again !' In vain, 
 on pretense that the experiment should be com- 
 plete, did your mother carry you abroad, and 
 exact from us both the solemn jiromise that not 
 even a letter should pass between iis — that our 
 troth, made thus conditional, should be a secret 
 to all — in vain, if meant to torture me with 
 doubt. In my creed, a doubt is itself a treason. 
 How lovely grew the stern face of Ambition ! — 
 how Fame seemed as a messenger from me to 
 you ! In the sound of applause I said, ' They 
 can not shut out the air that will carry that 
 sound to her ears ! All that I can win from 
 Honor shall be my marriage-gifts to my queenly 
 bride.' See that arrested ]iile — begun at my 
 son's birth, stopped a while at his death, recom- 
 menced on a statelier plan when I thought of 
 your footstep on its floors — your shadow on its 
 walls. Stopped now for ever! Architects can 
 build a palace; can tiiey build a home? But 
 you — yon — you, nil the while — j'our smile on 
 another's suit — your thoughts on another's 
 hearth !" 
 
 "Not so! — not so! Your image never for- 
 sook me. I was giddy, thoughtless, dazzled, 
 entangled ; and I told von in tlie letter you re- 
 
 turned to me — told you that I had been de- 
 ceived !" 
 
 "Patience — patience! Deceived! Do you 
 imagine that I do not see all that passed as in a 
 magician's glass ? Caroline Montfort, you nev- 
 er loved me ; you never knew what love was. 
 Thrown suddenly into the gay world, intoxica- 
 ted by the efi'ect of your own beauty, my sombre 
 figure gradually faded dim — pale ghost indeed 
 in the atmosphere of flowers and histres, rank 
 with the breath of flatterers. Then came my 
 lord the Marquis — a cousin, privileged to famil- 
 iar intimacy, to visit at will, to ride with you, 
 dance with you, sit side by side with you, in 
 quiet corners of thronging ball-rooms, to call 
 you ' Caroline.' Tut, tut — ye axe only cousins, 
 and cousins are as brothers and sisters in the 
 aftectionate House of Vipont ; and gossips talk, 
 and young ladies envy — flnest match in all En- 
 gland is the pretty-faced lord of Montfort ! And 
 your mother, who had said, ' Wait a year' to 
 GuyDarrell, must have dreamed of the cousin, 
 and schemed for his coronet, when she said it. 
 And I was unseen, and I must not write ; and 
 the absent are always in the wrong — when cous- 
 ins are present ! And I hear your mother speak 
 of me — hear the soft sound of her damaging 
 praises. ' Another long speech from your clever 
 admirer! Don't fancy he frets; that kind of 
 man thinks of nothing but blue-books and poli- 
 tics.' And your cousin proposes, and you say 
 with a sigh, 'No : I am bound to Guy Darrell ;' 
 and your mother says to my Lord, 'Wait, and 
 still come — as a cousin !' And then, day by 
 da}', the sweet Mrs. Lyndsay drops into your .ear 
 the hints that shall poison your heart. Some 
 fable is dressed to malign me ; and you cry, 
 ' 'Tis not true ; prove it true, or I still keep my 
 faith to Guy Darrell.' Then comes the kind 
 compact — ' If the story be false, my cousin must 
 go ;' ' and if it be true, you will be my own du- 
 teous child. Alas ! your poor cousin is break- 
 ing his heart. A lawyer of forty has a heart 
 made of parchment!' Aha! 3'ou were entan- 
 gled, and of course deceived ! Your letter did 
 not explain what was the tale told to you. I 
 care not a rush what it was. It. is enough for 
 me to know that if you had loved me yon would 
 have loved me the more for every tale that be- 
 lied me. So the tale was credited, because a 
 relief to credit it. So the compact was kept — 
 so the whole bargain hurried over in elegant 
 privacy — place of barter an embassador's chaji- 
 el. Bauble for bauble — a jilt's faith for a man- 
 nikin's coronet. Four days before the year of 
 trial expired, ' Only four days more !' I exclaim- 
 ed, drunk with ra])ture. The journals lie be- 
 fore me. Three columns to Guy Darrell's speech 
 last night ; a column more to its effect on a 
 senate, on an em]iire ; and two lines — two little 
 lines — -to the sentence that struck Guy Darrell 
 out of the world of men! 'JMarriage in high 
 life. — I\Iarquis of Montfort — Caroline Lyndsay.' 
 And the sun did not fall from heaven ! Vul- 
 garest of ends to the tritest of romances ! In 
 tlie gay world these things happen every day. 
 Young ladies are privileged to give hopes to one 
 man — their hands to another. 'Is tlie sin so 
 unpardonable?' you ask with ingenuous sim- 
 plicity. Lady Montfort, that depends! Re- 
 flect ! What was my life before I ])Ut it into 
 your keeping? Barren of happiness, I grant — 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 237 
 
 addened, solitary — to myself a thing of small 
 alue ? But what was that life to others ? — a 
 liing full of warm beneficence, of active uses, 
 if hardy powers fitted to noble ends ! In para- 
 yzing that life as it was to others, there may be 
 in wider and darker than the mere infidelity 
 o love. And now do you dare to ask, ' Can I 
 igain be the Caroline of old?'" 
 
 '•I ask nothing — not even pardon," said the 
 niserable woman. " I might say something to 
 how where you misjudge me — something that 
 night palliate ; but no, let it be." Her accents 
 rere so drearily hopeless that Darrell abruptly 
 vithdrew his eyes fi-om her face, as if fearful 
 hat the sight of her woe might weaken his 
 esolve. She had turned mechanically back, 
 rhey walked on in gloomy silence side by 
 ide, away now from the lake, back under the 
 )arbed thorn-tree — back by the moss-grown 
 •rag — back by the hollow trunks, and over the 
 alien leaves of trees that had defied the 
 torms of centuries, to drop, perhaps, brittle 
 md sapless, some quiet day v.hen every wind is 
 uUed. 
 
 The flute had ceased its music ; the air had 
 ITown cold and piercing; the little park was 
 oon traversed ; the gate came in sight, and the 
 lumble vehicle without it. Then, involuntarily, 
 )oth stopjied ; and on each there came at once 
 he consciousness that they were about to part — 
 )art, never perhaps in this world to meet again ; 
 tnd, with all that had been said, so much un- 
 pcken — their hearts so ftdl of what, alas ! their 
 ips could not speak. 
 
 "Lady ]Montfort," at length said Darrell. 
 
 At the sound of her name she shivered. 
 
 " I have addressed you rudely — harshly — " 
 
 "Xo — no — " 
 
 "But that was the last exercise of a right 
 vhich I nov,- resign forever. I spoke to her who 
 lad once been Caroline Lyndsay ; some gentler 
 rords are due to the widow of Lord Moutfort. 
 Whatever the wrongs you have inflicted on me 
 —wrongs inexpiable — I recognize no less in 
 our general nature qualities that would render 
 ou, to one whom you really loved and had 
 lever deceived, the blessing I had once hoped 
 ou would prove to me." 
 
 She shook her head impatiently, piteously. 
 
 "I know that in an ill-assoi-ted imion, and 
 imidst all the temptations to which flattered 
 )eauty is exposed, your conduct has been with- 
 )ut reproach. Forget the old man whose thoughts 
 hould now be on Jiis grave." 
 
 "Hush, hush — have human mercy!" 
 
 "I withdraw and repent my injustice to your 
 notives in the protection you have given to the 
 )Oor girl v.hom Lionel would wed ; I thank you 
 or that protection — though I refuse consent to 
 ny kinsman's prayer. "\Yliatever her birth, I 
 nust be glad to know that she whom Lionel so 
 oves is safe from a WTetch like Losely. More 
 —one word more — wait — it is hard for me to 
 ay it- — Be happy — I can not pardon, but I can 
 )less you. Farewell forever !" 
 
 More overpoweringly crushed by his tender- 
 less than his wrath, before Caroline could re- 
 cover the vehemence of her sobs he had ceased 
 —he was gone — lost in the close gloom of a 
 leighboring thicket, his hurried headlong path 
 )etrayed by the rustle of mournful boughs swing- 
 ng back with their withered leaves. 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 EETEOSPECT. 
 
 There is a place at which three roads meet, sacred to that 
 mysterious goddess called Diana on earth, Luna (or 
 the Moon) in heaven, and Hecate in the infernal re- 
 gions. At this place pause the Virgins pemiitted to 
 take their choice of the three roads. Few give their 
 preference to that which is vowed to the goddess in her 
 name of Diana: that road, cold and barren, is clothed 
 by no roses and myrtles. Eoses and niyrtles vail the 
 entrance to both the others, and in both the others Hy- 
 men has much the same gay-looking temples. But 
 which of those two leads to the celestial Luna, or which 
 of them conducts to the infernal Hecate, not one nymph 
 in fifty divines. If thy heart should misgive thee, O 
 nymph! — if, though cloud vail the path to the Moon, 
 and sunshine gild that to pale Hecate — thine instinct 
 recoils from the sunshine, while thou darest not adven- 
 ture the cloud — thou hast still a choice left — thou hast 
 still the safe road of Diana. Hecate, O nymph ! is the 
 goddess of ghosts. If thou takest her path look not 
 back, for the ghosts are behind thee. 
 
 i Whex we slowly recover from the tumult and 
 passion of some violent distress a peculiar still- 
 ness falls upon the mind, and the atmosphere 
 around it becomes, in that stillness, appallingly 
 I clear. We knew not, while ^Testling with our 
 I woe, the extent of its ravages. As a land the 
 day after a flood, as a field the day after a bat- 
 tle, is the sight of our own sorrow, when we no 
 j longer have to stem its raging, but to endure 
 the destruction it has made. Distinct before 
 I Caroline Montfort's vision stretched the waste 
 I of her misery — the Past, the Present, the Fu- 
 I ture — all seemed to blend in one single Desola- 
 tion. A strange thing it is how all lime will 
 converge itself, as it were, into the burning- 
 glass of a moment! There runs a popular su- 
 perstition that it is thus in the instant of death ; 
 that our whole existence crowds itself on the 
 glazing eye — a panorama of all we have done on 
 earth — just as the sotil restores to the earth its 
 garment. Certes, there are hours in our being, 
 long before the last and dreaded one, when this 
 phenomenon comes to warn us that, if memorv' 
 were always active, time would be never gone. 
 Rose before this woman — who, whatever the 
 justice of Darreirs bitter reproaches, had a na- 
 ture lovely enough to justify his anguish at her 
 loss— the image of herself at that turning-point 
 of life, when the morning mists are dimmed on 
 our way, yet when a path chosen is a fate de- 
 cided. Yes ; she had excuses, not urged to the 
 judge who sentenced, nor estimated to their full 
 extent by the stern equity with which, amidst 
 suffering and ^vTath, he had desired to weigh 
 her cause. 
 
 Caroline's mother, Mrs. Lyndsay, was one of 
 those parents who acquire an extraordinary in- 
 fluence over their children, by the union of ca- 
 ressing manners with obstinate resolves. She 
 never lost control of her temper nor hold on her 
 object. A slight, delicate, languid creature too, 
 who would be sure to go into a consumption if 
 unkindly crossed. With much strong common 
 sense, much knowledge of human nature, ego- 
 tistical, worldly, scheming, heartless, but withal 
 so pleasing, so gentle, so bewitchingly despotic, 
 that it M'as like living with an electro-biologist, 
 who unnerves you by a lock to knock you down 
 with a feather. In only one great purpose of 
 her life had Mrs. Lyndsay failed. When Dar- 
 rell, rich by the rewards of his profession and 
 the bequest of his namesake, had entered Par- 
 liament, and risen into that repute which cou- 
 
 i 
 
238 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 fers solid and brilliant station, Mrs. Lyndsay 
 conceived the idea of appropriating to herself 
 his honors and his wealth by a second Hymen. 
 Having so long been domesticated in his house 
 during the life of ISIrs. Darrell, an intimacy as 
 of near relations had been established between 
 them. Her soft manners attached to her his 
 children ; and after Mrs. Darrell's deatli ren- 
 dered it necessary that she should find a home 
 of her own, she had an excuse, in Matilda's af- 
 fection for her and for Caroline, to be more fre- 
 quently before Darrell's eyes, and consulted by 
 hini yet more frequently than when actually a 
 resident in his house. To her Darrell confided 
 the proposal which had been made to him by 
 the old Marchioness of Montfort, for an alliance 
 batween her young grandson and his sole sur- 
 viving child. Wealthy as was the House of Vi- 
 pont, it was among its traditional maxims that 
 wealth wasles if not perpetually recruited. Ev- 
 ery third generation, at farthest, it was the dut}- 
 of that House to marry an heiress. Darrell's 
 daughter, just seventeen, not yet brought out, 
 would be an heiress, if he pleased to make her 
 so, second to none whom the research of the 
 Marchioness had detected within the drawing- 
 rooms and nurseries of the three kingdoms. 
 The proposal of the venerable peeress was at 
 first very naturally gratifying to Darrell. It 
 was an euthanasia for the old knightly race to 
 die into a House that was an institution in the 
 empire, and revive, j)henix-like, in a line of 
 peers, who might perpetuate the name of the 
 heiress whose quarterings they would annex to 
 their own, and sign themselves ''Darrell Mont- 
 fort." Said Darrell inly, "On the whole, sucli 
 a marriage would have pleased my poor father." 
 It did not please Mrs. Lyndsay. The bulk of 
 Darrell's fortune thus settled away, he himself 
 would be a very different match for Mrs. Lynd- 
 say ; nor was it to her convenience that Matilda 
 should be thus hastily disposed of, and the stron- 
 gest link of connection between Fulham and 
 Carlton G.irdens severed. Mrs. Lyndsay had 
 one golden rule, which I respectfully point out 
 to ladies who covet popularity and power: She 
 never spoke ill of any one whom she wished to 
 injure. She did not, therefore, speak ill of the 
 Marquis to Darrell, but she so praised him thai, 
 her praise alarmed. She ought to know the 
 young peer well ; she was a good deal with the 
 j\LT.rchiones5, who likeJ her pretty manners. 
 Till then, Darrell had only noticed this green 
 Head of the Viponts as a neat-looking Head, 
 too modest to open its lips. But he now exam- 
 ined the head with anxious deliberation, and 
 finding it of the poorest possible kind of wood, 
 with a heart to match, Guy Darrell had the au- 
 dacity to reject, though with great courtesy, the 
 idea of grafting the last plant of his line on a 
 stem so pithless. Though, like men who are 
 at once very affectionate and very busy, he saw 
 few faults in liis children, or indeed in any one 
 he really loved, till the fault was forced on him, 
 he could not Init be aware that ^Matilda's sole 
 chance of becoming a hajipy and safe wife was 
 in uniting herself with such a husband as would 
 at once win her confidence and command her re- 
 spect. He trembled when he thought of her as 
 the wife of a man whose rank would expose her 
 to all fashionable temptations, and whose charac- 
 ter would leave her without a guide or protector. 
 
 The ^larquis, who obeyed his grandmother 
 from habit, and who had lethargically sanctioned 
 her proposals to Dai-rell, evinced the liveliest 
 emotion he had ever yet betrayed when he 
 learned that his hand was rejected. And if it 
 were possible for him to carry so small a senti- 
 ment as pique into so large a passion as hate, 
 from that moment he aggrandized his nature 
 into hatred. He would have given half his lands 
 to have spited Guy Darrell. Jlrs. Lyndsay took 
 care to be at hand to console him, and the 
 Marchioness was grateful to her for taking that 
 troublesome task upon herself. And in the 
 course of their conversations Mrs. Lyndsay con- 
 trived to drop into his mind the egg of a pro- 
 ject which she took a later occasion to hatch 
 under her plumes of down. " There is but one 
 kind of wife, my dear Montfort, who could in- 
 crease your importance ; you should marry a 
 beauty ; next to ro^valty ranks beauty." The 
 Head nodded, and seemed to ruminate for some 
 moments, and then, apropos des bottes, it let fall 
 this mysterious monosyllable, "Shoes." By 
 what process of ratiocination the Head had thus 
 arrived at the feet, it is not for me to conjecture. 
 All I know is that, from that moment, 'Slvs. 
 Lyndsay bestowed as much thought upon Caro- 
 line's chaussure, as if, like Cinderella, Caroline's 
 whole destiny in this world hung upon her slip- 
 per. With the feelings and the schemes that 
 have been thus intimated, this sensible lady's 
 mortification may well be conceived when she 
 was startled by Darrell's proposal, not to herself, 
 but to her daughter. Her egotism was profound- 
 ly shocked, her worldliness cruelly thwarted. 
 With Guy Darrell for her own spouse, the ^lar- 
 quis of Montfort for her daughter's, Mrs. Lynd- 
 say would have been indeed a considerable per- 
 sonage in the world. But to lose Darrell for 
 herself, the JNIarquis altogether — the idea was 
 intolerable ! Yet, since to have refused at once 
 for her portionless daughter a man in so high a 
 position, and to v.diom her own obligations were 
 so great, was impossible, she adopted a policy, 
 admirable for the craft of its conception and the 
 dexterity of its e.xecution. In exacting the con- 
 dition of a year's delay, she made her motives 
 appear so loftily disinterested, so magnanimous- 
 ly friendly! She could never forgive herself if 
 he — he — the greatest, the best of men, were 
 again rendered unhappy in marriage by her im- 
 prudence (hers, who owed to him her all)! yes, 
 imprudent indeed, to have thrown right in his 
 way a pretty coquettish girl ('for Caroline is co- 
 quettish, Mr. Darrell ; most girls so pretty are 
 at that sillv age'). In short, she carried her 
 point against all the eloquence Darrell could 
 employ, and covered her designs by the sem- 
 blance of the most delicate scruples, and the 
 sacrifice of worldly advantages to the prudence 
 which belongs to high principle and atfectionate 
 caution. 
 
 And what were Caroline's real sentiments for 
 Guy Darrell ? She understood them now on 
 looking back. She saw herself as she was then 
 — as she had stood under the beech-tree, wlien 
 the heavenly pity that was at the core of her 
 nature — when the venerating, grateful aflPection 
 that had grown with her growth, made her 
 yearn to be a solace and a joy to that grand and 
 solitary life. Love him ! Oh certainly she loved 
 him, devotedly, fondly; but it was with the love 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 239 
 
 of a child. She had not awakened tlien to the 
 love of woman. Removed from his presence, 
 suddenly thrown into the great world — yes, Dar- 
 rell had sketched the picture with a stern but 
 not altogether an untruthful hand. He had not, 
 however, fairly estimated the inevitable inilu- 
 euce which a mother, such as Mrs. Lyndsa}', 
 Avould exercise over a girl so wholly inexperi- 
 enced — so guileless, so unsuspecting, and so 
 filially devoted. He could not appreciate — no 
 man can — the mightiness of female cunning. 
 He could not see how mesh upon mesh the soft 
 Mrs. Lyndsay (pretty woman, with pretty man- 
 ners) wove her web round the "cousins," until 
 Caroline, who at first had thought of the silent 
 fair-haired young man only as the Head of her 
 House, pleased with attentions that kept aloof 
 admirers, of whom she thought Guy Darrell 
 might be more reasonably jealous, was appalled 
 to hear her mother tell her that she was either 
 the most heartless of coquets, or poor Montfort 
 was the most ill-used of men. But at this time 
 Jasper Losely, under his name of Hammond, 
 brought ills wife from the French town at which 
 they had been residing since their marriage, to 
 see Mrs. Lyndsay and Caroline at Paris, and 
 implore their intiuence to obtain a reconcilia- 
 tion with lier father. Matilda soon learned from 
 Mrs. Lyndsay, who affected the most enchanting 
 candor, the nature of the engagement between 
 Caroline and Darrell. She communicated the 
 information to Jasper, who viewed it with very 
 natural alarm. By reconciliation with Guy Dar- 
 rell, Jasper understood something solid and prac- 
 tical — not a mere sentimental pardon, added to 
 that paltry stipend of £700 a year which he had 
 just obtained — but tlie restoration to all her 
 rights and expectancies of the heiress he had 
 supposed himself to marry. He had by no 
 means relinquished the belief that sooner or 
 later Darrell would listen to the Voice of Na- 
 ture, and settle all his fortune on his only child. 
 But then, for the Voice of N'ature to have fair 
 play, it was clear that there should be no other 
 child to plead for. And if Darrell were to marry 
 again, and to have sons, what a dreadful dilem- 
 ma it would be for the Voice of Nature ! Jasper 
 was not long in discovering that Caroline's en- 
 gagement was not less unwelcome to JMrs. Lynd- 
 say than to himself, and that she was disposed 
 to connive at any means by which it might be 
 annulled. Matilda was first employed to weaken 
 the bond it was so desirable to sever. Matilda 
 did not re]5roach, but she wept. She was sure 
 7?0M' that she should be an outcast — her children 
 beggars. Mrs. Lyndsay worked up this com- 
 plaint with adroitest skill. Was Caroline sure 
 that it was not most dishonorable — most treach- 
 erous — to rob her own earliest friend of the 
 patrimony that would otherwise return to Ma- 
 tilda with Darrell's pardon? This idea became 
 exquisitely painful to the high-spirited Caroline, 
 but it could not counterpoise the conviction of 
 the greater pain she should occasion to the breast 
 that so conhded in her faith, if that faith were 
 broken. Step by step the intrigue against the 
 absent one proceeded. I\Irs. Lyndsay thorough- 
 ly understood the art of insinuating doubts. Guy 
 Darrell, a man of the world, a cold-blooded law- 
 yer, a busy politician, he break his heart for a 
 girl! No, it was only the young, and especially 
 the young when not remarkably clever, who broke 
 
 their hearts for such trifles. Jlontfort, indeed 
 — there was a man whose heart could be broken ! 
 whose hapjjiness could be blasted! Dear Guy 
 Darrell had been only moved, in his proposals, 
 by generosity — " Something, my dear child, in 
 your own artless words and manner, that made 
 him fancy he had won your affections unknow-n 
 to yourself! an idea that he was bound as a gen- 
 tleman to speak out ! Just like him. lie has 
 that spirit of chivalry. But my belief is, that 
 he is quite aware by this time how foolish such 
 a marriage would be, and would thank you heart- 
 ily if, at the year's end, he found hiinself free, 
 and you ha])])ily disposed of elsewhere," etc., etc. 
 The drama advanced. ]Mrs. Lyndsay evinced 
 decided pulmonary symptoms. Her hectic cough 
 returned; she could not sleep; her days were 
 numbered— a secret grief. Caroline implored 
 frankness, and, clasped to her mother's bosom, 
 and compassionately bedewed with tears, those 
 hints were dropped into her ear which, though 
 so worded as to show the most indulgent for- 
 bearance to Darrell, and rather, as if in com- 
 passion for his weakness than in abhorrence of 
 his perfidy, made Caroline start with the in- 
 dignation of revolted purity and outraged pride. 
 "Were this true, all would be indeed at an end 
 between us! But it is not true. Let it be 
 proved." "But, my dear, dear child, I could 
 not stir in a matter so delicate. I could not aid 
 in breaking off a marriage so much to your 
 worldly advantage, unless you could promise 
 that, in rejecting I\Ir. Darrell, you would accept 
 your cousin. In my wretched state of health, 
 the anxious thought of leaving you in the world 
 literally penniless would kill me at once !" 
 
 " Oh, if Guy Darrell be false (but that is im- 
 possible !), do with me all you will ; to obey and 
 please you would be the only comfort left to 
 me." 
 
 Thus was all prepared for the final dinuuement. 
 Mrs. Lyndsay had not gone so far without a re- 
 liance on the means to accomplish her object, 
 and for these means she had stooped to be in- 
 debted to the more practical villainy of Matilda's 
 husband. 
 
 Jasper, in this visit to Paris, had first foi-med 
 the connection, which comjiletcd the wickedness 
 of his perverted nature, with that dark adven- 
 turess who has flitted shadow-like through part 
 of this varying narrative. Gabrielle Desmarets 
 w'as then in her youth, notorious only for the 
 ruin she had inflicted on admiring victims, and 
 the superb luxury with which she rioted on their 
 plunder. Captivated by the personal advant- 
 ages for which Jasper was then pre-eminently 
 conspicuous, she willingly associated her for- 
 tunes with his own. Gabrielle was one of those 
 incarnations of evil which no city but Paris can 
 accomplish with the same epicurean refinement, 
 and vitiate into the same cynical corruption. 
 She was exceedingly witty, sharply astute, capa- 
 ble of acting any part, carrying out any plot; 
 and when she pleased to simulate the decorous 
 and immaculate gentlewoman, she might have 
 deceived the most experienced roue. Jas]ier 
 presented this Artiste to his unsuspecting wife 
 as a widow of rank, who was about to visit Lon- 
 don, and who might be enabled to see Mr. Dar- 
 rell, and intercede on their behalf. IMatilda fell 
 readily into the snare ; the Frenchwoman went 
 to London, with assumed name and title, and 
 
210 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 with servants completely in her confidence. And 
 such (as the reader knows already) was that elo- 
 quent baroness who had pleaded to Darrell the 
 cause of his penitent daughter I No doubt tiie 
 wily Paruiieaae had calculated on the effect of 
 her arts and her charms to decoy him into at 
 least a passin:^ forgetfulness of his faith to an- 
 other. But if she could not succeed there, it 
 might equally achieve the object in view to ob- 
 tain the credit of that success. Accordingly she 
 viTote to one of her friends at Paris letters 
 stating that she had found a very rich admirer 
 in a celebrated English statesman, to whom she 
 was indebted for her establishment, etc. ; and 
 alluding, in very witty and satirical terms, to his 
 matrimonial engagement with the young English 
 beauty at Paris, who was then creating such a 
 sensation — an engagement of which she repre- 
 sented her admirer to be heartily sick, and ex- 
 tremely repentant. Without mentioning names, 
 her descriptions were unmistakable. Jasper, of 
 course, presented to Mrs. Lyndsay those letters 
 (which, he said, the person to whom they were 
 addressed had communicated to one of her own 
 gay friends), and suggested that their evidence 
 against Darrell would be complete in Miss Lynd- 
 say's eyes if some one, whose veracity Caroline 
 could not dispute, could con'oborate the asser- 
 tions of the letters ; it would be quite enough to 
 do so if Mr. Darrell were even seen entering or 
 leaving the house of a person whose mode of 
 life was so notorious. Mrs. Lyndsay, v.ho, with 
 her consummate craft, saved her dignity by af- 
 fected blindness to the artifices at which she 
 connived, declared that, in a matter of inquiry 
 which involved the private character of a man 
 so eminent, and to whom she owed so much, 
 she would not trust his name to the gossip of 
 others. She herself would go to London. She 
 knew that odious, but too fascinating, Gabrielle 
 by sight (as every one did who went to the opera, 
 or drove in the Bois dc Boulogne^. Jasper un- 
 dertook that the Parislenne should show herself 
 at her balcony at a certain day at a certain hour, 
 and that, at that hour, Darrell should call and 
 be admitted ; and Mrs. Lyndsay allowed that 
 that evidence would sutnce. Sensible of the 
 power over Caroline that she would derive if, 
 with her habits of languor and her delicate health, 
 she could say that she had undertaken such a 
 journey to be convinced with her own eyes of a 
 charge that, if true, would influence her daugh- 
 ter's conduct and destiny — Mrs. Lyndsay did go 
 to London — did see Gabrielle Desmarets at her 
 balcony — did see Darrell enter the house ; and 
 on her return to Paris did, armed with this tes- 
 timony, and with the letters that led to it, so 
 work upon her daughter's mind that the next 
 day the Marquis of Slontfort was accepted. But 
 the year of Darrell's probation was nearly ex- 
 pired ; all delay would be dangerous — all ex- 
 planation would be fatal, and must be forestalled. 
 Xor could a long courtship be kept secret ; Dar- 
 rell might hear of it, and come over at once ; 
 and the Marquis's ambitious kinsfolk would not 
 fail to interfere if the news of his intended mar- 
 riage with a portionless cousin came to their 
 ear.s. Lord ]\Iontfort, who was awed by Carr, 
 and extremely afraid of his grandmother, was 
 not less anxious for secrecy and expedition than 
 Mrs. Lyndsay herself. 
 
 Thu-s then, ilrs. Lyndsay triumphed, and 
 
 while her daughter was still under the influence 
 of an excitement which clouded her judgment, 
 and stung her into rashness of action as an es- 
 cape from the torment of reflection — thus were 
 solemnized Caroline's unhappy and splendid 
 nuptials. The Marquis hired a villa in the de- 
 lightful precincts of Fontainebleau for his honey- 
 moon ; that moon was still young when the 
 Marquis said to himself, "I don't find that it 
 produces honey." When he had first been at- 
 tracted toward Caroline, she was all life and 
 joy — too much of a child to jiiue for Darrell's 
 absence, while credulously confident of their 
 future union — her spirits naturally wild and live- 
 ly, and the world, opening at her feet, so novel 
 and so brilliant. This fresh gayetj had amused 
 the Marquis — he felt cheated when he found it 
 gone. Caroline might be gentle, docile, sub- 
 missive; but those virtues, though of higher 
 quality than glad animal spirits, are not so en- 
 tertaining. His own exceeding sterility of mind, 
 and feeling was not apparent till in the tetes-a- 
 ieies of conjugal life. A good-looking young '^ 
 man, with a thorough-bred air, who rides well, 
 dances well, and holds his tongue, may, in all 
 mixed societies, pass for a shy youth of sensi- 
 tive genius. But when he is your companion 
 for life, and all to yourself, and you find that, 
 when he does talk, he has neither an idea nor 
 a sentiment — alas ! alas for v"ou, young bride, 
 if you have ever known the charm of intellect, / 
 or the sweetness of sympathy. But it v.';is not 
 for Caroline to complain ; struggling against her 
 own weight of sorrow, she had no immediate 
 perception of her companion's vapidity. It was 
 he, poor man, who complained. He just de- 
 tected enough of her superiority of intelligence 
 to suspect that he was humiliated, while sure 
 that he was bored. An incident converted his 
 gi'owing indifference into permanent dislike not 
 many days after their marriage. 
 
 Lord Montfort, sauntering into Caroline's 
 room, found her insensible on the floor — an ojien 
 letter by her side. Summoning her maid to her 
 assistance, he took the marital privilege of read- 
 ing the letter which had apparently caused her 
 swoon. It was from Matilda, and written in a 
 state of maddened excitement. Matilda had 
 little enough of what is called heart ; but she 
 had an intense selfishness, which, in point of 
 suffering, supplies the place of a heart. It was 
 not because she could not feel for the wrongs of 
 another that she could not feel anguish for her 
 own. Arabella was avenged. The cold-blooded 
 snake that had stung her met the fang of the 
 cobra-capella. Matilda had learned from some 
 anonymous correspondent (probably a rival of 
 Gabrielle's) of Jasper's liaison with that adven- 
 turess. But half-recovered from her confine- 
 ment, she had risen from her bed — -hurried to 
 Paris (for the pleasuresiof which her husband 
 had left her) — seen this wretched Gabrielle — 
 recognized in her the false baroness to whom 
 Jasper had presented her — to whom, by Jasper's 
 dictation, she had written such affectionate let- 
 tei-s — whom she had employed to plead her cause 
 to her father ; — seen Gabrielle — seen her at her 
 own luxurious apartment, Jasper at home there 
 — burst into vehement wrath — roused up the co- 
 bra-capella ; and on declaring that she would sep- 
 arate from her husband, go back to her father, tell 
 her wrongs, ajjpeal to his mercy, Gabrielle calm- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 241 
 
 ly replied, " Do so, and Iwill take care that your 
 father shall know that your plea for his pardon 
 through 3Iadame la Baronne was a scheme 
 to blacken his name, and to frustrate his mar- 
 riage. Do not think that he will suppose you did 
 not connive at a project so sly ; he must know 
 you too well, pretty innocent." No match for 
 Gabrielle Desmarets, ^latilda flung from . the 
 house, leaving Jasper whistling an air from Fi- 
 garo ; returned alone to the French town, from 
 which slie now wrote to Caroline, pouring out 
 her wrongs, and without seeming sensible that 
 Caroline had been wronged too, expressing her 
 fear that her father might believe her an accom- 
 plice in Jasper's plot, and refuse her the means 
 to live apart from the wretch, upon whom she 
 heaped every epithet that just indignation could 
 suggest to a feeble mind. The latter part of 
 the letter, blurred and blotted, was iivoherent, 
 almost raving. In fact, ]Matilda was thtu seized 
 by the mortal illness which hurried her to the 
 grave. To the Marquis much of this letter was 
 extremely uninteresting — much of it quite in- 
 comprehensible. He could not see why it should 
 so overpoweringly affect his wife. Only those 
 passages which denounced a scheme to frustrate 
 some marriage meditated by Mr. Darrell made 
 him somewhat uneasy, and appeared to him to 
 demand explanation. But Caroline, in the an- 
 guish to which she awakened, forestalled his in- 
 quiries. To her but two thoughts were present 
 — how she had wronged Darrell — how ungrate- 
 ful and faithless she must seem to him ; and in 
 the impulse of her remorse, and in the child- 
 like candor of her soul, artlessly, ingenuously 
 she poured out her feelings to the husband she 
 had taken as counselor and guide, as if seek- 
 ing to guard all her sorrow for the past from a 
 sentiment that might render her less loyal to the 
 responsibilities which linked her future to an- 
 other's. A man of sense would have hailed, in 
 so noble a confidence (however it might have 
 pained him for the time), a guarantee for the 
 happiness and security of his wliole existence. 
 He would have seen how distinct from that ar- 
 dent love which, in Caroline's new relation of 
 life, would have bordered upon guilt, and been 
 cautious as guilt against disclosing its secrets, 
 was the infantine, venerating affection she had 
 felt for a man so far removed from her by years 
 and the development of intellect — an affection 
 which a young husband, trusted with every 
 thought, every feeling, might reasonably hope to 
 eclipse. A little forbearance, a little of delicate 
 and generous tenderness, at that moment, would 
 have secured to Lord I\Iontfort the warm devo- 
 tion of a grateful heart, in which the grief that 
 overflowed was not for the irreplaceable loss of 
 an earlier lover, but the repentant shame for 
 An'ong and treachery to a confiding friend. 
 
 But it is in vain to ask from any man that 
 which is not in him! Lord Montfort listened 
 with sullen, stolid displeasure. That Caroline 
 should feel the slightest pain at any cause which 
 had canceled her engagement to that odious 
 Darrell, and had raised her to the rank of his 
 marchioness, was a crime in his eyes never to 
 be expiated. He considered, not without rea- 
 son, that INIrs. Lyndsay had shamefully deceived 
 him ; and fully believed that she had been an 
 accomplice with Jasper in that artifice which 
 he was quite gAitleman enough to consider 
 
 Q 
 
 placed those who had planned it out of the pale 
 of his acquaintance. And when Caroline, who 
 had been weeping too vehemently to read her 
 lord's countenance, came to a close. Lord ilont- 
 fort took up his hat and said, " I beg never to 
 hear again of this lawyer and his very disrepu- 
 table famih- connections. As you say, you and 
 your mother have behaved very ill to" him; but 
 you don't seem to understand that you have be- 
 haved much worse to me. As to 'condescend- 
 ing to write to him, and enter into explanations 
 how you came to be Lady Montfort, it would 
 be so lowering to me that I would never forgive 
 it — never. I would just as soon that you run 
 away at once — sooner. As for Mrs. Lyndsay, 
 I shall foi-bid her entering my house. ' When 
 you have done ciying, order your things to be 
 packed up. I shall return to England to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 That was perhaps the longest speech Lord 
 Montfort ever addressed to his wife ; perhaps 
 it was also the rudest. From that time he re- 
 garded her as some Spaniard of ancient days 
 might regard a guest on whom he was compelled 
 to bestow the rites of hospitality — to whom he 
 gave a seat at his board, a chair at his hearth, 
 but for whom he entertained a profound aver- 
 sion, and kept at invincible distance, with all 
 the ceremony of dignified dislike. Once only 
 during her wedded life Caroline again saw Dar- 
 rell. It was immediately on her return to En- 
 gland, and little more than a month after her 
 maiTiage. It was the day on which Parliament 
 •had been prorogued preparatory to its dissolu- 
 tion — the last Parliament of which Guy Darrell 
 was a member. Lady jMontfort's carriage was 
 detained in the throng with which the cere- 
 monial had filled the streets, and Darrell passed 
 it on horseback. It was but one look in that 
 one moment ; and the look never ceased to 
 hauut her — a look of such stern disdain, but 
 also of such deep despair. No language can 
 exaggerate the eloquence which there is in a 
 human countenance, when a great and tortured 
 spirit speaks out from it accusingly to a soui 
 that comprehends. The crushed heart, the rav- 
 aged existence, were bared before her in that 
 glance, as clearly as to a wanderer through the 
 night are the rents of the pirecipice in the flasli 
 of the lightning. So they encountered — so, 
 without word, they parted. To him that mo- 
 ment decided the flight from active life to which 
 his hopeless thoughts jiad of late been wooinir 
 the jaded, weary man. In safet\^ to his ver\ 
 conscience, he would not risk the certainty thu- 
 to encounter one whom it convulsed his whoh 
 being to remember was another's wife. In tha. 
 highest and narrowest sphere of the great Lon- 
 don world to which Guy Darrell's political dis- 
 tinction condemned his social life, it was im- 
 possible but what he should be brought fre- 
 quently into collision with Lord IMontfort, the 
 Head "of a House with which Darrell himself 
 was connected — the most powerful patrician of 
 the party of which Darrell was so conspicuous 
 a chief. Could he escape Lady INIontfort's pres- 
 ence, her name, at least, would be continual!; 
 in his ears. From that fatal beauty he couki 
 no more hide than from tne sun. 
 
 This thought, and the terror it occasioned 
 him, completed his resolve on the instant. The 
 next day he was in the gi'oves of Fawley, and 
 
242 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 amazed the world by dating from that retreat 
 a farewell address to his constituents. A few 
 days after, the news of his daughter's death 
 reached him ; and as that event became known, 
 it accounted to many for his retirement for a 
 while from public life. 
 
 But to Caroline Montfort, and to her alone, 
 the secret of a career blasted, a fame renounced, 
 was unmistakably revealed. For a time she 
 was tortured, in every society she entered, by 
 speculation and gossip which brought before her 
 the memory of his genius, the accusing sound 
 of his name. But him, who withdraws himself 
 from the world, the world soon forgets ; and by 
 degrees DaiTcU became as little spoken of as 
 the dead. 
 
 Mrs. Lyndsay had never, during her schemes 
 on Lord Montfort, abandoned her own original 
 design on Darrell. And when, to her infinite 
 amaze and mortification. Lord Montfort, before 
 the first month of his marriage expired, took 
 care, in the fewest possible words, to dispel her 
 dream of governing the House, and residing in 
 the houses, of Vipont, as the lawful regent dur- 
 ing the life-long minority to which she had con- 
 demned both the submissive Caroline and the 
 lethargic Marquis, she hastened by letter to 
 exculpate herself to Darrell — laid, of covirse, all 
 the blame on Caroline. Alas ! had not she al- 
 ways warned him that Caroline was not worthy 
 of him? — him, the greatest, the best of men, 
 etc., etc. Darrell replied by a single cut of 
 his trenchant sarcasm — sarcasm which shore 
 through her cushion of down and her vail of 
 gauze like the sword of Saladin. The old Alar- 
 chioness turned her back upon Mrs. Lyndsay. 
 Lady Selina was crushingly civil. The pretty 
 woman with pretty manners, no better off for 
 all the misery she had occasioned, went to 
 Kome, caught cold, and, having no one to nurse 
 her as Caroline had done, fell at last into a real 
 consumption, and faded out of the world ele- 
 gantly and spitefully, as fades a rose that still 
 leaves its thorns behind it. 
 
 Caroline's nature grew developed and exalted 
 by the responsibilities she had accepted, and by 
 the purity of lier grief. She submitted, as a just 
 retribution, to the solitude and humiliation of 
 her wedded lot ; she earnestly, virtuously strove 
 to banish from her heart every sentiment that 
 could recall to her more of Darrell than the re- 
 morse of having so darkened a life that had been 
 to her childhood so benignant, and to her youth 
 so confiding. As we have seen her, at the men- 
 tion of Darrell's name — at the allusion to his 
 griefs — fly to the side of her ungenial lord, 
 though he was to her but as the owner of the 
 name she bore, so it was the saving impulse of 
 a delicate, watchful conscience that kept her as 
 honest in thought as she was irreproachable in 
 conduct. But vainly, in summoning her intel- 
 lect to the relief of her heart — vainly had she 
 sought to find in the world friendships, compan- 
 ionships, that might eclipse the memory of the 
 mind so lofty in its antique mould — so tender in 
 its dejjths of unsuspected sweetness — which had 
 been withdrawn from her existence before she 
 could fully comprehend its rarity, or appreciate 
 its worth. 
 
 At last she became free once more ; and then 
 she had dared thoroughly to examine into her 
 own heart, and into the nature of that hold 
 which the image of Darrell still retained on its 
 remembrances. And precisely because she was 
 convinced that she had succeeded in preserving 
 her old childish affection for him free from the 
 growth into tliat warm love which would have 
 been guilt if so encouraged, she felt the more 
 free to volunteer the atonement which might 
 permit her to dedicate herself to his remaining 
 years. Thus, one day, after a convei-sation with 
 Alban Morley, in which Alban had spoken of 
 Darrell as the friend, almost the virtual guard- 
 ian, of her infancy ; and, alluding to a few lines 
 just received from him, brouglU- vividly before 
 Caroline the picture of Darrelfs melancholy 
 wanderings and blighted life — thus had she, on 
 the impulse of the moment, written the letter 
 which had reached Darrell at Malta. In it she 
 referred but indirectly to the deceit that had 
 been practiced on herself — far too delicate to 
 retail a scandal which she felt to be an insult to 
 his dignity, in which, too, the deceiving parties 
 were his daughter's husband and her own mo- 
 ther. No doubt every true woman can under- 
 stand why she thus wrote to Darrell, and every 
 true man can equally comprehend why that let- 
 ter failed in its object, and was returned to her 
 in scorn. Hers was the yearning of meek, pas- 
 sionless aftection, and his the rebuke of sensi- 
 tive, embittered, indignant love. 
 
 But now, as all her past, with its interior life, 
 glided before her, by a grief the most intolerable 
 she had yet known, the woman became aware 
 that it was no longer penitence for the injured 
 friend — it was despair for the lover she had lost. 
 In that stormy interview, out of all the confused 
 and struggling elements of her life-long self-re- 
 proach, LOVE— the love of woman — had flashed 
 suddenly, luminously, as the love of youth at 
 first sight. Strange — but the very disparity of 
 years seemed gone! She, the matured, sor- 
 rowful woman, was so much nearer to the man, 
 still young in heart, and little changed in per- 
 son, than the g.ay girl of seventeen had been to 
 the grave friend of forty ! Strange, but those 
 vehement reproaches had awakened emotions 
 deeper in the core of the wild mortal breast 
 than all that early chivalrous honiage which 
 had exalted her into the ideal of dreaming po- 
 ets. Strange, strange, strange ! But where 
 there is nothing strange, tlicre — is there ever 
 love ? 
 
 And with this revelation of her own altered 
 
 heart came the clearer and fresher insight into 
 
 the nature and cliaracter of the man she loved. 
 
 Hitherto she had recognized but his virtues — 
 
 now she beheld his failings ; beholding them as 
 
 ' if virtues, loved him more; and, loving him, 
 
 more despaired. She recognized that all-per- 
 
 I vading indomitable pride, which, interwoven 
 
 ! with his sense of honor, became as relentless 
 
 as it was unrevengeful. She comprehended 
 
 now, that the more he loved her, the less he 
 
 would forgive; and, recalling the unexpected 
 
 gentleness of his fiirewell words, she felt th.at 
 
 in his jaomised blessing lay the sentence that 
 
 I annihilated every hope ! 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 2+3 
 
 CHAPTER HL 
 
 Whatever the number of a man's friends, there will be 
 times in his life when he has one too few ; but if he 
 has only one enemy, he is lucky indeed if he has not 
 one too many. 
 
 A COLD night; sharp frost; winter set in. 
 The shutters are closed, the curtains drawn, the 
 fire burns clear, and the lights are softly shaded 
 in Alban Jklorley's drawing-room. The old bach- 
 elor is at home again. He had returned that 
 dav; sent to Lionel to come to him; and Li- 
 onel had already told him what had transpired 
 in his absence — "from the identification of Waife 
 with William Losely, to Lady ^lontfort's viiit 
 to Fawley, which had taken place two days be- 
 fore, and of which she had informed Lionel by 
 a few hasty lines, stating her inability to soften 
 Mr. Darrell's objections to the alliance between 
 Lionel and Sophy; severely blaming herself 
 that those objections had not more forcibly pre- 
 sented themselves to her own mind, and conclud- 
 ing with expressions of sympathy, and appeals 
 to fortitude, in which, however brief, the exqui- 
 site kindness of her nature so diffused its charm, 
 that the soft words soothed insensibly, like those 
 sounds which in Nature itself do soothe us we 
 know not why. 
 
 The poor Colonel found himself in the midst 
 of painful subjects. Though he had no very 
 keen sympathy for the sorrows of lovers, and 
 no credulous faith in everlasting attachments, 
 Lionel's portraiture of the young girl, who form- 
 ed so mysterious a link between the two men 
 who, in varying ways, had touched the finest 
 springs in his own heart, compelled a compas- 
 sionate and chivalrous interest, and he was deep- 
 ly impressed by the quiet of Lionel's dejection. 
 The young man uttered no complaints of the 
 inflexibility with which Darrell had destroyed 
 his elysium. He bowed to the will with which 
 it was in vain to argue, and which it would have 
 been a criminal ingratitude to defy. But his 
 youth seemed withered up ; down-eyed and list- 
 less he sank into that stupor of despondency 
 which so drearily simulates the calm of resigna- 
 tion. 
 
 "I have but one wish now," said he, " and 
 that is, to change at once into some regiment 
 on active sen-ice. I do not talk of courting 
 danger and seeking death. That would be ei- 
 ther a senseless commonplace, or a threat, as it 
 were, to Heaven ! But I need some vehemence 
 of action — some positive and irresistible call 
 upon honor or duty that may force me to con- 
 tend against this strange heaviness that settles 
 down on my whole life. Therefore, I entreat 
 you so to arrange for me, and break it to Jlr. 
 Darrell in such terms as may not needlessly 
 pain him by the obtrusion of my sufferings. 
 For, while I know him well enough to be con- 
 vinced that nothing could move him from re- 
 solves in which he had intrenched, as in a cita- 
 del, his pride or his creed of honor, I am sure 
 that he would take into his own heart all the 
 
 crrief which those resolves occasioned to anoth- ' 
 
 » '> 1 
 
 er s. 
 
 "You do him justice there!" cried Alban ; i 
 " you are a noble fellow to understand him so I 
 well ! Sir, you have in you the stuff that makes j 
 English gentlemen such generous soldiers." | 
 
 '•Action, action, action I" exclaimed Lionel. ' 
 
 " Strife, strife ! No other chance of cure. Rest 
 is so crushing, solitude so dismal." 
 
 Lo! how contrasted the effect of a similar 
 cause of grief at different stages of life ! Chase 
 the first day-dreams of our youth, and we cry, 
 "Action — Strife!" In that cry, unconsciously 
 to ourselves, Hope speaks, and profters worlds 
 of emotion not yet exhausted. Disperse the 
 last golden illusion in which the image of hap- 
 piness cheats our experienced manhood, and 
 Hope is silent ; she has no more words to offer 
 — unless, indeed, she drop her earthly attri- 
 butes, change her less solemn name, and float 
 far out of sight as " Faith I" 
 
 Alban made no immediate reply to Lionel ; 
 but, seating himself still more comfortably in 
 his chair — planting his feet still more at ease 
 upon his fender — the kindly man of the world 
 silently revolved all the possible means by which 
 Darrell might yet be softened and Lionel ren- 
 dered happy. His reflections dismayed him. 
 '"Was there ever such untoward luck," he said 
 at last, and peevishly, "that out of the whole 
 world you should fall in love with the very girl 
 against whom Dan-ell's feelings (prejudices, if 
 you please) must be mailed in adamant I Con- 
 vinced, and apparently with every reason, that 
 she is not his daughter's child, but, however in- 
 nocently, an impostor, how can he receive her 
 as his young kinsman's bride? How can we 
 exjicct it ?" 
 
 " But," said Lionel, " if, on farther investiga- 
 tion, she prove to be his daughter's child — the 
 sole surviving representative of his fine and 
 name ?" 
 
 "///s name! No! of the name of Losely — 
 the name of that turbulent sharper who may yet 
 die on the gibbet — of that poor, dear, lovable 
 rascal Willy, who was goose enough to get him- 
 self transported for robbery ! — a felon's grand- 
 child the representative of Darrell's line ! But 
 how on earth came Lady Montfort to favor so 
 wild a project, and encourage you to share in 
 it ? — she who ought to have known Darrell bet- 
 ter?" 
 
 "Alas! she saw but Sophy's exquisite, sim- 
 ple virtues, and inborn grace ; and, believing 
 her claim to Darrell's lineage. Lady Montfort 
 thought but of the joy and blessing one so good 
 and so loving might bring to his joyless hearth. 
 She was not thinking of morbid pride and mould- 
 ering ancestors, but of soothing charities and 
 loving ties. And Lady ilontfort, I now sus- 
 pect, in her scheme for our happiness — for Dar- 
 rell's — had an interest which involved her 
 own !" 
 
 " Her own I" 
 
 " Yes ; I see it all now." 
 
 " See what ? you puzzle me." 
 
 " I told you that Darrell, in his letter to me, 
 wrote with great bitterness of Lady Montfort." 
 
 "Very natural that he should. Who would 
 not resent such interference ?" 
 
 " Listen. I told you that, at his own com- 
 mand, I sent to her tliat letter ; that she, on 
 receiving it, went herself to Fawley, to plead 
 our cause. I was sanguine of the result." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Because he who is in love has a wondrous 
 intuition into all the mysteries of love in oth- 
 ers; and when I read Darrell's letter, I felt 
 sure that be had once loved — loved still, per- 
 
244 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 haps — the woman he so vehemently reproach- 
 ed." 
 
 " Ha !" said the man of the world, intimate 
 with Guy Darrell from his school-days ; " ha ! 
 is it possible ? And they say that I know every 
 thing ! You were sanguine — I understand. 
 Yes, if your belief were true — if there were 
 some old attachment that could be revived — 
 some old misunderstanding explained away — 
 stop ; let me think. True, true — it was just 
 after her marriage that he fled from the world. 
 Ah, my dear Lionel ! light, light ! light dawns 
 on me ! Not without reason were you sanguine. 
 Your hand, my dear boy ; I see hope for you at 
 last. For if the sole reason that prevented 
 Darrell contracting a second marriage was the 
 unconquered memory of a woman like Lady 
 Montfort (where, indeed, her equal in beauty, in 
 dispositions so akin to his own ideal of woman- 
 ly excellence ?) — and if she too has some corre- 
 spondent sentiments for him, why, then, indeed, 
 you might lose all chance of being Darrell's sole 
 heir ; your Sophy might forfeit the hateful claim 
 to be the sole scion on his ancient tree. But it 
 is precisely by those losses that Lionel Haugh- 
 ton might gain the bride he covets ; and if tliis 
 girl prove to be what these Loselys affirm, that 
 very marriage, which is now so repugnant to 
 Darrell, ought to insure his blessing. Were he 
 himself to marry again — had he rightful repre- 
 sentatives and heirs in his own sons — he should 
 rejoice in the nuptials that secured to his daugh- 
 ter's child so honorable a name and so tender a 
 protector. And as for inheritance, you have not 
 been reared to expect it ; you have never count- 
 ed on it. You would receive a fortune suffi- 
 ciently ample to restore your ancestral station ; 
 your career will add honors to fortune. Yes, 
 yes ; that is the sole way out of all these diffi- 
 culties. Darrell must marry again ; Lady Mont- 
 fort must be his wife. Lionel shall be free to 
 choose her whom Lady Montfort approves — be- 
 friends — no matter what her birth ; and I — I — 
 Alban Morley — shall have an arm-chair by two 
 smiling hearths." 
 
 At this moment there was heard a violent 
 ring at the bell, a loud knock at the street door ; 
 
 and presently, following close on the servant, 
 and pushing him aside as he asked what name 
 to announce, a woman, severely dressed in iron 
 gray, with a strongly-marked and haggard coun- 
 tenance, hurried into the room, and, striding 
 right up to Alban Morley as he rose from his 
 seat, grasped his arm, and whispered into his 
 ear, '• Lose not a minute ; come with me in- 
 stantlv — as vou value the safety, perhaps the 
 life, of Guy barren !" 
 
 " Gixy Darrell !" exclaimed Lionel, overhear- 
 ing her, despite the undertones of her voice. 
 
 "Who are you?" she said, turning fiercely ; 
 " are you one of his family ?" 
 
 " His kinsman — almost his adopted son — Mr. 
 Lionel Haughton," said the Colonel. "But 
 pardon me, madam — who are you ?" 
 
 " Do you not remember me ? Yet you were 
 so often in Darrell's house that you must Have 
 seen my face, as you have learned from your 
 friend how little cause I have to care for him or 
 his. Look again ; I am that Arabella Fossett 
 who — " 
 
 "Ah! I remember now ; but — " 
 
 " But I tell you that Darrell is in danger, and 
 this night. Take money ; to be in time you 
 must hire a special train. Take arms, though 
 to be tised only in self-defense. Take your 
 servant, if he is brave. This young kinsman — 
 let him come too. There is only one man to 
 resist ; but that man," she said, with a wild kind 
 of pride, "would have the strength and courage 
 of ten, were his cause not that which may make 
 the strong man weak and the bold man craven. 
 It is not a matter for the officers of justice, for 
 law, for scandal : the service is to be done in 
 secret, by friends, by kinsmen ; for the danger 
 that threatens Darrell — stoop — stoop, Colonel 
 Morley — close in your ear;" and into his ear 
 she hissed, " for the danger that threatens Dar- 
 rell in his house this night is from the man 
 whose name his daughter bore. That is why I 
 come to you. To you I need not say, ' Spare 
 his life — Jasper Losely's life.' Jasper Losely's 
 death as a midnight robber would be Darrell's 
 intolerable shame ! Quick, quick, quick ! — 
 come, come!" 
 
WHAT \\TLL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 245 
 
 BOOK X. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Brute force. 
 
 "\Te left Jasper Losely resting for the night 
 at the small town near Fawley. The next morn- 
 ing he walked on to the old Manor House. It 
 was the same morning in which Lad}' Montfort 
 had held her painful interview with Darrell; 
 and just when Losely neared the gate that led 
 into the small park, he saw her re-enter the 
 hired vehicle in waiting for her. As the car- 
 riage rapidh- drove past the miscreant, Lady 
 Montfort looked forth from the window to 
 snatch a last look at the scenes still so dear to 
 her, through eyes blinded by despairing tears. 
 Jasper thus caught sight of her countenance, 
 and recognized her, though she did not even 
 notice him. Surprised at the sight, he halted 
 by the palings. "\Yhat could have brought Lady 
 Montfort there ? Could the intimacy his fraud 
 had broken off so many years ago be renewed ? 
 If so, why the extreme sadness so evident on 
 the face of which he had caught but a hurried, 
 rapid glance ? Be that as it might, it was no 
 longer of the interest to him it had once been ; 
 and after pondering on the circumstance a min- 
 ute or two, he advanced to the gate. But while 
 his hand was on tlie latch he again paused ; 
 how should he obtain admission to Uarrell? 
 how announce himself? If in his own name, 
 would not exclusion be certain ? If as a stran- 
 ger on business, would Darrell be sure to re- 
 ceive him ? As he was thus cogitating, his ear, 
 which, with all his other organs of sense, was 
 constitutionally fine as a savage's, caught sound 
 of a faint rustle among the boughs of a thick 
 copse which covered a part of the little park, 
 terminating at its pales. The rustle came near- 
 er and nearer; the branches were rudely dis- 
 placed ; and in a few moments more Guy Dar- 
 rell himself came out from the copse, close by 
 the gate, and, opening it quickly, stood face to 
 face with his abhorrent son-in-law. Jasper was 
 startled, but the opportunity was not to be lost. 
 "Mr. Darrell," he said, "I come here again to 
 see you ; vouchsafe me this time a calmer hear- 
 ing." So changed was Losely, so absorbed in 
 his own emotions Darrell, that the words did 
 not at once waken up remembrance. '"An- 
 other time," said Darrell, hastily moving on into 
 the road; " I am not at leisure now." 
 
 "Pardon me, noic" said Losely, unconscious- 
 ly bringing himself back to the tones and bear- 
 ing of his earlier and more civilized years. 
 "You do not remember me. Sir; no wonder. 
 But my name is Jasper Losely." 
 
 Darrell halted ; then, still "as if spell-bound, i 
 looked fixedly at the broad-shouldered, burlv 
 frame before him, cased in its coarse pea-jack- 
 et, and in that rude form, and that defeatured, 
 bloated face, detected, though with strong effort, 
 the wrecks of the masculine beauty which had 
 ensnared his deceitful daughter. Jasper could 
 .not have selected a more uupropitious moment i 
 
 for his cause. Dan-ell was still too much under 
 the influence of recent excitement and immense 
 son-ow for that supremacy of prudence over pas- 
 sion which could alone have made him a w illing 
 listener to overtures from Jasper Losely. And 
 about the man whose connection with himself 
 was a thought of such bitter shame, there was 
 now so unmistakably the air of settled degrada- 
 tion, that all Darrell's instincts of gentleman 
 were revolted — just at the vert- time, too, when 
 his pride had been most chafed and assailed by 
 the obtrusion of all that rendered most gaUing 
 to him the very name of Jasper Losely. AVhat ! 
 was it that man's asserted child whom Lionel 
 Haughton desired as a wife? was the alliance 
 witli that man to be thus renewed and strength- 
 ened? that man have another claim to him and 
 his in right of parentage to the bride of his near- 
 est kinsman ? What ! was it that man's child 
 whom he was asked to recognize as of his own 
 flesh and blood? the last representative of his 
 line? That man! — that! A flash shot from 
 his bright eye, deepening its gray into dark; 
 and, turning on his heel, Darrell said, through 
 his compressed lips, 
 
 " You have heard, Sir, I believe, through Col- 
 onel Morley, that only on condition of your per- 
 manent settlement in one of our distant'colonies, 
 or America, if you prefer it, would I consent to 
 assist you. I am of the same mind still. I can 
 not parley with you myself. Colonel Morley is 
 abroad, I believe. I refer you to my solicitor ; 
 you have seen him years ago ; you know his ad- 
 dress. Xo more. Sir." 
 
 "This will not do, Mr. DaiTell,"said Losely, 
 doggedly; and, planting himself right before 
 Darrell's way, " I have come here on purpose 
 to have all ditferences out with you, face to face 
 — and I will — " 
 
 "You will!" said Darrell, pale with haughty 
 anger, and, with the impulse of his passion, his 
 hand clenched. In the bravery of his nature, 
 and the warmth of a temper constitutionally 
 quick, he thought nothing of the strength and 
 bulk of the insolent intruder — nothing of the 
 peril of odds so unequal in a personal encounter. 
 But the dignity which pervaded all his habits, 
 and often supplied to him the place of discre- 
 tion, came, happily for himself, to his aid now. 
 He strike a man whom he so despised I he raise 
 that man to his own level by the honor of a 
 blow from his hand ! Impossible ! " You will !" 
 he said. " Well, be it so. Are you come again 
 to tell me that a child of my daughter lives, and 
 that you won my daughter's fortune by a delib- 
 erate lie?" 
 
 " I am not come to speak of that girl, but of 
 myself. I say that I have a claim on you, Mr. 
 Darrell; I say that, turn and twist the truth as 
 you will, you are still my father-in-law, and that 
 it is intolerable that I s'.iould be wanting bread, 
 or driven into actual robbery, while my wife's 
 father is a man of countless wealth, and has no 
 heir except — but I will not now urge that child's 
 
216 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 cause ; I am content to abandon it, if so obnox- 
 ious to you. Do you wish me to cut a throat, 
 and to be hanged, and all the world to hear the 
 last dying speech and confession of Guy Dar- 
 rell's son-in-law ? Answer me, Sir I" 
 
 " I answer you briefly and plainly. It is sim- 
 ply because I would not have that last disgrace 
 on Guy Darrell's name that I offer you a sub- 
 sistence in lands where you will be less exposed 
 to those temptations which induced you to in- 
 vest the sums that, by your own tale, had been 
 obtained from me on false pretenses, in the sink 
 of a Paris gambling-house. A subsistence that, 
 if it does not pamper vice, at least places you 
 beyond the necessity of crime, is at your option. 
 Choose it or reject it as you \vill." 
 
 '•Look yoa, Mr. DaiTcll," said Jasper, whose 
 temper was fast giving way beneath the cold 
 and galling scorn «-ith which he was thus cast 
 aside, '■ I am in a state so desperate, that, rath- 
 er than starve, I may take what yon so con- 
 temptuously fling to — your daughter's husband ; 
 but — " 
 
 " Knave 1" cried Dan-ell, interrupting him, 
 "do you again and again urge it as a claim 
 upon me, that you decoyed from her home, un- 
 der a false name, my only child; that she died 
 in a foreign land — broken-hearted, if I have 
 rightly heard ; is that a claim upon your duped 
 victim's father ?" 
 
 '• It seems so, since your pride is compelled to 
 own that the world would deem it one, if the 
 jail-chaplain took down the last words of your 
 son-in-law. But, hasta, basta I hear me out, and 
 spare hard names ; for the blood is mounting 
 into my brain, and I may become dangerous. 
 Had any other man eyed, and scoff'ed, and rail- 
 ed at me as you have done, he would be lying 
 dead and dumb as this stone at my foot ; but 
 you — are my father-in-law. Xow, I care not to 
 bargain with you what be the precise amount of 
 my stipend if I obey your wish, and settle mis- 
 erably in one of those raw, comfortless corners 
 into which they who burden this Old World are 
 thrust out of sight. I would rather live my time 
 out in this country — live it out in peace, and for 
 half what you may agree to give in transporring 
 me. If you are to do any thing for me, you 
 had better do it so as to make me contented on 
 easy terms to your own pockets, rather than to 
 leave me dissatisfied, and willing to annoy you, 
 which I could do somehow or other, even on the 
 far side of ths Herring Pond. I might keep to 
 the letter of a liargain, live in Phillip's Town or 
 Adelaide, and take your money, and yet molest 
 and trouble you by deputy. That girl, for in- 
 stance — your grandchild ; well, well, disown her 
 if you please ; but if I find out where she is, 
 which I own I have not done yet, I might con- 
 trive to render her the plague of your life, even 
 though I ;j-ere in Australia." 
 
 '•Ay," said Darrell, murmuring — "ay, ay; 
 but" — (suddenly gathering himself up) — "No! 
 Man, if she v.ere my grandchild, your own child, 
 could you talk of her thus ? — make her the ob- 
 ject of so base a traffic, and such miserable 
 threats? Wicked though you be, this were 
 against nature I — even in nature's wickedness — 
 even in the son of a felon, and in the sharper 
 of a hell. Pooh 1 I despise your malice. I will 
 listen to vou uo longer. Out of mv path !" 
 
 "No!'"' 
 
 I "No?" 
 
 I " No, Guy Darrell, I have not yet done ; you 
 j shall hear my terms, and accept them — a mod- 
 I erate sum down ; say a few hundreds, and two 
 hundred a year to spend in London as I will — 
 I but out of your beat, out of your sight and hear- 
 I ing. Grant this, and I will never cross you 
 j again — never attempt to find, and, if I find by 
 . chance, never claim, as my child by your daugh- 
 : ter, that wandering gii^l. I will never shame 
 I you by naming our connection. I wiU not of- 
 fend the law, nor die by the hangman ; yet I 
 shall not live long, for I suff"er much, and I drink 
 hard." 
 
 The last words were spoken gloomily, not al- 
 together ^\'ithout a strange dreary pathos. And 
 amidst all his just scorn and anger, the large 
 human heart of Guy Darrell was for the mo- 
 ment touched. He was silent — his mind hesi- 
 tated ; would it not be well — would it not be 
 just as safe to his own peace, and to that of the 
 poor child, whom, no matter what her parent- 
 age, DaiTell could not but desire to free from 
 the claim set up by so bold a ruffian, to gratify 
 Losely's wish, and let him remain in England, 
 upon an allowance that would suffice for his sub- 
 sistence? Unluckily for Jasper, it was while 
 this doubt passed through DaiTcUs relenting 
 mind that the miscreant, who was shrewd 
 enough to see that he had gained ground but 
 too coarse of apprehension to ascribe his advant- 
 age to its right cause, thought to strengthen his 
 case by additional arguments. " Yon see, Sir, "re- 
 sumed Jasper, in almost familiar accents, "that 
 there is no dog so toothless but what he can bite, 
 and no dog so savage but what, if yon give him 
 plenty to eat, he will serve you." 
 
 Darrell looked up, and his brow slowly dark- 
 ened. 
 
 Jasper continued — "I have hinted how I 
 might plague you ; perhaps, on the other hand, 
 I might do you a good turn with that handsome 
 lady who drove from your park gate as I came 
 up. Ah ! you were once to have been married 
 to her. I read in the newspapers that she has 
 become a widow : you may marry her yet. 
 There was a stoi-y against you once ; her mo- 
 ther made use of it, and broke off" an old en- 
 gagement. I can set that story right." 
 
 '•You can," said Darrell, with that exceeding 
 calmness which comes from exceeding ^sTath ; 
 "and perhaps. Sir, that story, whatever it might 
 be, you invented. Xo dog so toothless as not 
 to bite — eh. Sir ?" 
 
 "Well," returned Jasper, mistaking Darrell's 
 composure, "at that time certainly it seemed 
 my interest that you should not marry again ; — 
 but basta ! basta ! enough of by-gones. If I bit 
 once, I will serve now. Come, Sir, you are a 
 man of the world, let us close the bargain." 
 
 All Darrell's soul was now up in arms. What, 
 then ! this infamous wretch was the author of 
 the tale by which the woman he had loved, as 
 woman never was loved before, had excused her 
 breach of faith, and been lost to hini for ever ? 
 And he learned this, while yet fresh from her 
 presence — fresh from the agonizing conviction 
 that his heart loved still, but could not jiardon. 
 With a spring so sudden that it took Losely ut- 
 terly by surprise, he leaped on the bravo, swung 
 .1-idc that huge bulk which Jasper had boasted 
 fear draymen could not stir against its will, 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 247 
 
 cleared his way ; and turning back before Lose- 
 ly had recovered his amaze, cried out, ''Exe- 
 crable villain I I revoke every offer to aid a life 
 that has e>asted but to darken and desolate those 
 it was permitted to approach. Starve or rob ! 
 perish miserably I And if I pour not on your 
 head my parting curse, it is only because I know 
 that man has no right to curse ; and casting you 
 back on your own evil self is the sole revenge 
 which my belief in Heaven permits me." 
 
 Thus saying, Darrell strode on — swiftly, but 
 not as one who flies. Jasper made three long 
 bounds, and was almost at his side, when he was 
 startled by the explosion of a gun. A pheasant 
 fell dead on the road, and Darrell's gamekeeper, 
 gnn in hand, came through a gap in the hedge 
 opposite the park pales, and seeing his master 
 close before him, approached to apologize for 
 the suddenness of the shot. 
 
 Whatever Losely's intention in hastening after 
 Darrell, he had no option now but to relinquish 
 it, and drop back. The village itself was not 
 many hundred yards distant ; and, after all, 
 what good in violence, except the gratified rage 
 of the moment ? Violence would not give to 
 Jasper Losely the income that had just been 
 within his giasp, and had so unexpectedly elud- 
 ed it. He remained, therefore, in the lane, 
 standing still, and seeing Darrell turn quietly 
 into his park through another gate close to the 
 Manor House. The gamekeeper, meanwhile, 
 picked up his bird, reloaded his gun, and eyed 
 Jasper suspiciously askant. The baffled gladi- 
 ator at length turned, and walked slowly back 
 to the town he had left. It was late in the aft- 
 ernoon when he once more gained his corner in 
 the coftee-room of his commercial inn ; and, to 
 his annoyance, the room was crowded — it was 
 market-day. Farmers, their business over, came 
 in and out in quick succession ; those who did 
 not dine at the ordinaries, taking their hasty 
 snack, or stirrup-cup, while their horses were 
 being saddled ; others to look at the newspaper, 
 or exchange a word on the state of markets and 
 the nation. Jasper, wearied and sullen, had to 
 wait for the refreshments he ordered, and mean- 
 while fell into a sort of half doze, as was not now 
 nnusual in him in the intervals between food and 
 mischief. From this creeping torpor he was sud- 
 denly roused by the sound of Darrell's name. 
 Three formers, standing close beside him, their 
 backs to the fire, were tenants to Darrell — two 
 of them on the lands that Darrell had purchased 
 in the years of his territorial ambition ; the third 
 resided in the hamlet of Fawley, and rented the 
 larger portion of the comparatively barren acres 
 to which the old patrimonial estate was circum- 
 scribed. These farmers were talking of their 
 Squire's return to the county — of his sequestered 
 mode of life — of his peculiar habits — of the great 
 nnfinished house which was left to rot. The 
 Fawley tenant then said that it might not be 
 left to rot after all, and that the village work- 
 men had been lately employed, and still were, 
 in getting some of the rooms into rough order; 
 and then he spoke of the long gallery in which 
 the Squire had been arranging his fine pictures, 
 and how he had run up a passage between that 
 gallery and his own room, and how he would 
 spend hours at day, and night too, in that aw- 
 ful long room, as lone as a church-yard ; and 
 that Mr. Mills hud said that his master now 
 
 lived almost entirely either in that gallery or in 
 the room in the roof of the old house — quite cut 
 off, as you might say, except from the eyes of 
 those dead pictures, or the rats, which had 
 gi-own so excited at having their quarters in 
 the new building invaded, that if you peeped in 
 at the windows in moonlit nights you might see 
 them in dozens, sitting on their haunches as if 
 holding council, or peering at the curious old 
 things which lay beside the crates out of which 
 they had been taken. Then the rustic gossips 
 went on to talk of the rent-day, which was at 
 hand — of the audit feast, which, according to 
 immemorial custom, was given at the old :Ma"nor 
 House on thatsame rent-day — supposed that Mr. 
 Fairthorn would preside— that the Squire him- 
 self would not appear — made some incidental 
 observations on their respective rents and wheat 
 crops — remarked that they should have a good 
 moonlight for their ride back from the audit 
 j feast — cautioned each other, laughing, not to 
 ! drink too much of Jlr. Fairthorn's punch — and 
 ] finally went their way, leaving on the mind of 
 ' Jasper Losely ^who, leaning his scheming head 
 1 on his powerful hand, had ajipeared in dull 
 j sleep all the while — these two facts : 1st, That 
 [ on the third day from that which was then de- 
 clining, sums amounting to thousands would 
 find their way into Fawley Manor House; and, 
 2dly, That a communication existed between 
 the unfinished, uninhabited building and Dar- 
 rell's own solitary chamber. As soon as he had 
 fortified himself by food and drink, Jasper rose, 
 paid for his refreshments, and walked forth. 
 Xoiseless and rapid, skirting the hedge-rows by 
 the lane that led to Fawley, and scarcely dis- 
 tinguishable under their shadow, the human 
 wild-beast strided on in scent of its quarry. It 
 was night when Jasper once more reached the 
 moss-grown pales round the demesnes of the 
 old Manor House. In a few minutes he was 
 standing under the black shadow of the but- 
 tresses to the unfinished pile. His object was 
 not then to assault, but to reconnoitre. He 
 prowled round the irregular walls, guided in his 
 sun-ey, now and then, faintly by the stars — more 
 constantly and clearly by the lights from the con- 
 tiguous Manor House — more especially the light 
 from that high chamber in the gable, close by 
 whrich ran the thin frame-work of wood whicti 
 linked the two buildings of stone, just as any 
 frail scheme links together the Past, which man 
 has not enjoyed, with the Future he will not 
 complete. Jasper came to a large bay unglazed 
 window, its sill but a few feet from the ground, 
 from which the boards, nailed across the mull- 
 ions, had been removed by the workmen whom 
 Darrell had employed on the interior, and were 
 replaced but by a loose tarpaulin. Pulling aside 
 this slight obstacle, Jasper had no difficulty in en- 
 tering through the wide mullions into the dreary 
 edifice. Finding himself in profound darkness, 
 he had recourse to a lucifer-box which he had 
 about him, and the waste of a dozen matches 
 sufficed him to examine the ground. He was 
 in a space intended by the architect for the prin- 
 cipal stair-case ; a tall ladder, used by the re- 
 cent workmen, was still left standing against 
 the wall, the top of it renting on a landing-place 
 opposite a door-way, that, from the richness of 
 its half-finished architrave, obviously led to what 
 had been designed for the state apartments; 
 
248 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 between the pediments was a slight temporary 
 door of rough deal planks. Satisfied with his 
 reconnoitre, Losely quitted the skeleton pile 
 and retraced his steps to the inn he had left. 
 His musings by the way suggested to liim the 
 expediency, nay, the necessity, of an accom- 
 plice. Implements might be needed — disguises 
 would be required — swift horses for flight to be 
 hired — and, should the robbery succeed, the 
 bulk of the spoil would be no doubt in bank- 
 notes, which it would need some other hand 
 than his own to dispose of, either at the bank 
 next morning at the earliest hour, or by trans- 
 mission abroad. For help in all this Jasper 
 knew no one to compare to Cutts ; nor did he 
 suspect his old ally of any share in the conspir- 
 acy against him, of which he had been M-arned 
 by Mrs. Crane, Resolving, therefore, to admit 
 that long-tried friend into his confidence and a 
 share of the spoils, he quickened his pace, ar- 
 rived at the railway-station in time for a late 
 train to London, and, disdainful of the dangers 
 by which he was threatened in return to any of 
 the haunts of his late associates, gained the dark 
 court wherein he had effected a lodgment on the 
 night of his return to London, and roused Cutts 
 from his slumbers with tales of an enterprise so 
 promising, that the small man began to recover 
 his ancient admiration for the genius to which 
 he had bowed at Paris, but which had fallen 
 into his contempt in London. 
 
 Mr. Cutts held a very peculiar position in that 
 section of the great world to which he belonged. 
 He possessed the advantage of an education su- 
 perior to that of the generality of his compan- 
 ions, having been originally a clerk to an Old 
 Bailey attorney, and having since that early 
 day accomplished his natural shrewdness by a 
 variety of speculative enterprises both at home 
 and abroad. In these adventures he had not 
 only contrived to make money, but, what is very 
 rare with the foes of law, to save it. Being a 
 bachelor, he was at small expenses ; but besides 
 his bacheloi-'s lodging in the dark court, he had 
 an establishment in the heart of the City, near 
 the Thames, which was intrusted to the care of 
 a maiden sister as covetous and as crafty as 
 himself. At this establishment, ostensibly a 
 pawnbroker's, were received the goods which 
 Cutts knew at his residence in the court were 
 to be sold a bargain, having been obtained for 
 nothing. It was chiefly by this business that 
 the man had enriched himself But his net was 
 one that took in fishes of all kinds. He was a 
 general adviser to the invaders of law. If he 
 shared in the schemes he advised, they were so 
 sure to be successful that he enjoyed the liigh- 
 est reputation for luck. It was "biit seldom that 
 he did actively share in those schemes — lucky 
 in what he shunned as in what he performed. 
 He had made no untruthful boast to Mrs. Crane 
 of the skill with which he had kept himself out 
 of the fangs of justice. With a certain portion 
 of the })olice he was indeed rather a favorite ; 
 for was any thing mysteriotisly " lost," for which 
 the owner would give a reward equal to its value 
 in legal markets, Cutts was the man who would 
 get it back. Of violence he had a wiiolesome 
 dislike ; not that he did not admire force in oth- 
 ers — not that he was jdiysically a coward — iiut 
 tlial caution was his ])redominant characteristic. 
 He employed force when reipiired — set a just 
 
 .value on it — would plan a burglary, and dispose 
 of the spoils ; but it was only where the jjrize 
 was great and the danger small that he lent 
 his hand to the work that his brain approved. 
 When Losely i)roj)osed to him the robbery of a 
 lone country house, in which Jasper, making 
 light of all perils, brought prominently forward 
 the images of some thousands of jiounds in gold 
 and notes, guarded by an elderly gentleman, 
 and to be approached with ease through an un- 
 inhabited building — Cutts thought it well worth 
 personal investigation. Nor did he consider 
 himself bound, by his general engagement to 
 IMrs. Crane, to lose the chance of a sum so im- 
 measurably greater than he could expect to ob- 
 tain from her by revealing the jjlflt and taking 
 measures to frustrate it. Cutts was a most faith- 
 ful and intelligent agent when he was properly 
 paid, and had jiroved himself so to Mrs. Crane 
 on various occasions. But then, to be paid 
 jtropcrhj meant a gain greater in serving than 
 he could get in not serving. Hitherto it had 
 been exti-emely lucrative to obey ilrs. Crane in 
 saving Jasper from crime and danger. In this 
 instance the lucre seemed all the other way. 
 Accordingly, the next morning, having filled a 
 saddle-bag with sundry necessaries, such as files, 
 picklocks, masks — to Avhich he added a choice 
 selection of political tracts and newspapers — he 
 and Jasjier set out on two hired but strong and 
 fleet hackneys to the neighborhood of Fawley. 
 They put up at a town on the other side of the 
 Manor House from that by which Jasper had 
 approached it, and at about the same distance. 
 After baiting their steeds, they proceeded to 
 Fawley by the silent guid;> of a finger-post, gain- 
 ed the vicinity of the park, and Cutts, dismount- 
 ing, flitted across the turf, and plunged himself 
 into the hollows of the unfinished mansion, 
 while Jasper took charge of the horses in a cor- 
 ner of the wooded lane. Cutts, pleased by the 
 survey of the forlorn interior, ventured, in the 
 stillness that reigned around, to mount the lad- 
 der, to ap]dy a picklock to the door above, and 
 opening this with ease, crept into the long gal- 
 lery, its walls covered with pictures. Through 
 the crevices in another door at the extreme end 
 gleamed a faint light. Cutts applied his eye to 
 the chinks and keyhole, and saw that the light 
 came from a room on the other side the narrow 
 passage which connected the new house with 
 the old. The door of that room was open, can- 
 dles were on the table, and beside the table 
 Cutts could distinguish the outline of a man's 
 form seated — doubtless the owner ; but the form 
 did not seem "elderly." If inferior to Jasper's 
 in physical power, it still was that of vigorous 
 and unbroken manhood. Cutts did not like the 
 appearance of that form, and he retreated to 
 outer air with some misgivings. However, on 
 rejoining Losely, he said, "As yet things look 
 promising — place still as death — only one door 
 locked, and that the common country lock, which 
 a school-boy might ])ick with his knife." 
 
 "Or a crooked nail," said Jas])er. 
 
 "Ay, no better picklock in good hands. But 
 there are other things besides locks to think of." 
 
 Cutts then hurried on to suggest that it was 
 just the hour when some of the workmen em- 
 ployed on the jiremises might be found in the 
 Fawley public house ; that he should ride on, 
 dismount there, and take his chance of picking 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 249 
 
 up details of useful information as to localities 
 and household. He should represent himself 
 as a commercial traveler on his road to the town 
 they had quitted ; he should take out his cheap 
 newspapers and tracts ; he should talk politics 
 — all workmen love politics, especially the poli- 
 tics of cheap newspapers and tracts. He would 
 rejoin Losely in an hour or so. 
 
 The bravo waited — his horse grazed — the 
 moon came forth, stealing through the trees, 
 bringing into fantastic light the melancholy old 
 dwelling-house — the yet more melancholy new 
 pile. Jasper was not, as we have seen, without 
 certain superstitious fancies, and they had grown 
 on him more of late as his brain had become 
 chronicalh- heated and his nerves i-elaxed by 
 pain. He began to feel the awe of the silence 
 and the moonlight ; and some vague remem- 
 brances of eai'lier guiltless days — of a father's 
 genial love — of joyous sensations in the price- 
 less possession of youth and vigor — of the ad- 
 mii'ing smiles and cordial hands which his beau- 
 ty, his daring, and high spirits had attracted to- 
 ward him — of the all that he had been, mixed 
 with the consciousness of what he was, and an 
 uneasy conjecture of the probable depth of the 
 final fall — came dimly over his thoughts, and 
 seemed like the whispers of remorse. But it is 
 rarely that man continues to lay blame on him- 
 self; and Jasper hastened to do as many a bet- 
 ter person does without a blush for his folly — 
 viz., shift upon the innocent shoulders of feUow- 
 men, or on the hazy outlines of that clouded 
 form which ancient schools and modern plagia- 
 rists call sometimes "Circumstance," sometimes 
 "Chance, "sometimes "Fate," all the guilt due 
 to his own willful abuse of irrevocable hours. 
 
 With this consolatoiy creed came, of necessi- 
 ty, the devil's grand luxury, Revenge. Say to 
 yourself, " For what I suffer I condemn anoth- 
 er man, or I accuse the Arch-Invisible, be it a 
 Destiny, be it a Maker!" and the logical sequel 
 is to add evil to evil, folly to folly — to retort on 
 the man who so wrongs, or on the Arch-Invisi- 
 ble who so afflicts you. Of all our passions is 
 not Revenge the one into which enters with the 
 most zest a devil ? For what is a devil ? — A be- 
 ing whose sole work on earth is some revenge 
 on God I 
 
 Jasper Losely was not by temperament vindic- 
 tive ; he was irascible, as the vain are — combative, 
 aggressive, turbulent, by the impulse of animal 
 spirits ; but the premeditation of vengeance was 
 foreign to a levity and egotism which abjured 
 the self-sacrifice that is equally necessary' to ha- 
 tred as to love. But Guy Darrell had' forced 
 into his moral system a passion not native to it. 
 Jasper had expected so much from his marriage 
 with the great man's daughter — counted so 
 thoroughly on her power to obtain pardon and 
 confer wealth — and his disappointment had been 
 so keen — been accompanied with such mortifi- 
 cation — that he regarded the man whom he had 
 most injured as the man who had most injured 
 him. But not till now did his angry feelings 
 assume the shape of a definite vengeance. So 
 long as there was a chance that he could ex- 
 tort from Darrell the money that was the essen- 
 tial necessary to his life, he checked his thoughts 
 whenever they suggested a profitless gratifica- 
 tion of rage. But now that Darrell had so 
 scornfully and so inexorably spurned all conces- 
 
 sion — now that nothing was to be wrung from him 
 except by force — force and vengeance came to- 
 gether in his projects. And yet, even in the 
 daring outrage he was meditating, murder itself 
 did not stand out as a thought accepted — no ; 
 what pleased his wild and turbid imagination 
 was the idea of humiliating by terror the man 
 j who had humbled him by disdain. To pene- 
 trate into the home of this haughty scorner — 
 to confront him in his own chamber at the dead 
 of night, man to man, force to force ; to say to 
 him, "None now can deliver you from me — I 
 come no more as a suppliant — I command you 
 to accept my terms;" to gloat over the fears 
 which, the strong man felt assured, would bow 
 the rich man to beg for mercy at his feet; — 
 this was the picture which Jasper Losely con- 
 [ jured up ; and even the spoil to Le won by vio- 
 ! lence smiled on him less than the grand po- 
 I sition which the violence itself would bestow. 
 I Are not nine murders out of ten fashioned thus 
 I from conception into deed? "Oh that my en- 
 emy were but before me face to face — none to 
 part us I" says the vindictive dreamer. W^ell, 
 i and what then? T/iere his imagination halts 
 I — there he drops the sable curtain ; he goes not 
 j on to say, " Why, then another murder will be 
 ! added to the long catalogue from Cain." He 
 I palters with his deadly wish, and mutters, per- 
 i haps, at most, "Why, then— come what may." 
 j Losely continued to gaze on the pale walls 
 I gleaming through the wintry boughs, as the 
 i moon rose high and higher. And now out broke 
 the light from Darrell's lofty casement, and 
 Losely smiled fiercely, and muttered — hark! 
 the very words — "And then! — come what 
 may." 
 
 Hoofs are now heard on the hard road, and 
 Jasper is joined by his accomplice. 
 "Well!" said Jasper. 
 
 " Blount I" returned Cutts ; "I have much to 
 say as we ride." 
 
 "This will not do," resumed Cutts, as they 
 sped fast down the lane ; " why, you never told 
 me all the drawbacks. There are no less than 
 four men in the house — two servants besides 
 the master and his secretary ; and one of those 
 servants, the butler or valet, has fire-arms, and 
 knows how to use them." 
 
 " Pshaw 1"' said Jasper, scoflSngly ; "is that 
 all ? Am I not a match for four ?" 
 
 " Ko, it is not all ; you told me the master 
 of the house was a retired elderly man, and you 
 mentioned his name. But you never told me 
 that your 3Ir. Darrell was the famous lawyer 
 and Parliament man — a man about whom the 
 newspapers have been writing the last six 
 months." 
 
 "What does that signify?"' 
 " Signify ! Just this, that there will be ten 
 times more row about the affair you propose 
 than tliere would be if it concerned only a stupid 
 old country squire, and therefore ten times as 
 much danger. Besides, on principle, I don't 
 like to have any thing to do with lawyers — a 
 cantankrous, spiteful set of fellows. And this 
 Guy Darrell ! Why, General Jas, I have seen 
 the man. He cross-examined me once when I 
 was a witness on a ca:?e of fraud, and turned 
 me inside out with as much ease as if I had 
 been an old pin-cushion stuft'ed with bran. I 
 think I see his eye now, and I would as lief 
 
250 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 have a loaded pistol at my head as that eye 
 again fixed on mine." 
 
 " Pooh I Yon have brought a mask; and, 
 besides, you need not see him; I can face him 
 alone." 
 
 " No, no ; there might be murder ! I never 
 mix myself with things of that kind, on princi- 
 ple ; your plan will not do. There might be a 
 much safer chance of more swar/ in a very dif- 
 ferent sort of scheme. I hear that the pictures 
 in that ghostly long room I crept through are 
 worth a mint of money. Now pictures of great 
 value are well known, and there are collectors 
 abroad who would pay almost any price for some 
 pictures, and never ask where they came from; 
 hide them for some years, perhaps, and not 
 bring them forth till any tales that would hurt 
 us had died away. This would be safe, I say. 
 If the pictures are small, no one in the old 
 house need be disturbed. I can learn from 
 some of the trade wliat pictures Darrell really 
 has that would fetch a high price, and then loi/k 
 out for customers abroad. This will take a lit- 
 tle time, but be worth waiting for." 
 
 " I will not wait," said Jasper, fiercely ; "and 
 you are a coward. I have resolved that to-mor- 
 row night I will be in that man's room, and that 
 man shall be on his knees before me." 
 
 Cutts turned sharply round on his saddle, and 
 by aid of the moonlight surveyed Losely's coun- 
 tenance. " Oh, I see," he said, " there is more 
 than robbery in your mind. You have some 
 feeling of hate — of vengeance ; the man has in- 
 jm-ed you ?" 
 
 '• He has treated me as if I were a dog," said 
 Jasper; "and a dog can bite." 
 
 Cutts mused a few moments. " I have heard 
 you talk at times about some rich relation or 
 connection on whom you had claims ; Darrell is 
 the man, I suppose ?" 
 
 " He is ; and hark ye, Cutts, if you try to 
 balk m3 here I will wring your neck otf. And 
 since I have told you so much, I will tell you this 
 much more — that I don't think there is the dan- 
 ger you count on ; for I don't mean to take Dar- 
 rell's blood, and I believe he would not take 
 mine." 
 
 " But there may be a struggle — and then ?" 
 "Ay, if so, and then — man to man," replied 
 Jasper, mutteringly. 
 
 Nothing more was said, but both spurred on 
 their horses to a quicker pace. The sparks 
 flashed from the hoofs. Now through the moon- 
 light, now under shade of the boughs, scoured 
 on the riders — Losely's broad chest and mark- j 
 ed countenance, once beautiful, now fearful, ' 
 formidably defined even under the shadows — 
 his comrade's unsubstantial figure and goblin 
 features flitting vague even under the moon- 
 light. 
 
 The town they had left came in sight, and by 
 this time Cutts had resolved on the course his 
 prudence suggested to him. Tlie discovery 
 that, in the proposed enterprise, Losely had a 
 personal feeling of revenge to satisfy, had suf- 
 ficed to decide the accom])licc jieremptorily to 
 have nothing to do with the aftair. It was his 
 rule to abstain from all transactions in which 
 fierce passions were engaged. And the quarrels 
 between relations or connections were especial- 
 ly those which his exjierience of human nature 
 told hinr brought risk upon all intcrmoddlers. 
 
 But he saw that Jasper was desperate ; that the 
 rage of the bravo might be easily turned on 
 himself; and therefore, since it was no use to 
 argue, it would be discreet to dissimulate. Ac- 
 cordingly, when they reached their inn, and 
 were seated over their brandy-and-water, Cutts 
 resumed the conversation, appeared gradually 
 to yield to Jasper's reasonings, concerted with 
 him the whole plan for the next night's opera- 
 tions, and took care meanwhile to pass the 
 brandy. The day had scarcely broken before 
 Cutts was oft", with his bag of implements and 
 tracts. He would have fain carried off also 
 both the horses ; but the hostler, surly at being 
 knocked up at so early an hour, might not have 
 surrendered the one ridden by Jajper without 
 Jasper's own order to do so. Cutts, however, 
 bade the hostler be sure and tell the gentleman, 
 before going away, that he, Cutts, strongly ad- 
 vised him " to have nothing to do with the bul- 
 locks." 
 
 Cutts, on arriving in London, went straight 
 to Mrs. Crane's old lodging opposite to Jasper's. 
 But she had now removed to Eodden Place, and 
 left no address. On reaching his own home, 
 Cutts, however, found a note from her, stating 
 that she should be at her old lodging that even- 
 ing, if he would call at half past nine o'clock; 
 for, indeed, she had been expecting Jasper's 
 promised visit — had learned that he had left his 
 lodgings, and was naturally anxious to learn 
 from Cutts what had become of him. When 
 Cutts called at the appointed hour and told his 
 story, Arabella Crane immediately recognized 
 all the danger which her informant had so pru- 
 dently shunned. Nor was she comforted by 
 Cntts's assurance that Jasper, on finding him- 
 self deserted, would have no option but to aban- 
 don, or at least postpone, an enterprise that, 
 undertaken singly, would be too rash even for 
 his reckless temerit_v. As it had become the 
 object of her life to save Losely from justice, so 
 she now shrunk from denouncing to justice his 
 meditated crime ; and the idea of recurring to 
 Colonel Morley happily flashed upon her. 
 
 Having thus explained to the reader these 
 antecedents in the narrative, we return to Jas- 
 jier. He did not rise till late at noon; and as 
 he was generally somewhat stupefied on rising, 
 by the drink he had taken the night before, and 
 by the congested brain which the heaviness of 
 such sleep produced, he could not at first be- 
 lieve that Cutts had altogether abandoned the 
 enterprise — rather thought that, with his habit- 
 ual wariness, that Ulysses of the Profession had 
 gone forth to collect further information in the 
 neighborhood of the jjroposed scene of action. 
 He was not fully undeceived in this belief till 
 somewhat late in the da\', when, strolling into 
 the stable-yard, the hostler, concluding from the 
 gentleman's goodly thews and size that he was 
 a north-country grazier, delivered Cutts's alle- 
 gorical caution against the bullocks. 
 
 Thus abandoned, Jasper's desperate project 
 only acquired a still more concentrated pur]iose, 
 and a ruder simplicity of action. His original 
 idea, on first conceiving the plan of robbery, had 
 been to enter into Darrell's presence disguised 
 and masked. Even, however, before Cutts de- 
 serted him, the mere hope of plunder had be- 
 come subordinate to the desire of a jiersonal 
 triumph; and now that Cutts had left him to 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 251 
 
 himself, and carried away the means of disguise, 
 Jasper felt rather pleased than otherwise at the 
 thought that his design should have none of the 
 characteristics of a vulgar burglary. No mask 
 now ; his front should be as open as his demand. 
 Cutts's report of the facility of penetrating into 
 Darrell's very room also lessened the uses of 
 an accomplice." And in the remodification of 
 his first hasty plan of commonplace midnight 
 stealthy robbery, he would no longer even re- 
 quire an assistant to dispose of the plunder he 
 might gain. Darrell should now yield to his 
 exactions, as a garrison surprised accepts the 
 terms of its conqueror. There would be no 
 flight, no hiding, no fear of notes stopped at 
 banks. He would march out, hand on haunch, 
 witli those immunities of booty that belong to 
 the honors of war. Pleasing his self-conceit 
 with so gallant a view of his meditated exploit, 
 Jasper sauntered at dark into the town, bought 
 a few long narrow nails and a small hammer, 
 and returning to his room, by the aid of the fire, 
 the tongs, and the hammer, he fashioned these 
 nails, with an ease and quickness which showed 
 an expert practitioner, into instruments that 
 would readily move the wards of any common 
 country-made lock. He did not care for weap- 
 ons. He trusted at need to his own powerful 
 hands. It was no longer, too, the affair of a 
 robber unknown, unguessed, who might have to 
 fight his way out of an alarmed household. It 
 was but the visit which he, Jasper Losely, Es- 
 quire, thought tit to pay, however imceremoni- 
 ously and unseasonably, to the house of a father- 
 in-law ! At the worst, should he fail in finding 
 Darrell, or securing an imwitnessed inteiTiew 
 — should he instead alarm the household, it 
 would be a proof of tiie integrity of his inten- 
 tions that he had no weapons save those which 
 Nature bestows on the wild man as the mightiest 
 of her wild beasts. At night he mounted his 
 horse, but went out of his way, keeping the higli- 
 road for an hour or two, in order to allow amjde 
 time for the farmers to have quitted the rent- 
 feast, and the old Manor House to be hushed in 
 sleej). At last, when he judged the coast clear 
 and the hour ripe, he wound back into the lane 
 toward Fawley ; and when the spire of its ham- 
 let-church came in sight through the frosty star- 
 lit air, he dismounted — led the horse into one 
 of the thick beechwoods, that make the prevail- 
 ing characteristic of the wild country round that 
 sequestered dwelling-place — fastened the animal 
 to a tree, and stalked toward the park-pales on 
 foot. Lightly, as a wolf enters a sheepfold, 
 he swung himself over the moss-grown fence ; 
 he gained the buttresses of the great raw pile ; 
 high and clear above, from Darrell's chamber, 
 streamed the light; all tlie rest of the old house 
 was closed and dark, buried, no doubt, in slum- 
 ber. 
 
 He is now in the hollows of the skeleton pile ; 
 he mounts the ladder ; the lock of the door be- 
 fore him yields to his rude implements but art- 
 ful hand. He is in the long gallery ; the moon- 
 light comes broad and clear through the large 
 casements. What wealth of art is on the walls ! 
 but how ])rofitless to the robber's greed ! There, 
 through the very halls which the master had 
 built in tlie day of his ambition, saying to him- 
 self, "These are for far Posterity," the step of 
 Violence, it may be of Murder, takes its stealthy 
 
 way to the room of the childless man ! Through 
 the uncompleted pile, toward the nncompleted 
 life, strides the terrible step. 
 
 The last door yields noiselessly. The small 
 wooden corridor, narrow as the drawbridore 
 which in ancient fortresses was swung between 
 the commandant's room in the topmost story 
 and some opposing wall, is before him. And 
 Darrell's own door is half open ; lights on the 
 table — logs burning bright on the hearth. Cau- 
 tiously Losely looked through the aperture. 
 Darrell was not there; the place was solitary: 
 but the opposite door was open also. Losely's 
 fine ear caught the sound of a slight movement 
 of a footstep in the room just below, to which 
 that opposite door admitted. In an instant the 
 robber glided witJiin the chamber— closed and 
 locked the door by which he had entered, re- 
 taining the key about his person. The next 
 stride brought him to the hearth. Beside it 
 hung the bell-rope common in old-fashioned 
 houses. Losely looked round; on the table, by 
 the writing implements, lay a pen-knife. In 
 another moment the rope was cut, high out of 
 Darrell's reach, and flung aside. The hearth, 
 being adapted but for logwood fires, furnished 
 not those implements in which, at a moment 
 of need, the owner may find an available weapon 
 — only a slight pair of brass wood-pincers, and 
 a shovel equally frail. Such as they were, how- 
 ever, Jasper quietly removed and hid them be- 
 hind a lieavy old bureau. Steps were now heard 
 mounting the stair that led into the chamber; 
 Losely shrunk back into the recess beside the 
 mantle-piece. Darrell entered, with a book in 
 his hand, for which he had, indeed, quitted his 
 chamber — a volume containing the last Act of 
 Parliament relating to Public Trusts, which had 
 been sent to him by his solicitor; for he is 
 creating a deed of trust, to insure to the nation 
 the Darrell Antiquities, in the name of his 
 father, the antiquarian. 
 
 Darrell advanced to the Avriting-table, wliich 
 stood in the centre of the room ; laid down the 
 book, and sighed — the short, quick, impatient 
 sigh which had become one of his peculiar hab- 
 its. The robber stole from the recess, and, glid- 
 ing round to the door by which Darrell had en- 
 tered, while the back of the master was still to- 
 ward him, set fast the lock, and appropriated 
 the key as he had done at the door which had 
 admitted himself. Though the noise in that 
 operation was but slight, it rouses I^jin-ell from 
 his abstracted thoughts. He turiicd quicklv, 
 and at the same moment Losely advanced to- 
 ward him. 
 
 At once Darrell comprehended his danger. 
 His rapid glance took in all the precautions by 
 which the intruder proclaimed his lawless pur- 
 pose — the closed door, the bell-rope cut off. 
 There, between those four secret walls, must 
 pass the interview between himself and the des- 
 perado. He was unarmed, but he was not 
 daunted. It was but man to man. Losely had 
 for him his vast physical strength, his penury, 
 despair, and vindictive purpose. Darrell had 
 in his favor the intellect which gives presence 
 of mind ; the energy of nerve, which is no more 
 to be seen in the sinew and bone than the fluid 
 which fells can be seen in the jars and the 
 wires ; and that superb kind of pride, which, if 
 terror be felt, makes its action impossible, be- 
 
252 
 
 WHAT ^YILL HE DO WITH TI ? 
 
 cause a disfrrace, and bravery a matter of course, 
 simply because it is honor. 
 
 As the bravo approached, by a calm and slight 
 movement Darrell drew to the other side of the 
 table, placing that obstacle between himself and 
 Losely, and, extending his arm, said, "Hold, 
 Sir ; i forbid you to advance another step. You 
 are here, no matter how, to reurge your claims 
 on me. Be seated ; I will listen to you." 
 
 Darrell's composure took Losely so by sur- 
 prise that, mechanically, he obeyed the com- 
 mand thus tranquilly laid upon him, and sunk 
 into a chair — facing Darrell with a sinister un- 
 der-look from his sullen brow. '• Ah I" he said, 
 "you will listen to me now ; but my terms have 
 risen." 
 
 Darrell, who had also seated himself, made 
 no answer ; but his face was resolute, and his 
 eye watchful. The ruffian resumed, in a gruffer 
 tone, " My terms have risen, Mr. DaiTeU." 
 
 '• Have they, Sir? and why ?" 
 
 " Why I Because no one can come to your 
 aid here ; because here you can not escape ; be- 
 cause here you are in my power I" 
 
 "Eather, Sir, I listen to you because here 
 you are under my roof-tree ; and it is you who 
 are in my power I" 
 
 ■• Yours ! Look round ; the doors are locked 
 on you. Perhaps you think your shouts, your 
 cries, might bring aid to you. Attempt it — 
 raiie your voice — and I strangle you with these 
 hands." 
 
 " If I do not raise my voice, it is, first, be- 
 cause I should be ashamed of myself if I re- 
 quired aid against one man ; and, secondly, be- 
 cause I would not expose to my dependents a 
 would-be assassin in him whom ray lost child 
 called husband. Hush, Sir, hush, or your own 
 voice will alarm those who sleep below. And, 
 now, what is it you ask ? Be plain, Sir, and be 
 brief." 
 
 '• Well, if you like to take matters coolly, I 
 have no objection. These are my terms. You 
 have received large sums this day; those sums 
 are in your house, probably in that bureau ; and 
 your life is at my will." 
 
 "You ask the moneys paid for rent to-day. 
 True, they are in the house ; but they are not 
 in my apartments. They were received by 
 another; they are kept by another. In vain, 
 through the windings and passages of this old 
 house, would you seek to find the room in which 
 he stores them. In doing so, you will pass by 
 the door of a sen^ant who sleeps so lightly that 
 the chances are that he will hear you ; he is 
 armed with a blunderbuss and with pistols. You 
 say to me, ' Your money or your life.' I say to 
 you, in reply, 'Neither: attempt to seize the 
 money, and your own life is lost.'" 
 
 "Miser! I don't believe that sums so large 
 are not in your own keeping. And even if they 
 are not, you shall show me where they are ; you 
 shall lead me through those windings and pas- 
 sages of which you so tenderly warn me, my 
 hand on your throat. And if servants wake, or 
 danger threaten me, it is you who shall save me, 
 or die I Ha ! you do not fear me — eh, Mr. Dar- 
 rell 1" And Losely rose. 
 
 " I do ttot fear you," replied Darrell, still 
 seated. " I can not conceive that you are here 
 with no other design but a profitless murder. 
 You are here, you say, to make terms; it will 
 
 be time enough to see whose life is endangered, 
 when all your propositions have been stated. As 
 yet you have only suggested a robbery, to which 
 you ask me to assist you. Impossible I Grant 
 even that you were able to murder me, you 
 would be just as far off from your booty. And 
 yet you say your terms have risen I To me they 
 seem fallen to — nothing ! Have you any thing 
 else to say ?" 
 
 The calmness of Darrell, so supremely dis- 
 played in this irony, began to tell upon the ruf- 
 fian — the magnetism of the great man's eye and 
 voice, and steadfast courage, gradually gaining 
 power over the wild, inferior animal. Trying to 
 recover his constitutional audacity, Jasper said, 
 with a tone of the old rollicking voice, "Well, 
 Mr. Darrell, it is all one to me "how I wring 
 from you, in your own house, what you refused 
 me when I was a suppliant on the road. Fair 
 means are pleasanter than foid. I am a gen- 
 tleman — the grandson of Sir Julian Losely, 
 of Losely Hall ; I am your son-in-law ; and I 
 am starving. This must not be; vrrite me a 
 check." 
 
 Darrell dipped his pen in the ink, and drew 
 the paper toward him. 
 
 " Oho I you dou"t fear me, eh ? This is not 
 done from fear, mind — all out of pure love and 
 compassion, my kind father-in-law ."• You will 
 write me a check for five thousand pounds — 
 come, I am moderate — your life is worth a pre- 
 cious deal more than that. Hand me the check 
 — I will trust to your honor to give me no trouble 
 in cashing it, and bid you good-night, my — fa- 
 ther-in-law." 
 
 As Losely ceased with a mocking laugh, Dar- 
 rell sprang up quickly, threw open the small 
 casement which was within his reach, and flung 
 from it the paper on which he had been writing, 
 and which he wrapped round the heavy armoriiU 
 seal that lay on the table. 
 
 Losely bounded toward him. "What means 
 that? — what have you done?" 
 
 " Saved your life and mine, Jasper Losely," 
 said Darrell solemnly, and catching the arm 
 that was raised against him. ".We are now 
 upon equal terms." 
 
 "I understand," growled the tiger, as the 
 slaver gathered to his lips — "you think by that 
 paper to summon some one to your aid." 
 
 " Xot so — that paper is useless while I live. 
 Look forth — the moonlight is on the roofs be-' 
 low — can you see where that paper has fallen? 
 On the ledge of a parapet that your foot could 
 not reach. It faces the window of a room in 
 which one of my household sleeps ; it will meet 
 his eye in the morning when the shutters are 
 unbarred; and on that paper are vnh these 
 words, ' If I am this night murdered, the mur- 
 derer is Jasper Losely,' and the paper is signed 
 by my name. Back, Sir — would you doom your- 
 self to the gibbet?" 
 
 Darrell released the dread arm he had arrest- 
 ed, and Losely stared at him, amazed, bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 Darrell resumed : "And now I tell you plain- 
 ly that I can accede to no terms put to me thus. 
 I can sign my hand to no order that you may 
 dictate, because that would be to sign myself a 
 coward — and my name is Darrell I" 
 
 " Down on your knees, proud man — sign yoa 
 shall, and on your knees ! I care not now for 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 253 
 
 gold — I care not now a rush for my life. I 
 came here to humble tlie man who from first to 
 last has so scornfiillv humbled me. And I will, 
 I will ! On your knees^on your knees !" 
 
 The robber flung liimself forward ; but Dar- 
 rell, whose eye had never quitted the foe, was 
 prepared for and eluded the rush. Losely, 
 missing his object, lost his balance, struck 
 against the edge of the table which partially 
 interposed between himself and his prey, and 
 was only saved from falling by the close neigh- 
 borhood of the wall, on which he came with a 
 shock that for the moment well-nigh stunned 
 him. Meanwhile Darrell had gained the hearth, 
 and snatched from it a large log, half burning. 
 Jasper, recovering himself, dashed the long 
 matted hair from his eyes, and, seeing undis- 
 mayed the foiTnidalile weapon with which he 
 was menaced, cowered for a second and dead- 
 lier spring. 
 
 " Stay, stay, stay, parricide and madman !" 
 cried Darrell, his eye flashing brighter than the 
 brand. " It is not my life I plead for — it is 
 yours. Remember, if I fall by your hand no 
 hope and no refuge are left to you ! In the 
 name of my dead child, and under the eye of 
 avenging Heaven, I strike down the fury that 
 blinds you, and I scare back your soul from the 
 abyss !" 
 
 So ineffably grand were the man's look and 
 gesture — so full of sonorous terror the swell of 
 his matchless, all-conquering voice — that Lose- 
 ly, in his midmost rage, stood awed and spell- 
 bound. His breast heaved, his eye fell, his 
 frame collapsed, even his very tongue seemed 
 to cleave to the parched roof of his mouth. 
 Whether the effect so suddenly produced might 
 have continued, or whether the startled mis- 
 creant might not have lashed himself into re- 
 newed wrath and inexpiable crime, passes out 
 of conjecture. At that instant simultaneously 
 were lieard hurried footsteps in the corridor 
 without, violent blows on the door, and voices 
 exclaiming, " Of)en, open! — Darrell, Darrell!" 
 while the bell at the portals of the old house 
 rang fast and shrill. 
 
 " Ho I — is it so ?" growled Losely, recovering 
 himself at those iHiwelcome sounds. " But do 
 not think that I will be caught thus, like a rat 
 in a trap. No — I will — " 
 
 " Hist !" interrupted Darrell, dropping the 
 brand, and advancing quickly on the ruffian — 
 "Hist! — let no one know that my daughter's 
 husband came here with a felon's purpose. Sit 
 down — down, I say. It is for my house's honor 
 that you should be safe." And" suddenly plac- 
 ing both hands on Losely's broad shoulder he 
 forced him into a seat. 
 
 During these few hurried words the strokes 
 at the door and the shouts without had been 
 continued, and the door shook on its yielding 
 hinges. 
 
 " The key — the key !" whispered Darrell. 
 
 But the bravo was stupefied by the sudden- 
 ness with which his rage had been cowed, his 
 design baffled, his position changed from the 
 man dictating laws and threatening life to the 
 man protected by his intended victim. And he 
 was so slow in even comprehending the mean- 
 ing of Darrell's order, that Darrell had scarce- 
 ly snatched the keys less from his hand than 
 from the pouch' to which he at last mechanical- , 
 
 ly pointed, when the door was burst open, and 
 Lionel Haughton, Alban Morley, and the Col- 
 onel's servant were in the room. Not one of 
 them, at the first glance, perceived the inmates 
 of the chamber, who were at the right of their 
 ^ entrance, by the angle of the wall and in shad- 
 ; ow. But out came Darrell's calm voice — 
 I "Alban! Lionel! — welcome always; but 
 I what brings you hither, at such an hour, with 
 : such clamor ? Armed, too !" 
 { The three men stood petrified. There sMe, 
 peaceably enough, a large dark form, its hands 
 on its knees, its head bent down, so that the 
 j features were not distinguishable ; and over the 
 j chair in which this bending figure was thus con- 
 j fusedly gathered up, leaned Guy Darrell, with 
 ! quiet ease — no trace of fear nor "of past danger 
 in his face, which, though very pale, was serene, 
 with a slight smile on the firm lips. 
 
 " Well," muttered Alban jMorley, slowly low- 
 ering his pistol, "well, I am surprised ! — yes, for 
 the first time in twenty years, I am surprised !" 
 " Surprised, perhaps, to find me at this hour 
 still up, and with a person upon business — the 
 door locked. However, mutual explanations 
 later. Of course you stay here to-night. My 
 business with this — this visitor is now over. Li- 
 onel, open that door — here is the key. Sir (he 
 touched Losely by the shoulder, and" whispered 
 in his ear, 'I-iise, and speak not!' — (aloud) — 
 Sir, I need not detain you longer. Allow me 
 to show you the way out of this rambling old 
 house." 
 
 Jasper rose like one half-asleep, and, still 
 bending his form and hiding his face, followed 
 Darrell down the private stair, through the 
 study, the library, into the hall, the Colonel's 
 servant lighting the way ; and Lionel and Mor- 
 ley, still too amazed for words, bringing up the 
 rear. The servant drew the heavy bolts from 
 the front door. And now the household had 
 caught alarm. Mills first appeared with the 
 blunderbuss, then the footman, then Fairthorn. 
 " Stand back, there !" cried Darrell, and he 
 opened the door himself to Losely. " Sir," said 
 he, then, as they stood in the moonlight, "mark 
 that I told you truly you were in my power ; and 
 if the events of this night can lead you to ac- 
 knowledge a watchful Providence, and recall 
 with a shudder the crime from which you have 
 been saved, why, then, I too, out of gratitude 
 to Heaven, may think of means by which to 
 free others from the peril of your despair." 
 
 Losely made no answer, but slunk off with a 
 fast, furtive stride, hastening out of the moon- 
 lit sward into the gloom of the leafless trees. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 If the Lion ever wear the Fox's hide, still he wears it as 
 the Lion. 
 
 When Darrell was alone with Lionel and Al- 
 ban jMorley the calm with which he had before 
 startled them vanished. He poured out his 
 thanks with deep emotion. " Forgive me ; not 
 in the presence of a servant could I say, ' You 
 have saved me from an unnatural strife, and 
 my daughter's husband from a murderer's end.' 
 But by what wondrous mercy did you learn mv 
 danger? Were you sent to my aid?" 
 
2o-i 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 Alban briefly explained. " You may judge," 
 he said, in conclusion, " how great was our anx- 
 iety, when, following the instructions of our 
 guide, while our driver rang his alarum at the 
 ■ front portals, we made our entrance into yon 
 ribs of stone, found the doors already opened, 
 and feared we might be too late. But, mean- 
 while, the poor woman waits without in the car- 
 riage that brought us from the station. I must 
 go and relieve her mind." 
 
 "'And bring her hither," cried Darrell, "to 
 receive my gratitude. iStay, Alban ; while you 
 leave me wirh her you will speak aside to Mills ; 
 tell him tliat you heard there was an attempt to 
 be made on t!ie house, and came to frustrate it, 
 hut that your fears were exaggerated ; the man 
 was more a half-insane mendicant than a rob- 
 ber. Be sure, at least, that liis identity with 
 Losely be not surmised, and bid Mills treat the 
 affair lightly. Public men are exposed, you 
 know, to assaults from crack-brained enthusi- 
 asts ; or stay — I was once a lawyer, and (con- 
 tinued Darrell, whose irony had become so in- 
 tegral an attribute of his mind as to be proof 
 against all trial) there ai-e men so out of their 
 wits as to fancy a lawyer has ruined them ! 
 Lionel, tell poor Dick Fairthorn to come to 
 me." AVhen the musician entered, Darrell 
 whispered to him, " Go back to your room — 
 open your casement — step out on to the parapet 
 — you will see something white ; it is a scrap 
 of paper wrapped round my old armorial seal. 
 Bring it to me just as it is, Dick. That poor 
 young Lionel, we must keep him here a day or 
 two ; mind, no prickles for him, Dick." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Arabella Cra.ne versus Guy Darrell: or. Woman versiis 
 Lawyer. In the Courts, Lawyer would win; but in a 
 Private Parlor, foot to foot and tongue to tongue, Law- 
 yer has not a chance. 
 
 Arabella Craxe entered the room; Darrell 
 hesitated — the remembrances attached to her 
 were so painful and repugnant. But did he not 
 now owe to her, perhaps, his very life? He 
 passed his hand rapidly over his brow, as if to 
 sweep away all earlier recollections, and, ad- 
 vancing quickly, extended that hand to her. 
 The stern woman shook her head, and rejected 
 the proffered greeting. 
 
 "You owe me no thanks," she said, in her 
 harsli, ungracious accents; "I sought to save 
 not you, but him." 
 
 " How :" said Darrell, startled ; " you feel no 
 resentment against the man who injured and 
 betrayed you ?" 
 
 "What my feelings may be toward him are 
 not for you to conjecture; man could not con- 
 jecture them ; I am woman. What they once 
 were I might blush for; what they are "now, I 
 could own without shame. But you, Mr. Dar- 
 rell — y.)u, in the hour of my uttermost anguish, 
 when all my future was laid desolate, and the 
 world lay crashed at my feet — you — man, cliiv- 
 alrous man I — you had for me no liimian com- 
 passion — you thrust me in scorn from your doors 
 — you saw in my woe nothing but my error — 
 you sent me forth, strii)ped of reputation, brand- 
 ed by your contempt, to famine or to suicide. 
 And you wonder that I feel less resentment 
 
 against him who wronged me than against you, 
 who, knowing me wronged, only disdained my 
 grief. The answer is plain — the scorn of the 
 man she only reverenced leaves to a woman 
 no memory to mitigate its bitterness and gall. 
 The wrongs inflicted by the man she loved may 
 deave, what they have left to me, an undving 
 sense of a past existence — radiant, joyous, hope- 
 ful ; of a time when the earth seemed covered 
 with blossoms, just ready to burst into bloom; 
 when the skies through their haze took the rose- 
 hues as the sun seemed about to rise. The 
 memory that I once was happy, at least then, I 
 owe to him who injured and betrayed me. To 
 you, when happiness was lost to me forever, 
 what do I owe? Tell me." — 
 
 Struck by her words, more by her impressive 
 manner, though not recognizing the plea by 
 which the defendant thus raised herself into the 
 accuser, Darrell answered gently, " Pardon me ; 
 this is no moment to revive recollections of 
 anger on my part; but reflect, I entreat you, 
 and you will feel that I was not too harsh. In 
 the same position any other man would not 
 have been less severe." 
 
 " Any other man !" she exclaimed ; "ay, pos- 
 sibly ! but would the scorn of any other rnan so 
 have crushed self-esteem ? The' injuries of the 
 wicked do not sour ns against the good ; but the 
 scoff of the good leaves us malignant against 
 i virtue itself. Any other man I Tut ! Genius 
 is bound to be indulgent. It should know hit- 
 man errors so well — has, with its large lumin- 
 ous forces, such errors itself when it deigns to 
 be human, that, where others may scorn, genius 
 should only pity." She paused a moment, and 
 then slowly resumed. " And pity was my due. 
 Had you, or had any one lofty as yourself "in re- 
 puted honor, but said to me, "' Thou hast sinned 
 — thou must suffer ; but sin itself needs com- 
 passion, and compassion forbids thee to despair' 
 — why, then, I might have been gentler to the 
 things of earth, and less steeled against the in- 
 fluences of Heaven than I have been. That is 
 all— no matter now. :\Ir. Darrell, I would not 
 part from you with angry and bitter sentiments. 
 Colonel Morley tells me that you have not only 
 let the man, whom we need not name, go free, 
 but that you have guarded the secret of his de- 
 signs. For this I thank you. I thank you, be- 
 cause what is left of that blasted and deformed 
 existence I have taken into mine. And I woidd 
 save that man from his own devices as I would 
 save my soul from its own temptations. Are 
 you large-hearted enough to comprehend me ? 
 Look in my f;ice — you have seen his ; all earth- 
 ly love is erased and blotted out of both." 
 
 Guy Darrell bowed his head in respect that 
 partook of awe. 
 
 "You too," said the grim woman, after a 
 pause, and approaching him nearer — "^o», too, 
 have loved, I am told, and you, too, were for- 
 saken." 
 
 He recoiled and shuddered. 
 "What is left to your heart of its ancient 
 folly ? I should like to know I I am curious to 
 learn if there be a man who can feel as woman ! 
 Have you only resentment? have you only dis- 
 dain ? have you only vengeance ? have you pity ? 
 or have you the jealous, absorbing desire, sur- 
 viving the affection from which it sprang, that 
 still the life wrenched from vou shall owe, de- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 255 
 
 spite itself, a melancholy allegiance to your 
 own ?" 
 
 Darrell impatiently waved his hand to forbid 
 further questions ; and it needed all his sense 
 of the service this woman had just rendered 
 him, to repress .his haughty displeasure at so 
 close an approach to his torturing secrets. 
 
 Arabella's dark bright eyes rested on his 
 knitted brow, for a moment, wistfully, musingly. 
 Then she said, "I see I man's inflexible pride — 
 no pardon there I But own, at least, that you 
 have suffered." 
 
 "Suffered I" groaned Darrell involuntarily, 
 and pressing his hand to his heart. 
 
 "You have I and you own it I Fellow-suf- 
 ferer, I have no more anger against you. Nei- 
 ther should pity, but let each respect, the other. 
 A few words more — this child I" 
 
 "Ay — ay — this child 1 you will be truthful. 
 You will not seek to deceive me — you know 
 that she — she — claimed by that assassin, reared 
 by his convict father — she is no daughter of my 
 line I" 
 
 " What ! would it then be no joy to know that 
 your line did not close with yourself — that your 
 child might — " 
 
 " Cease, madam, cease — it matters not to a 
 man nor to a race when it perish, so that it 
 perish at last with honor. Who would have 
 either himself or his lineage live on into a day 
 when the escutcheon is blotted and the name 
 disgraced ? No ; if that be ]\Latilda's child, tell 
 me, and I will bear, as man may do, the last 
 calamity which the will of Heaven may inflict. 
 If, as I have all reason to think, the tale be an 
 imposture, speak and give me the sole comfort 
 to which I would cling amidst the ruin of all 
 other hopes." 
 
 " Verily," said Arabella, with a kind of mus- 
 ing wonder in the tone of her softened voice ; 
 " verily, has a man's heart the same throb and 
 fibre as a woman's? Had I a child like that 
 blue-eyed wanderer with the frail form needing 
 protection, and the brave spirit that ennobles 
 softness, what would be my pride ! my bliss I 
 Talk of shame — disgrace I Fie — iie — the more 
 the evil of others darkened one so innocent, the 
 more cause to love and shelter her. But / — 
 am childless ! Shall I tell you that the oflense 
 which lies heaviest on my conscience has been 
 my cruelty to that girl ? She was given an in- 
 fant to my care. I saw in her the daughter of 
 that false, false, mean, deceiving friend, who 
 had taken my confidence, and bought, with her 
 supposed heritage, the man sworn by all oaths 
 to me. I saw in her, too, your descendant, 
 your rightful heiress. I rejoiced in a revenge 
 on your daughter and yourself. Think -not I 
 would have foisted her on your notice! Xo. 
 I would have kept her without culture, without 
 consciousness of a higher lot ; and when I gave 
 her up to her grandsire the convict, it was a 
 triumph to think that ^Matilda's child would be 
 an outcast. Terrible thought ! but I was mad 
 then. But that poor convict whom you, in vour 
 worldly arrogance, so loftily despise — he took to 
 his breast what was flung away as a worthless 
 weed. And if the flower keep the promise of 
 the bud, never flower so fair bloomed from your 
 vaunted stem I And yet you would bless me, 
 if I said, ' Pass on, childless man ; she is no- 
 thing to you!' " 
 
 " Madam, let us not argue. You are right ; 
 man's heart and woman's must each know throbs 
 that never are, and never should be, familiar to 
 the other. 1 repeat my question, and again I 
 implore your answer." 
 
 "I can not answer for certain; and I am 
 fearful of answering at all, lest on a point so 
 important I should mislead you. ^latilda's 
 child ? Jasper affirmed it to me. His father 
 believed him — I believed him. I never had the 
 shadow of a doubt till — " 
 
 "Till what ? For Heaven's sake, speak." 
 
 "Till about five years ago. or somewhat more, 
 I saw a letter from Gabrielle Desmarets, and — " 
 
 "Ah! which made you suspect, as I do, that 
 the child is Gabrielle Desmaret's daughter." 
 
 Arabella reared her crest as a serpent before 
 it strikes. " Gabrielle's daughter ! You think 
 so. Her child that I sheltered ! Her child for 
 whom I have just pleaded to you I Hers.'" 
 She suddenly became silent. Evidently that 
 idea had never before struck her ; evidently it 
 now shocked her ; evidently something was 
 passing through her mind which did not allow 
 that idea to be dismissed. xVs Darrell was about 
 to address her, she exclaimed, abruptly, "Xo! 
 say no more now. You may liear from me 
 again, should I learn what may decide at least 
 this doubt one war or the other. Farewell, 
 Sir." 
 
 " Xot yet. Permit me to remind you that 
 you have saved the life of a man whose wealth 
 is immense." 
 
 " Mr. Darrell, my wealth in relation to my 
 wants is perhaps immense as yours, for I do not 
 spend what I possess." 
 
 " But this unhappy outlaw whom you would 
 save from himself can henceforth be to you but 
 a burden and a charge. After what has passed 
 to-night, I do tremble to think that penury may 
 whisper other houses to rob, other lives to men- 
 ace. Let me, then, place at your disposal, to 
 be employed in such mode as you deem the 
 best, whatever may be sulficient to secure an 
 object which we may here have in common." 
 
 "Xo, Mr. Darrell," said Arabella, fiercely; 
 "whatever he be, never with my consent shall 
 Jasper Losely be beholden to you for alms. If 
 money can save him from shame and a dread- 
 ful death, that money shall be mine. I have 
 said it. And hark you, 3Ir. Darrell, what is re- 
 pentance without atonement ? I say not that I 
 repent, but I do know that I seek to atone." 
 
 The iron-gray robe fluttered an instant, and 
 then vanished from the room. 
 
 When Alban Morley returned to the library 
 he saw Darrell at the farther corner of the 
 room on his knees. Well might Guy Darrell 
 thank Heaven for the mercies vouchsafed to 
 him that night. Life presened? Is that all? 
 jNIight hfe yet be bettered and gladdened? 
 Was there aught in the grim woman's words 
 that might bequeath thoughts which reflection 
 would ripen into influences over action? aught 
 that might suggest the cases in which, not igno- 
 bly, Pity might subjugate Scorn ? In the royal 
 abode of that soul does Pride only fortify Hon- 
 or ? is it but the mild king, not the imperial 
 despot ? Would it blind, as its rival, the rea- 
 son ? Would it chain, as a rebel, the Heart ? 
 Would it mar the dominions that might be se- 
 rene by the treasures it wastes — by the wars it 
 
25G 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 provokes ? Self-knowledge ! self-knowledge ! 
 From Heaven, indeed, descends the precept — 
 " Know thyself." That truth was told to us 
 by the old heathen oracle. But what old hea- 
 then oracle has told us how to know? 
 
 CHAPTER rV. 
 
 The ilan-eater humiliated. He encounters an old ac- 
 quaintance in a traveler, who, like Shakspeare's 
 Jaq:ies, is "a melancholy fellow;" who, also, like 
 Jiiques, hath "great reason to be sad;" and who, still 
 like Jaques, is '• full of matter." 
 
 Jasper Loselt rode slowlv on through the 
 clear frosty night ; not back to the country town 
 which he had left on his hateful errand, nor into 
 the broad road to London. With a strange de- 
 sire to avoid the haunts of men, he selected — at 
 each choice of way in the many paths branch- 
 ing right and left, between waste and woodland 
 — the lane that seemed the narrowest and the 
 dimmest. It was not remorse that gnawed him, 
 neither was it the mere mercenary disappoint- 
 ment, nor even the pang of baffled vengeance — 
 it was the profound humiliation of diseased self- 
 love — the conviction that, with all his brute pow- ' 
 er, he had been powerless in the very time and 
 scene in which he had pictured to himself so 
 complete a triumph. The very quiet with which i 
 he had escaped stung him. Capture itself would • 
 have been preferable, if capture had been pre- 
 ceded by brawl and strife — the exhibition of his i 
 hardihood and prowess. Gloomily bending over | 
 his horse's neck, he cursed himself as fool and j 
 coward. What would he have had ! — a new ! 
 crime on his soul ? Perhaps he would have an- | 
 swered, "Any thing rather than this humiliating 
 failure." He did not rack his brains with con- i 
 jecturing if Cutts had betrayed him, or by what | 
 other mode assistance had been sent in such i 
 time of need to DarreU. Nor did he feel that ! 
 hunger for vengeance, whether on DarrelT or j 
 on his accomplice (should that accomplice have 
 played the traitor), which might have been ex- ; 
 pected from his characteristic ferocity. On the 
 contrary, the thought of violence and its excite- [ 
 meats had in it a sickness as of shame. DarreU 
 at that hour might have ridden by him scathe- 
 less. Cutts might have jeered and said, "l' 
 blabbed your secret, and sent the aid that foil- ' 
 ed it;" and Losely would have continued to 
 hang his head, nor lifted the Herculean hand 
 that lay nerveless on the horse's mane. Is it 
 not commonly so in all reaction from excite- 
 ments in which self-love has been keenly gall- ! 
 ed? Does not vanity enter into the lust of , 
 crime as into the desire of fame ? ; 
 
 At sunrise Losely found himself on the high ; 
 road, into which a labyrinth of lanes had led 
 him, and opposite to a mile-stone, by which he ' 
 learned that he had been long turning his back ; 
 on the metropolis, and that he was about ten 
 miles distant from the provincial city of Ouzel- 
 ford." By this time his horse was knocked up, 
 and his own chronic pains began to make them- 
 selves acutely felt ; so that wlien, a little farther 
 on, he came to a wayside inn, he was glad to 
 halt; and after a strong dram, which had the 
 effect of an opiate, he betook himself to bed, 
 and slept till the noon was far advanced. 
 
 When Loselv came down stairs the common 
 
 room of the inn was occupied by a meeting of 
 the trustees of the high roads ; and, on demand- 
 ing breakfast, he was shown into a small sand- 
 ed parlor adjoining the kitchen. Two other 
 occupants — a man and a woman — were there 
 already, seated at a table by the tireside, over 
 a pint of half-and-half. Losely, warming him- 
 self at the hearth, scarcely noticed these hum- 
 ble revelers by a glance. And they, after a 
 displeased stare at the stalwart frame which 
 obscured the cheering glow they had hitherto 
 monopolized, resumed a muttered conversation ; 
 of which, as well as of the vile modicum which 
 refreshed their lips, the man took the lion's 
 share. Shabbily forlorn were that man's habil- 
 iments — turned and returned, patched, darned, 
 weather-stained, grease-stained — but still re- 
 taining that kind of mouldy grandiose, bastard 
 gentility, which implies that the wenrer has 
 known better days ; and, in the downward pro- 
 gress of fortunes when they once fall, may prob- 
 ably know still worse. The woman was some 
 years older than her companion, and still more 
 forlornly shabby. Her garments seemed literal- 
 ly composed of particles of dust glued together, 
 while her face might have insured her condem- 
 nation as a witch before any honest jury in the 
 reign of King James the First. His breakfast, 
 and the brandy bottle that flanked the loaf, were 
 now placed before Losely ; and, as distastefully 
 he forced himself to eat, his eye once more 
 glanced toward, and this time rested on, the 
 shabby man, in the sort of interest with which one 
 knave out of elbows regards another. As Jas- 
 per thus looked, gradually there stole on him a 
 reminiscence of those coarse large features — 
 that rusty, disreputable wig. The recognition, 
 however, was not mutual ; and, presently, after 
 a whisper interchanged between the man and 
 the woman, the latter rose, and approaching 
 Losely, dropped a courtesy, and said, in a weird, 
 under voice, " Stranger, luck's in store for you. 
 Tell your fortune?" As she spoke, from some 
 dust hole in her garments she produced a pack 
 of cards, on whose half-obliterated faces seem- 
 ed incrusted the dirt of ages. Thrusting these 
 antiquities under Jasper's nose, she added, 
 " Wish and cut." 
 
 "Pshaw," said Jasper, who, though sufficient- 
 1)' superstitious in some matters and in regard 
 to some persons, was not so completely under 
 the influence of that imaginative infirmity as to 
 take the creature before him for a sibyl. "Get 
 away ; you turn my stomach. Your cards smell ; 
 so do you !" 
 
 "Forgive her, worthy Sir," said the man, 
 leaning forward. "The hag may be unsavory, 
 but she is wise. The Three Sisters who accost- 
 ed the Scottish Thane, Sir (Macbeth — you have 
 seen it on the stage ?), were not savory. With- 
 ered, and wild in their attire, Sir, but they knew 
 a thing or two! She sees luck in your face. 
 Cross her hand, and give it vent!'' 
 
 "Fiddledee," said the irreverent Losely. 
 "Take her off, or I shall scald her," and he 
 seized the kettle. 
 
 The hag retreated grumbling ; and Losely, 
 soon dispatching his meal, placed his feet on 
 the hobs, and began to meditate what course to 
 adopt for a temporary subsistence. He had 
 broken into the last pound left of the money 
 which he had extracted from Mrs. Crane's purse 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 257 
 
 some days before. He recoiled with terror from 
 the thought of returnino; to town and placing 
 himself at her mercy. Yet what option had he? 
 While thus musing, he turned impatiently round 
 and saw that the shabby man and the dusty hag 
 were engaged in an amicable game of ecarte, 
 with those very cards which had so offended his 
 olfactory organs. At that sight the old instinct 
 of the gambler struggled back ; and, raising him- 
 self up, he looked over the cards of the players. 
 The miserable wretches were, of course, play- 
 ing for nothing; and Losely saw at a glance 
 that the man was, nevertheless, trying to cheat 
 the woman. Positively he took that man into 
 more respect ; and that man, noticing the inter- 
 est with which Losely surveyed the game, look- 
 ed up, and said, "While the time, Sir? What 
 say you ? A game or two ? I can stake my 
 pistoles — that is, Sir, so far as a fourpenny bit 
 goes. If ignorant of this French game, Sir, 
 cribbage or all-fours." 
 
 "No," said Losely, mournfully; "there is 
 nothing to be got out of you ; otherwise — " He 
 stojiped and sighed. " But I have seen you un- 
 der other circumstances. What has become of 
 your Theatrical Exhibition? Gambled it away ? 
 Yet, from what I see of your play, I think jou 
 ought not to have lost, Mr. Rugge." 
 
 The ex-manager started. 
 
 "^liat! You knew me before the Storm! — 
 before the lightning struck me, as I may say. 
 Sir — and falling into difficulties, I became — a 
 WTCck ? You knew me ? — not of the Company ? 
 — a spectator ?" 
 
 "As you say — a spectator. You had once in 
 your employ an actor — clever old fellow. Waife, 
 I think, he was called." 
 
 " Ha ! hold ! At that name, Sir, my wounds 
 bleed afresh. From that execrable name, Sir, 
 there hangs a tale !" 
 
 " Indeed ! Then it will be a relief to you to 
 tell it," said Losely, resettling his feet on the hob, 
 and snatching at any diversion from his own re- 
 flections. 
 
 " Sir, when^ gentleman, who is a gentleman, 
 asks, as a favor, a specimen of my powers of re- 
 cital, not professionally, and has before him the 
 sparkling goblet, which he does not invite me 
 to share, he insults my fallen fortunes. Sir, I 
 am poor — I own it ; I have fallen into the sere 
 and yellow leaf, Sir; but I have still in this 
 withered bosouT the heart of a Briton I" 
 
 " Warm it, Mr. Rugge. Help yourself to the 
 brandy — and the lady too." 
 
 " Sir, you are a gentleman ; Sir, your health. 
 Hag, drink better days to us both. That wo- 
 man, Sir, is a hag, but she is an honor to her 
 sex — faithful I" 
 
 " It is astonishing how faithful ladies are 
 when not what is called beautiful. I speak from 
 painful experience," said Losely, growing debon- 
 nair as the liquor relaxed his gloom, and regain- 
 ing that levity of tongue which sometimes straved 
 into wit, and which, springing originally from 
 animal spirits and redundant health — still came 
 to him mechanically whenever roused by com- 
 panionship from alternate inteiTals of lethargy 
 and pain. "But now, ^Ir. Rugge, I am all ears ; 
 perhaps you will be kind enough to be all tale." 
 
 With tragic aspect, unrelaxed by that jou de 
 mots, and still wholly unrecognizing in the mass- 
 ive form and discolored swollen countenance 
 R 
 
 of the rough-clad stranger the elegant propor- 
 tions, the healthful, blooming, showy face, and 
 elaborate fopperies of the Jasper Losely who 
 had sold to him a Phenomenon which proved 
 so evanishing, Rugge entered into a prolix his- 
 tory of his wrongs at the hands of Waife, of 
 Losely, of Sophy. Only of Mrs. Crane did he 
 speak with respect ; and Jasper then for the first 
 time learned — and rather with anger for the in- 
 terference than gratitude for the generosity — 
 that she had repaid the £100, and therein- can- 
 celed Rugge"s claim upon the child. The ex- 
 manager then proceeded to the narrative of his 
 subsequent misfortunes— all of which he laid 
 to the charge of Waife and the Phenomenon. 
 "Sir," said he, "I was ambitious. From my 
 childhood's hour I dreamed of the great York 
 Theatre — dreamed of it literally thrice. Fatal 
 Vision 1 But, like other dreams, that dream 
 would have faded — been forgotten in the work- 
 day world — and I should not have fallen into 
 the sere and yellow, but have had, as formerly, 
 troops of friends, and not been reduced to the 
 horrors of poverty and a faithful Hag. But, 
 Sir, when I first took to my bosom that fiend, 
 William Waife, he exhibited a genius. Sir, that 
 Dowton (you have seen Dowton ? — grand !) was 
 a stick as compared with. Then my ambition, 
 Sir, blazed and flared up — obstreperous, and my 
 childhood's di'eam haunted me ; and I went 
 about musing — [Hag, you recollect !] — and mut- 
 tering ' The Royal Theatre at York.' But in- 
 credible though it seem, the ungrateful scorpion 
 left me, with a treacherous design to exhibit 
 the parts I had fostered, on the London boards; 
 and even-handed Justice, Sir, returned the pois- 
 oned chalice to his lips, causing him to lose an 
 eye and to hobble — besides splitting up his voice 
 — which served him right. And again I took 
 the scorpion for the sake of the Phenomenon. 
 I had a babe myself once, Sir, though you may 
 not think it. Gormerick (that is this faithful 
 Hag) gave the babe Daffy's Elixir, in teething; 
 but it died — convulsions. I comforted myself 
 when that Phenomenon came out on my stage 
 — in pink satin and pearls. 'Ha!' I said, 'the 
 great York Theatre shall yet be mine!' The 
 haunting idea became a Mania, Sir. The learn- 
 ed say that there is a ^Mania called Money Ma- 
 nia* — when one can think but of the one thing 
 needful — as the guilty Thane saw the dagger, 
 Sir — you understand. And when the Phenom- 
 enon had vanished and gone, as I was told, to 
 America, where I now wish I was myself, act- 
 ing Rolla at Kew York or elsewhere, to a free 
 and enlightened people — then. Sir, the Mania 
 grew on me still stronger and stronger. There 
 was a pride in it. Sir— a British pride. I said 
 to this faithful Hag — ' What — shall I not have 
 the York because that false child has deserted 
 me ? Am I not able to realize a Briton's ambi- 
 tion without being beholden to a Phenomenon 
 in spangles?' Sir, I took the York! Alone I 
 did it !" 
 
 " And," said Losely, feeling a sort of dreary 
 satisfaction in listening to the grotesque sorrows 
 of one whose condition seemed to him yet more 
 abject than his own — ''And the York Theatre 
 alone perhaps did you."' 
 
 "Right, Sir," said Rugge — half dolorously, 
 
 I 
 
 Query — Monoaiania. 
 
258 
 
 WHAT AVILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 half exultingly. " It was a Grand Concern, and | 
 might have done for the Bank of England ! It : 
 swallowed up my capital with as much ease, 
 Sir, as I could swallow an oyster if there were I 
 one upon that plate. I saw how it would be 
 the very first week — when I came out myself, j 
 strong — Kean's own part in the Iron C'test — ' 
 Mortimer, Sir; there warn't three pounds ten I 
 in the house — packed audience, Sir, and they 
 had t!ie face to hiss me. ' Hag,' said I, to Mrs. 
 Gormerick, ' this Theatre is a howling wilder- 
 ness.' Bat there is a fascination in a Grand 
 Concern, of which one is the head — one goes on 
 and on. All the savings of a life devoted to the 
 British Drama and the productions of native 
 genius went in what I may call — ajift'y I But 
 it was no common object, Sir, to your sight dis- 
 played — but what with pleasure. Sir (I appeal 
 to the Hag !), Heaven itself surveyed ! — a great 
 man struggling. Sir, with the storms of fate, and 
 greatly falling. Sir, with — a sensation! York 
 remembers it to this day I I took the benefit of 
 the Act — it was the only benefit I did take — 
 and nobody was the better for it. But I don't 
 repine — I realized my dream : that is more than 
 all can say. Since then I have had many downs, 
 and no ups. I have been a messenger. Sir — a 
 prompter. Sir, in my own Exhibition — to which 
 my own clown, having married into the tragic 
 line, succeeded, Sir, as proprietor; buying of 
 me, when I took the York, the theatre, scenery, 
 and properties, Sir, with the right still to call 
 himself, ' Rugge's Grand Theatrical Exhibition,' 
 for an old song. Sir — ^lelancholy. Tyi'annized 
 over. Sir — snubbed and bullied by a creature 
 dressed in a little brief authority; and my own 
 tights — scarlet — as worn by me in my own ap- 
 plauded part of 'The Remorseless Baron.' At 
 last, with this one faithful creature, I resolved 
 to burst the chains — to be free as air — in short, 
 a chartered libertine, Sir. We have not much, 
 but, thank the immortal gods, we are independ- 
 ent, Sir, the Hag and I, chartered libertines ! 
 And we are alive still — at which, in strict confi- 
 dence, I may own to you that I am astonished." 
 "Yes ! you do live," said Jasper, much inter- 
 ested — for how to live at all was at that moment 
 a matter of considerable doubt to himself; '• you 
 do live — it !s amazing I How?" 
 
 " The Faithful tells fortunes ; and sometimes 
 we pick up windfalls — widows and elderly single 
 ladies — but it is dangerous. Labor is sweet, 
 Sir; but not hard labor in the dungeons of a 
 Bridewell; she has known that labor, Sir; and 
 in those intervals I missed her much. Don't 
 cry. Hag ; I repeat, I live !" 
 
 "I understand now; you live upon her! 
 They are the best of creatui-es, these hags, as 
 you call them, certainly. \Vell, well, no salving 
 what a man may come to ! I suppose you have 
 never seen Waife, nor that fellow you say was 
 so well-dressed and good-looking, and who sold 
 you the Phenomenon, nor the Phenomenon her- 
 self — Eh?" added Losely, stretching himself, 
 and yawning, as he saw the brandy bottle was 
 finished. 
 
 " I have seen Waife — the one-eyed monster ! 
 Aha — I have seen him ! — and yesterday too ; 
 and a great comfort it was to me too." 
 "You saw Waife yesterday — where?" 
 " At Ouzelford, which I and the Faithful left 
 this morning." 
 
 "And what was he doing?" said Losely, witli 
 well-simulated inditi'erence. " Begging, break- 
 ing stones, or what?" 
 
 "No," said Rugge, dejectedly; "I can't say 
 it was what, in farcical composition, I should 
 call such nuts to me as that, Sir. Still, he was 
 in a low way — seemed a peddler or hawker, sell- 
 ing out of a pannier on the Rialto — I mean the 
 Corn-market, Sir — not even a hag by his side, 
 only a great dog — French. A British dog would 
 have scorned such fellowship. And he did not 
 look merrv, as he used to do when in my troop. 
 Did he, Hag ?" 
 
 " His conscience smites him," said the Hag, 
 solemnly. 
 
 " Did you speak to him ?" ^ 
 
 " Why, no. I should have liked it, but we 
 could not at that moment, seeing that we were 
 not in our usual state of independence. This 
 faithful creature was being led before the mag- 
 istrates, and I too — chai-ge of cheating a cook 
 maid, to whom the Hag had only said, ' that if 
 the cards spoke true she would ride in her car- 
 riage.' The charge broke down ; but we were 
 placed for the night in the Cells of the Inquisi- 
 tion, remanded, and this morning banished from 
 the city, and are now on our way to — any other 
 city ; eh, Hag ?" 
 
 " And the old man was not with the Phenom- 
 enon ? What has become of her, then ?" 
 
 " Perhaps she may be with him at his house, 
 if he has one ; only she was not with him on 
 the Rialto or Corn-market. She was with him 
 two years ago, I know ; and he and she were 
 better off then than he is now, I suspect. And 
 that is why it did me good. Sir, to see him a 
 peddler — a common peddler — fallen into the 
 sere, like the man he abandoned !" 
 
 " Humph ! where were they two years ago ?" 
 
 "At a village not far from Humberston. He 
 
 had a pretty house, Sir, and sold baskets ; and 
 
 the girl was there too, favored by a great lady — 
 
 a Marchioness, Sir ! Gods !" 
 
 '• Marchioness ? — near Humberston ? The 
 Marchioness jif ^Vlontfort, I su])pose." 
 
 " Likely enough ; I don't remember. All I 
 know is, that two years ago my old clown was 
 my tyrannical manager ; and he said to me, 
 with a sneer, ' Old Gentleman Waife, whom 
 you used to bully, and his Juliet Araminta, are 
 in clover.' And the mocking varlet went on to 
 say that when he had last visited Humberston, 
 in the race-week, a young tradesman, who was 
 courting the Columbine, whose young idea I 
 myself taught to shoot on the light fantastic 
 toe, treated that Columbine and one of her sis- 
 ter train (being, indeed, her aunt, who has since 
 come out at the Surrey in Desdemona) to a pic- 
 nic in a fine park. "(That's discipline! — ha, 
 ha !) And there. Sir, Columbine and her aunt 
 saw Waife on the other side of a stream by which 
 they sate carousing." 
 
 ■' The clown perhaps said it to spite you." 
 " Columbine herself confirmed his tale, and 
 said that, on returning to the Village Inn for 
 the Triumphal Car (or bus) which brought them, 
 she asked if a Air. Waife dwelt thereabouts, and 
 was told, ' Yes, with his grand-daughter.' And 
 she went on asking, till all came out as the clown 
 reported. And Columbine had not even the 
 gratitude, the justice, to expose that villain — 
 not even to say he had been my perfidious serv- 
 
WHAT WELL HE DO WITH IT ' 
 
 259 
 
 ant ! She had the face to tell me ' she thought 
 it might harm him, and he was a kind old 
 soul.' Sir, a Columbine whose toes I had rapped 
 scores of times before they could be turned out, 
 was below contempt I but when ray own clown 
 thus triumphed over me, in parading before my 
 vision the bloated prosperity of mine enemy, it 
 went to ray heart like a knife ; and we had 
 words on it. Sir, and — I left him to his fate. 
 But a peddler ! Gentleman Waife has come to 
 that ! The Heavens are just. Sir, and of our 
 pleasant vices, Sir, make instruments that — 
 that — " 
 
 " Scourge us," prompted the Hag, severely. 
 
 Losely rang the bell ; the maid-servant ap- 
 peared. ' " My horse and bill. Well, Mr. Riigge, 
 I must quit your agreeable society. I am not 
 overflowing with wealth at this moment, or I 
 would request your acceptance of — " 
 
 " The smallest trifle," inteniipted the Hag, 
 with her habitual solemnity of aspect. 
 ■ Losely, who, .in his small way, had all the lilx 
 erality of a Catiline, '^alieni appeiens, sui jiroju- 
 sus, drew forth the few silver coins yet remain- 
 ing to him ; and though he must have calculated 
 that, after paying his bill, tliere could scarcely 
 be three shillings left, he chucked two of them 
 toward the Hag, who, clutching them with a 
 profound courtesy, then handed them to the 
 fallen monarch by her side, with a loyal tear 
 and a quick sob that might have touched the 
 most cynical republican. 
 
 In a few minutes more Losely was again on 
 horseback ; and as he rode toward Ouzelford, 
 Rugge and his dusty Faithful shambled on in 
 the opposite direction — shambled on, foot-sore 
 and limping, along the wide, waste, wintry thor- 
 oughfare — vanished from the eye, as their fates 
 henceforth from this story. There they go by 
 the white hard mile-stone ; farther on, by the 
 trunk of the hedge-row tree, which lies lopped 
 and leafless — cumbering the way-lide, till the 
 time come to cast it otf to the thronged, dull 
 stack-yard ; farther yet, where the ditch widens 
 into yon stagnant pool, with the great dung- 
 heap by its side. There the road turns aslant ; 
 the dung-heap hides them. Gone ! and not a 
 speck on the Immemorial, L^niversal Thorough- 
 fare. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 No wmd so cutting as that which sets in the quarter 
 from Mhich the sun rises. 
 
 The town to which I lend the disguising 
 name of Ouzelford. which in years by-gone was 
 represented by Guy Darrell, and which" in years 
 to come may preserve in its municipal hail his 
 eiBgies in canvas or stone, is one of the hand- 
 somest in England. As you approach its sub- 
 urbs from the London Road it rises clear and 
 wide upon your eye, crowning the elevated ta- 
 ble-land upon which it is built ; a noble rana;e 
 of prospect on either side, rich with hedge-rows 
 not yet sacrificed to the stern demands of mod- 
 ern agriculture — venerable woodlands, and the 
 green jiastures round many a rural thane's frank, 
 hospitable hall ; no one Great House banishing 
 from leagues of landscape the abodes of knight 
 and squire, nor menacing, with " the legitimate 
 influence of property," the votes of rebellious 
 
 burghers. Every where, like finger-posts to 
 heaven, you may perceive the church-towers of 
 rural hamlets embosomed in pleasant valleys, 
 or climbing up gentle slopes. At the horizon 
 the blue fantastic outline of girdling hills min- 
 gles with the clouds. A famous old cathedral, 
 neighbored by the romantic ivy-grown walls of 
 a ruined castle, soars up from the centre of the 
 town, and dominates the whole survey — calm, 
 as with conscious power. Kearing the town, 
 the villas of merchants and traders, released, 
 perhaps, from business, skirt the road, with trim 
 gardens and shaven la\^-ns. Now the small riv- 
 er, or rather rivulet, of Ouzel, from which the 
 town takes its name, steals out from deep banks 
 covered with brushwood or aged trees, and. 
 widening into brief importance, glides under 
 the arches of an ancient bridge ; runs on, clear 
 and shallow, to refresh low fertile daiiT-mead- 
 ows, dotted with kme ; and finally quits the 
 view, as brake and copse close round its narrow- 
 ing, winding way ; and that which, under the' 
 city bridge, was an imposing noiseless stream, 
 becomes, amidst rustic solitudes, an insignifi- 
 cant babbling brook. 
 
 From one of the largest villas in these charm- 
 ing suburbs came forth a gentleman, middle- 
 aged, and of a very mild and prepossessing 
 countenance. A young lady without a bonnet, 
 but a kerchief thrown over her sleek dark hair, 
 accompanied him to the garden-gate, twining 
 both hands aff'ectionately round his arm, and 
 entreating him not to stand in thorough draughts 
 and catch cold, nor to step into puddles and wet 
 his feet, and to be sure to be back before dark, 
 as there were such shocking accounts in the 
 newspapers of persons robbed and garroted even 
 in the most populous highways ; and, above all, 
 not to listen to the beggars in the street, and 
 allow himself tp be taken in ; and before final- 
 ly releasing him at the gate she buttoned his 
 great-coat up to his chin, thrust two pellets of 
 cotton into his ears, and gave hira a parting 
 kiss. Then she watched him tenderly for a 
 mintite or so as he strode on with the step of a 
 man who needed not all those fostering admo- 
 nitions and coddling cares. 
 
 As soon as he was out of sight of the lady and 
 the windows of the villa, the gentleman cautious- 
 ly unbuttoned his great-coat, and removed the cot- 
 ton from his ears. "vShe takes much after her 
 mother, does Anna [Maria," muttered the gentle- 
 man ; " and I am verj- glad she is so well mar- 
 ried." 
 
 He had not advanced many paces when, 
 from a branch-road to the right that led to 
 the railway station, another gentleman, much 
 younger, and whose dress unequivocally bespoke 
 hira a minister of our Church, came suddenly 
 upon hira. Each with surprise recognized the 
 other. 
 
 " What ! — Mr. George Morley !" 
 
 "]\Ir. Hartopp ! — How are you, my dear Sir? 
 — What brings you so far from home?" 
 
 " I am on a visit to my daughter, Anna Maria. 
 She has not been long 'married — to young Jes- 
 sop. Old Jessop is one of the principal mer- 
 chants at Ouzelford — verv- respectable, worthy 
 family. The young couple are happily settled 
 in a remarkably snug villa — that is it with the 
 portico, not a hundred yards behind us, to the 
 right. Very handsome town, Ouzelford ; you 
 
260 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 are bound to it, of course? — we can walk togeth- 
 er. I am going to look at the jjapers in the City 
 Rooms — very fine rooms these are. But you 
 are straight from London, perhaps, and have 
 seen the day's journals? Any report of the 
 Meeting in aid of Ragged Schools?" 
 
 "Not that I know of. I have not come from 
 London this morning, nor seen the papers." 
 
 " Oh I^there's a strange-looking fellow fol- 
 lowing us ; but perhaps he is your servant ?" 
 
 " Not so, but my traveling companion — in- 
 deed my guide. In fact, I come to Ouzelford 
 in the faint hope of discovering there a poor old 
 friend of mine, of whom I have long been in 
 search." 
 
 "Perhaps the Jessops can help you; they 
 know every body at Ouzelford. But now I meet 
 you thus by surprise, Mr. George, I should very 
 much like to ask your advice on a matter which 
 has been much on my mind the last twenty-four 
 hours, and which concerns a person I contrived 
 to discover at Ouzelford, though I certainly was 
 not in search of him — a person about whom 
 you and I had a conversation a few years ago, 
 when you were staying with your worthy fa- 
 ther." 
 
 " Eh ?" said George, quickly ; " whom do you 
 speak of?" 
 
 "That singular vagabond who took me in, 
 you remember — called himself Chapman — real 
 name William Losel}', a returned convict. You 
 would have it that he was innocent, though the 
 man himself had pleaded guilty on his trial." 
 
 " His whole character belied his lips, then. 
 Oh, Mr. Hartopp, tliat man commit the crime 
 imputed to him ! — a planned, deliberate rol)bcry 
 — an ungrateful, infamous breach of trust ! That 
 man — that! — he who rejects the money he does 
 not earn, even when pressed on him by anxious, 
 imploring friends — he who has now gone vol- 
 untarily forth, aged and lonely, to wring his 
 bread from the humblest calling rather than in- 
 cur the risk of injuring the child with whose ex- 
 istence he had cliarged himself !—/ie a dark mid- 
 night thief! Believe him not, though his voice 
 may say it. To screen, perhaps, some other 
 man, he is telling you a noble lie. But what of 
 him ? Have you really seen him, and at Ouzel- 
 ford?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Yesterday. I was in the City Reading-room, 
 looking out of the Avindow. I saw a great white 
 dog in the street below — I knew the dog at 
 once. Sir, though he is disguised by restoration 
 to his natural coat, and his hair is as long as a 
 Peruvian lama's. 'Tis Sir Isaac,' said I to my- 
 self; and behind Sir Isaac I saw Chapman, so to 
 call him, carrying a basket with peddler's wares, 
 and, to my surprise. Old Jessop, who is a formal 
 man, with a great deal of reserve and dignity, 
 pompous indeed (but don't let that go farther), 
 talking to Chapman quite affably, and actually 
 buying something out of the basket. Presently 
 Chapman went away, and was soon lost to sight. 
 Jessop comes into the reading-room. ' I saw 
 you,' said I, 'talking to an old fellow with a 
 French dog.' 'Such a good old fellow,' said 
 Jessop ; ' has a way about him that gets into 
 your very heart while he is talking. I should 
 like to make you acquainted with him.' ' Thank 
 you for nothing,' said I; 'I should be — taken 
 
 in.' ' Never fear,' says Jessop, ' he would not 
 take in a fly — the simplest creature.' I own I 
 chuckled at that, Mr. George. 'And does he 
 live here,' said I, ' or is he merely a wandering 
 peddler ?' Then Jessop told me that he had seen 
 him for the first time two or three weeks aero, 
 and accosted him rudely, looking on him as a 
 mere tramp ; but Chapman answered so well, 
 and showed so many pretty things in his basket, 
 that Jessop soon found himself buying a pair of 
 habit-cuffs for Anna Maria, and in the course 
 of talk it came out, I suppose by a sign, that 
 Chapman was a freemason, and Jessop is an en- 
 thusiast in that sort of nonsense, master of a 
 lodge or something, and that was a new attrac- 
 tion. In short, Jessop took a great fancy to 
 him, patronized him, promised him protection, 
 and actually recommended him to a lodging in 
 the cottage of an old widow who lives in the out- 
 skirts of the town, and had once been a nurse 
 in the Jessop family. And what do you think 
 Jessop had just bought of this simple creature? 
 A pair of worsted mittens as a present for me ; 
 and what is more, I have got them on at this 
 moment — look! neat, I think, and monstrous 
 warm. Now, I have hitherto kept my own coun- 
 sel. I have not said to Jessop, ' Beware — that 
 is the man who took me in.' But this conceal- 
 ment is a little on my conscience. On the one 
 hand, it seems very cruel, even if the man did 
 once commit a crime, in spite of your charita- 
 ble convictions to the contrary, that I should bo 
 blabbing out his disgrace, and destroying perhaps 
 his livelihood. On the other hand, if he should 
 still be really a rogue, a robber, perhaps danger- 
 ous, ought I — ought I — in sliort — you are a cler- 
 gyman and a fine scholar, Sir— what ought I to 
 do?" 
 
 " My dear Mr. Hartopp, do not vex yourself 
 with this very honorable dilemma of conscience. 
 Let me only find my poor old friend, my bene- 
 factor I may call him, and I hope to persuade 
 him, if not to return to the home that waits 
 him, at least to be my guest, or put himself un- 
 der my care. Do you know the name of the 
 widow with whom he lodges ?" 
 
 " Yes — Halse ; and I know the town well 
 enough to conduct you, if not to the house it- 
 self, still to its immediate neighborhood. Pray 
 allow me to accompany you ; I should like it 
 very much — for, though }"ou may not think it, 
 from the light way I have been talking of Chap- 
 man, I never was so interested in any man, 
 never so charmed by any man ; and it has often 
 haunted me at night, thinking that I behaved 
 too harshly to him, and that he was about on the 
 wide world, an outcast, depi'ived of his little 
 girl, whom he had trusted to me. And I sliould 
 have run after him yesterday, or called on him 
 this morning, and said 'Let me serve you,' if it 
 had not been for the severity with which he and 
 his son were spoken of, and I myself rebuked 
 for mentioning their very names, by a man whose 
 opinion I, and indeed all the country, must hold 
 in the higliest respect — a man of the finest honor, 
 the weightiest character — I mean Guy Darrell, 
 the great Darrell." 
 
 George Morley sighed. " I believe Darrell 
 knows nothing of the elder Losely, and is pre- 
 judiced against him by the misdeeds of the 
 younger, to whose care j'ou (and I can not blame 
 you, for I also was instrumental to the same 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 2GI 
 
 transfer, which might have proved calamitously 
 fatal) surrendered the poor motherless girl." 
 
 " She is not with her grandfather now? She 
 lives still, I hope ? She was very delicate." 
 
 " She lives — she is safe. Ha — take care !" 
 
 These last words were spoken as a horseman, 
 riding fast along the road toward the bridge 
 that was now close at hand, came,without warn- 
 ing or heed, so close upon our two ]jedestrians, 
 that George Morley had but just time to pluck 
 Hartopp aside from the horse's hoofs. 
 
 '■An impudent, careless, rutHanly fellow, in- 
 deed!" said the mild Hartopp, indignantly, as 
 he brushed from his sleeve the splash of dirt 
 which the horseman bequeathed to it. " He 
 must be drunk !" 
 
 The rider, gaining the bridge, was there de- 
 tained at the toll-bar by some carts and wag- 
 ons, and the two gentlemen passed him on the 
 bridge, looking with some attention at his 
 gloomy, unobservant countenance, and the pow- 
 erful frame on which, despite coarse garments 
 and the change wrought by years of intemperate 
 excess, was still visible the trace of that felici- 
 tous symmetry once so admirably combining 
 Herculean strength with elastic elegance. En- 
 tering the town, the rider turned into the yard 
 of the nearest inn. George Morley and Har- 
 topp, followed at a little distance by Morley's 
 traveling companion. Merle, passed on toward 
 the other extremity of the town, and after one 
 or tv,-o inquiries for "Widow Halse, Prospect 
 Row," they came to a few detached cottages, 
 very prettily situated on a gentle hill, command- 
 ing in front the roofs of the city and the gleam- 
 ing windows of the great cathedral, with some- 
 what large gardens in the rear. i\Irs. Halse's 
 dwelling was at the extreme end of tliis Rov.-. 
 The house, however, was shut up ; and a ViO- 
 man, wlio was standing at the door of the neigh- 
 boring cottage, plaiting straw, informed the vis- 
 itors that Mrs. Halse was gone out "charing" 
 for the day, and that her lodger, who had his 
 own kej-, seldom returned before dark, but that 
 at that hour he was pretty sure to be found in 
 the Corn-market or the streets in its vicinity, 
 and oftered to send her little boy to discover 
 and " fetch" him. George consulted apart with 
 Merle, and decided on dispatching the cobbler, 
 with the boy for his guide, in quest of the ped- 
 dler. Merle being of course instructed not to let 
 out by whom he was accompanied, lest Waife, 
 in his obstinacy, should rather abscond than en- 
 counter the friends from whom he had fled. 
 Merle, and a curly-headed urchin, who seemed 
 delighted at the idea of hunting up Sir Isaac and 
 Sir Isaac's master, set forth and were soon out 
 of sight. Hartopp and George opened the little 
 garden-gate, and strolled into the garden at the 
 back of the cottage, to seat themselves patiently 
 on a bench beneath an old apple-tree. Here 
 they waited and conversed some minutes, till 
 George observed that one of the casements on 
 that side of the cottage was left open, and, in- 
 voluntarily rising, he looked in ; surveying with 
 interest the room, which, he felt sure at the 
 first glance, must be that occupied by his self- 
 exiled friend : a neat, pleasant little room — a 
 bull-finch in a wicker cage on a ledge within the 
 casement — a flower-pot beside it. Doubtless the 
 window, which faced tlie southern sun, had been 
 left open by the kind old man in order to cheer 
 
 the bird and to gladden the plant. Waife's well- 
 known pipe, and a tobacco-pouch worked for 
 him by Sophy's fairy fingers, lay on a table near 
 the fire-place, between casement and door ; and 
 George saw with emotion the Bible which he 
 himself had given to the wanderer lying also 
 on the table, with the magnifying- glass which 
 Waife had of late been obliged to emplov in 
 reading. Waife's habitual neatness was visible 
 in the aspect of the room. To George it was 
 evident that the very chairs had been arranged 
 by his hand ; that his hand had courteously given 
 that fresh coat of varnish to the wretched por- 
 trait of a man in blue coat and buflF waistcoat, 
 representing, no doubt, the lamented spouse of 
 the hospitable widow. George beckoned to Har- 
 topp to come also and look within ; and as the 
 worthy trader jieeped over his shoulder, the 
 clergyman said, whisperingly, " Is there not 
 something about a man's home which attests 
 his character? — No 'pleading guilty' here!" 
 
 Hartojjp was about to answer, when they 
 heard the key turn sharply in the outer door, 
 and had scarcely time to draw somewhat back 
 from the casement when Waife came hurriedly 
 into the room, followed, not by IMerle, but by 
 the tall rough-looking horseman whom they had 
 encountered on the road. " Thank Heaven," 
 cried Waife, sinking on a chair, "out of sight, 
 out of hearing now ! Now you may speak ; now 
 I can listen ! Oh, wretched S9n of my lost an- 
 gel, whom I so vainly sought to save by the sac- 
 rifice of all my claims to the respect of men, for 
 what purpose do you seek me ? I have nothing 
 left that you can take away ! Is it the child 
 again? See — see — look round — search the 
 house if you will — she is not here." 
 
 " Bear with me, if you can. Sir," said Jasper, 
 in tones that were almost meek ; " you, at least, 
 can say nothing that I will not bear. But I am 
 in my right when I ask you to tell me, without 
 equivocation or reserve, if Sophy, though not 
 actually within these walls, be near you, in this 
 town or its neighborhood ? — in short, still under 
 your protection ?" 
 
 "Not in this town — not near it — not under 
 ray protection ; I swear." 
 
 "Do not swear, father; I have no belief in 
 other men's oaths. I believe your simple word. 
 Now comes my second question — remember I 
 am still strictly in my right — where is she? — 
 and under whose care?" 
 
 "I will not say. One reason why I have 
 abandoned the very air she breathes, was, that 
 you might not trace her in tracing me. But 
 she is out of your power again to kidnap and to 
 sell. You might molest, harass, shame her, by 
 proclaiming yourself her father; but regain her 
 into your keeping, cast her to infamy and vice 
 — never, never! She is now with no powerless, 
 miserable convict, for whom Law has no respect. 
 She is now no helpless infant, without a choice, 
 without a will. She is safe from all save the 
 wanton unprofitable eflrort to disgrace her. Oh, 
 Jasper, Jasper, be human — she is so delicate of 
 frame — she is so sensitive to reproach, so trem- 
 ulously alive to honor — I — / am not fit to be 
 near her now. I have beea a tricksome, sliifty 
 vagrant, and innocent though I be, the felon's 
 brand is on me ! But you, you too, who never 
 loved her, who can not miss her, whose heart is 
 not breaking at her loss as mine is now — von. 
 
262 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 you — to rise up from the reeking pesthouse in 
 which you have dwelt by choice, and say, ' De- 
 scend from God's day with me' — Jasper, Jasper, 
 you will not — you can not ; it would be the ma- 
 lignity of a devil !" 
 
 "Father, hold I" cried Jasper, UTithing and 
 livid ; " I owe to you more than I do to that 
 thing of pink and white. I know better than 
 you the trumpery of all those waxen dolls of 
 whom dupes make idols. At each turn of the 
 street you may find them in basketfuls — blue- 
 eyed or black-eyed, just the same worthless frip- 
 pery or senseless toys ; but every man dandling 
 his own doll, whether he call it sweet-heart or 
 daughter, makes the same puling boast that he 
 has an angel of purity in his puppet of wax. 
 Nay, hear me I to that girl I owe nothing. You 
 know what I owe to you. You bid me not seek 
 her, and say, ' I am your father !' Do you think 
 it does not misbecome me more, and can it 
 wound you less, when I come to you, and re- 
 mind you that I am your son !" 
 
 "Jasper!" foltered the old man, turning his 
 face aside, for the touch of feeling toward him- 
 self, contrasting the cynicism with which Jas- 
 per spoke of other ties not less sacred, took the 
 father by surprise. 
 
 "And," continued Jasper, "remembering how 
 you once loved me — with what self-sacrifice you 
 proved that love, it is mth a bitter grudge against 
 that girl that I see her thus take that place in 
 your affection which was mine — and you so in- 
 dignant against me if I even presume to approach 
 her. What ! I have the malignity of a devil be- 
 cause I would not quietly lie down in yonder 
 kennels to starve, or sink into the grade of those 
 whom your daintier thief disdains ; spies into 
 unguarded areas, or cowardly skulkers by blind 
 walls ; while in the paltry girl, who j-ou say is 
 so well provided for, I see the last and sole re- 
 source which may prevent you from being still 
 more degraded, still more afflicted by your son." 
 
 " What is it you want ? Even if Sophy were 
 in your power, Darrell would not be more dis- 
 posed to enrich or relieve you. He will never 
 believe your tale, nor deign even to look into 
 its proofs." 
 
 " He might at last," said Jasper, evasively. 
 " Surely with all that wealth, no nearer heir 
 than a remote kinsman in the son of a beggared 
 spendthrift by a linen-draper's daughter — he 
 should need a grandchild more than you do. 
 Yet the proofs you speak of convinced yourself; 
 you believe my tale." 
 
 " Believe — yes, for that belief was every thing 
 in the world to me! Ah, remember how joy- 
 ously, when my term of sentence expired, I 
 hastened to seek you at Paris, deceived by the 
 rare letters with which you had deigned to cheer 
 me — fondly dreaming that, in expiating your 
 crime, I should have my reward in your re- 
 demption — should live to see you honored, hon- 
 est, good — live to think your mother watched us 
 from heaven with a smile on both — and that we 
 should both join her at last — you purified by ray 
 atonement ! Oh, and when I saw you so sunken, 
 so hardened, exulting in vice as in a glory — 
 bravo and partner in a gambler's hell — or, worse 
 still, living on the plunder of miserable women, 
 even the almsman of that vile Desmarets — my 
 son, my son, my lost Lizzy's son blotted out of 
 my world forever! — then, then I should have 
 
 died if you had not said, boasting of the lie 
 which had wrung the gold from Darrell, ' But 
 the child lives still.' Believed you — oh yes, 
 yes ! — for in that belief something was still left 
 to me to cherish, to love, to live for I" 
 
 Here the old man's hurried voice died away 
 in a passionate sob; and the direful son, all 
 reprobate though he was, slid from his chair, 
 and bowed himself at his father's knee, cover- 
 ing his face with fell hands that trembled. 
 "Sir, Sir," he said, in broken, reverential ac- 
 cents, " do not let me see you weep. You can 
 not believe me, but I say solemnly that, if there 
 be in me a single remnant of affection for any 
 human being, it is for you. Vv^hen I cpnsented 
 to leave you to bear the sentence which should 
 have fallen on myself, sure I am that I was less 
 basely selfish than absurdly vain. I fancied my- 
 self so born to good fortune I — so formed to cap- 
 tivate some rich girl ! — and that you would re- 
 turn to share wealth with me ; that the evening 
 of your days would be happy ; that you would 
 be repaid by my s] jlendor for your own disgrace ! 
 And when I did marry, and did ultimately get 
 from the father-in-law who spurned me the 
 capital of his daughter's fortune, pitifully small 
 though it was compared to my expectations, my 
 first idea was to send half of that sum to you. 
 But — but — I was living with those who thought 
 nothing so silly as a good intention — nothing so 
 bad as a good action. That mocking she-devil, 
 Gabrielle, too ! Then the witch's spell of that 
 d — d green table ! Luck against one — wait ! 
 double the capital ere you send the half. Luck 
 with one — how balk the tide? how fritter the 
 capital just at the turn of doubling ? Soon it 
 grew irksome even to think of you ; yet still, 
 when I did, I said, ' Life is long ; I shall win 
 riches ; he shall share them some day or oth- 
 er!' — Basta, basta! — what idle twaddle or hol- 
 low brag all this must seem to you !" 
 
 "No," said Waife, feebly — and his hand 
 drooped till it touched Jasper's bended shoul- 
 der, but, at the touch, recoiled as with an elec- 
 tric spasm. 
 
 "So, as you say, you found me at Paris. I 
 told you where I had placed the child, not con- 
 ceiving that Arabella would part with her, or 
 you desire to hamper yourself with an encum- 
 brance — nay, I took for granted that you would 
 find a home, as before, with some old friend or 
 country cousin ; but fancying that your occa- 
 sional visits to her might comfort you, since it 
 seemed to please you so much when I said she 
 lived. Thus we parted — you, it seems, 'only 
 anxious to save that child from ever falling into 
 my hands or those of Gabrielle Desmarets; I 
 hastening to forget all but the riotous life round 
 me, till — " 
 
 "Till you came back to England to rob from 
 me the smile of the only face that I knew would 
 never wear contempt, and to tell the good man 
 with whom I thought she had so safe a shelter 
 that I was a convicted robber, by whose very 
 love her infancy was sullied.' Oh Jasper! Jas- 
 per !"' 
 
 "I never said that — never thought of saying 
 it. Arabella Crane did so, with the reckless 
 woman-will, to gain her object. But I did take 
 the child from you. Why ? Partly because I 
 needed money s'o much that I would have sold 
 a Itecatomb of children for half what I was of- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 263 
 
 fered to bind the girl to a service that could not 
 be very dreadful, since yourself had first placed 
 her there — and partly because you had shrunk, 
 it seems, from appealing to old friends ; you 
 were living, like myself, from hand to moutJi ; 
 what could that child be to you but a drag and 
 a bother?" 
 
 "And you will tell me, I suppose," said 
 Waife, with an incredulous bitter irony, that 
 seemed to wither himself in venting it, so did 
 his whole fiame recoil and shrink — "you will 
 tell me that it was from tlie same considerate 
 tenderness that you would have again filched 
 her from me some months later, to place her 
 with that ' she-devil' who was once more by 
 your side, to be reared and sold to — oh horror ! 
 — horror! — unimaginable horror! — that pure, 
 helpless infant ! — you, armed with the name of 
 father! — you, strong in that mighty form of 
 man !" 
 
 " What do you mean ? Oh, I remember now ! 
 When Gabrielle was in Loudon, and I had seen 
 you on the Bridge. Who could have told you 
 that I meant to get the child from you at that 
 time?" 
 
 Waife was silent. He could not betray Ara- 
 bella Crane; and Jasper looked perplexed and 
 thoughtful. Then gradually the dreadful nature 
 of his father's accusing word seemed to become 
 more clear to him ; and he cried, with a fierce 
 start and a swarthy flush, "But whoever told 
 you that I harbored the design that it whitens 
 your lip to hint at, lied, and foully. Harkye, 
 Sir ! many years ago Gabrielle had made ac- 
 quaintance with Darrell, under another name, 
 as Matilda's friend (long story now — not worth 
 telling) ; he had never, I believe, discovered 
 the imposture. Just at the time you refer to, 
 I heard that Darrell had been to France, inquir- 
 ing himself into facts connected with my former 
 story that Matilda's child was dead. That very 
 inquiry seemed to show that he had not been so 
 incredulous of my assertions of Sophy's claims 
 on him as he had aftected to be when I urged 
 them. He then went on into Italy. Talking 
 this over with Gabrielle, she suggested that, if 
 the child could be got into her possession, she 
 would go with her in search of Darrell, resum- 
 ing the name in which she had before known 
 him — resuming the title and privilege of Ma- 
 tilda's friend. In that character he might list- 
 en to her when he would not to me. She might 
 confirm my statement — melt his heart — coax 
 him into terms. She was the cleverest creat- 
 ure! I should have sold Sophy, it is true. For 
 what ? A provision to place me above want and 
 crime. Sold her to whom? To tlie man who 
 would see in her his daughter's child — rear her 
 to inherit his wealth — guard her as his own hon- 
 or. What! was this the design that so shocks 
 3'ou? Basta — basta! Again, I say Enough! 
 I never thought I should be so soft as to mutter 
 excuses for what I have done. And if I do so 
 now, the words seem forced from me against 
 my will — forced from me, as if in seeing you I 
 was again but a wild, lawless, willful boy, who 
 grieved to see you saddened by his faults, 
 though he forgot his grief the moment you were 
 out of sight." 
 
 " Oh Jasper," cried Waife, now fairly plac- 
 ing his hand on Jasper's guilty head, and fixing 
 his bright soft eye, swimming in teai-s, on that 
 
 downcast, gloomy face, "j'ou repent! you re- 
 pent ! Yes ; call back your boyhood ! call it 
 back ! Let it stand before you, now, visible, 
 palpable ! Lo ! I see it ! Do not you ? Fear- 
 less, joyous Image! Wild, lawless, willful, as 
 you say ! Wild from exuberant life ; lawless as 
 a bird is free, because air is boundless to un- 
 tried, exulting wings ; w'illful from the ease with 
 which the bravery and beauty of Nature's ra- 
 diant Darling forced M-ay for each jocund whim 
 through our yielding hearts ! Silence ! It is 
 there! I see it, as I saw it rise in the empty 
 air when guilt and ignominy first darkened 
 round you ; and my heart cried aloud, ' Not on 
 him, not on him — not on that glorious shape of 
 hope and promise — on me, whose life, useless 
 hitherto, has lost all promise now — on me let 
 fall the shame !' And my lips obeyed my heart, 
 and I said, ' Let the laws' will be done — I am 
 the guilty man !' Cruel — cruel one! Was that 
 sunny Boyhood then so long departed from you ? 
 On the verge of youth, and such maturity ia 
 craft and fraud — that when you stole into my 
 room that dark M'inter eve, threw yourself at my 
 feet, spoke but of thoughtless debts, and the 
 fears that you should be thrust from an indus- 
 trious honest calling, and I — I said — ' No, no ; 
 fear not ; the head of your firm likes you ; he 
 has written to me; I am trying already to raise 
 the money you need ; it shall be raised, no mat- 
 ter what it cost me ; you shall be saved ; my 
 Lizzy's son shall never know the soil of a pris- 
 on ; shun temptation henceforth ; be but honest, 
 and I shall be repaid !' What ! even then you 
 you were coldlj' meditating the crime that will 
 make my very grave dishonored!" 
 
 "Meditating — not so! How could I? Not 
 till after what had thus passed between us, 
 when you spoke with such indulgent kindness, 
 did I even know that I might more than save 
 myself — by moneys — not raised at risk and loss 
 to you ! Remember, you had left me in the 
 inner room, while you went forth to speak with 
 Gunston. There I overheard him talk of notes 
 he had never counted, and might never miss ; 
 describe the very place where they were kept ; 
 and then the idea came to me irresistibly ; ' bet- 
 ter rob him than despoil my own generous fa- 
 ther.' Sir, I am not pretending to be better 
 than I was. I was not quite the novice you 
 supposed. Coveting pleasures or shows not 
 w^ithin my reach, I had shrunk from draining 
 you to supply the means ; I had not had the 
 same forbearance for tlie superfluous wealth of 
 others. I had learned with what simple tools 
 old locks may ny open ; and none had ever sus- 
 pected me, so I had no fear of danger, small 
 need of premeditation ; a nail on your mantle- 
 j)iece, the cloven end of the hammer lying be- 
 side, to crook it when hot from the fire that 
 blazed before me ! I say this to show you that 
 I did not come provided ; nothing was planned 
 beforehand ; all was the project and work of the 
 moment. Such was my haste, I burned myself 
 to the bone with the red iron — feeling no pain, 
 or rather, at that age, bearing all pain without 
 wincing. Before Gunston left you my whole 
 plan was then arranged — my sole instrument 
 fashioned. You groan. But how could I fancy 
 that there would be detection? How imagine 
 that, even if moneys never counted icere missed, 
 suspicion could fall on you — a better gentleman 
 
2G4 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 than he whom you served ? And had it not 
 been for that accursed cloak which you so fond- 
 ly wrapped round me, when I set off to catch 
 
 the night-train back to ; if it had not been, 
 
 I say, for that cloak, there could have been no 
 evidence to criminate either you or me — except 
 that unlucky £5 note, which I pressed on you 
 
 when we met at , where I was to hide till 
 
 you had settled with my duns. And why did 
 I press it on you ? — because you had asked me 
 if I had wherewithal about me on which to live 
 meanwhile ; and I, to save you from emptying 
 your own purse, said, 'Yes;' showed you some 
 gold, and pressed on you the bank-note, which 
 I said I could not want — to go, in small part, 
 toward my debts ; it was a childish, inconsist- 
 ent wish to please you ; and you seemed so 
 pleased to take it as a proof that I cared for 
 you." 
 
 "For me! — no, no; for honor — for honor — 
 for honor! I thought you cared for honor ; and 
 the proof of that care was, thrusting into these 
 credulous hands the share of your midnight 
 plunder!" 
 
 " Sir," resumed Jasper, persisting in the same 
 startling combination of feeling, gentler and 
 more reverential than could have been supposed 
 to linger in his breast, and of the moral obtuse- 
 ness that could not, save by vanishing glimpses, 
 distinguish between crime and its consequences 
 — between dishonor and detection — " Sir, I de- 
 clare that I never conceived that I was exposing 
 you to danger; nay, I meant, out of the money 
 I had taken, to replace to you what you were 
 about to raise, as soon as I could invent some 
 plausi!)le story of having earned it honestly. 
 Stupid notions and clumsy schemes, as I now 
 look back on them; but, as you say, I had not 
 long left boyhood, and fancying myself deep 
 and knowing, was raw in the craft I had prac- 
 ticed. Busta! basta! basfa!'' 
 
 Jasper, who had risen from his knees while 
 speaking, here starriped heavily on the floor, as 
 if with anger at the heart-stricl;en aspect of his 
 silenced father ; and continued with a voice that 
 seemed struggling to regain its old imperious, 
 rollicking, burly swell. 
 
 " What is done can not be undone. Fling it 
 aside. Sir — look to the future ; you with your 
 peddler's pack, I with my empty pockets ! What 
 can save you from the workhouse — me from the 
 hulks or gibbet ? I know not unless the persons 
 sheltering that girl will buy me off by some pro- 
 vision which may be shared between us. Tell 
 me, then, where she is ; leave me to deal in the 
 business as I best may. Pooh ! ^vhy so scared ? 
 I will neither terrify nor kidnap her. I will 
 shuffle off the crust of blackguard that has 
 hardened round me. I will be sleek and 
 smooth, as if I were still the exquisite Lothario 
 — copied by would-be rutHcr;*, and spoiled by 
 willing beauties. Oh, I can still play the gen- 
 tleman, at least for an hour or two, if it be worth 
 my while. Come, Sir, come ; trust me ; out 
 with the secret of this hidden maiden, whose 
 interests should surely weigh not more with 3-ou 
 than those of a starving son. What, you will 
 not ? Be it so. I suspect that I know where 
 to look for her — on what noble thresholds to set 
 my daring foot; what fair lady, mindful of for- 
 mer days — of girlish friendship — of virgin love 
 — wraps in compassionate luxury Guy Darrell's 
 
 rejected heiress ! Ah, your looks tell me that 
 I am hot on the scent. That fair lady I knew 
 of old ; she is rich — I helped to make her so. 
 She owes me something. I will call and re- 
 mind her of it. And — tut. Sir, tut — you shall 
 not go to the workhouse, nor I to the hulks." 
 
 Here the old man, hitherto seated, rose — 
 slow'ly, with feebleness and effort — till he gained 
 his full height ; then age, infirmity, and weak- 
 ness seemed to vanish. In the erect head, the 
 broad massive chest, in the whole presence there 
 was dignity — there was power. 
 
 " Hark to me, unhappy reprobate, and heed 
 me well ! To save that child from the breath 
 of disgiuice — to place her in what you yourself 
 assured me were her rights amidst those in 
 whose dwellings I lost the privilege to dwell 
 when I took to myself your awful' burden — I 
 thought to resign her charge forever in this 
 world. Think not that I will fly her now, when 
 you invade. No — since my prayers will not 
 move you — since my sacrifice to you has been 
 so fruitless — since my absence from herself does 
 not attain its end ; there, where you find her, 
 shall you again meet me! And if there we 
 meet, and j-ou come with the intent to destroy 
 her peace and blast her fortune, then I, Will- 
 iam Losely, am no more the felon. In the face 
 of day I will proclaim the truth, and say, ' Rob- 
 ber, change place in earth's scorn with me ; 
 stand in the dock, where thy fat'aer stood in 
 vain to save thee !' " 
 
 "Bah, Sir— too late now; who would listen 
 to you?" 
 
 "All who have once known me — all will lis- 
 ten. Friends of power and station will take up 
 my cause. There will be fresh inquiry into facts 
 that I held back — evidence that, in ])leading 
 guilty, I suppressed — ungrateful one — to ward 
 away suspicion from you." 
 
 " Say what you will," said Jasper, swaying 
 his massive form to and fro, with a rolling ges- 
 ture which spoke of cold defiance, "I am no 
 hypocrite in fair repute whom such threats would 
 frighten. If you choose to thwart me in what I 
 always held my last resource for meat and drink, 
 I must stand in the dock even, perhaps, on a 
 heavier charge than one so stale. Each for him- 
 self; do your worst— what does it matter r" 
 
 " What does it matter that a father should 
 accuse his son ! No, no — son, son, son — this 
 nuist not be ! — Let it not be ! — let me complete 
 my martyrdom ! I ask no reversal of man's de- 
 cree, except before the Divine Tribunal. Jas- 
 per, Jasjier — child of my love, spare the sole 
 thing left to fill up the chasms in the heart that 
 you laid waste. Speak not of starving, or of 
 fresh crime. Stay — share this refuge ! I ■wili, 
 
 AVOKK FOR BOTH !" 
 
 Once more, and this time thoroughly, Jasper's 
 hideous levity and coarse bravado gave w.n be- 
 fore the lingering human sentiment knitting 
 him back to childhood, which the sight and 
 voice of his injured father had called forth with 
 spasms and throes, as a seer calls the long-bur- 
 ied from a grave. And as the old man extend- 
 ed his arms )ileadingly townrd him, Jasper, with 
 a gasping sound— half groan, half sob — sprang 
 forward, caught both the hands in his own 
 strong grasp, lifted them to his- lips, kissed 
 them, and then, gaining the door with a rapid 
 stride, said, in hoarse broken tones, " Share 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 2CC 
 
 vour refuge ! no — no — I should break your heart 
 downright did you see me daily — hourly as I 
 am ! You work for both I — you — you !" His 
 voice stopped, choked for a brief moment, then 
 hurried on: "As for that girl — you — you — you 
 are — but no matter, I will try to obey you — will 
 try to wrestle against hunger, despair, and 
 thoughts that wliisper sinking men with devil's 
 tongues. I will try — I will tn,' ; if I succeed 
 not, kee]> your threat — accuse me — give me np 
 to justice — clear yourself; but if you would 
 crush me more than by the heaviest curse, 
 never again speak to me with such dreadful 
 tenderness ! Cling not to me, old man ; release 
 me, I say ; thei-e — there— oft'. Ah ! I did not 
 hurt you? Brute that I am- — you bless me — 
 yon — you ! And I dare not bless again ! Let 
 me go — let me go — let me go !" He wrenched 
 himself away from his father's clasp — drowning 
 with loud tone his father's pathetic soothings — 
 out of the house — down the hill — lost to sight 
 in the shades of the falling eve. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Gentleman Waife does not forget an old friend. The old 
 friend reconciles Astrology to Prudence, and is under 
 the influence of Benefics. Mr. Hartopp hat in hand to 
 Gentleman AVaife. 
 
 Waife fell on the floor of his threshold, ex- 
 claiming, sobbing, moaning, as voice itself grad- 
 ually died away. The dog, who had been shut 
 out from the house, and remained ears erect, 
 head drooping, close at the door, rushed in as 
 Jasper burst forth. The two listeners at the 
 open casement now stole round ; there was the 
 dog, its paw on the old man's shoulder, trying 
 to attract his notice, and whining low. 
 
 Tejiderly — reverentially, they lift the poor 
 martyr — evermore cleared in their eyes from 
 stain, from question; the dishonoring brand 
 transmuted into the hallowing cross ! And 
 when the old man at length recovered con- 
 sciousness, his head was pillowed on the breast 
 of the spotless, noble preacher; and the deco- 
 rous English trader, with instinctive deference 
 for repute and respect for law, was kneeling by 
 his side, clasping his hand; and as Waife 
 glanced down, confusedly wondering, Hartopp 
 exclaimed, half sobbing, "Forgive me; you 
 said I should repent if I knew all! I do're- 
 pent! I do! Forgive me — I shall never for- 
 give myself." 
 
 " Have I been dreaming? Yvhat is all this ? 
 You here, too, Mr. George! But — but there 
 was Another. Gone I ah — gone — gone ! lost, 
 lost ! Ha ! did you overhear us ?" 
 
 "We overheard you — at that window! See, 
 spite of yourself, Heaven lets your innocence be 
 known, and in that innocence your sublime 
 self-sacritice." 
 
 "Hush! you will never betray me, either of 
 you — never ! A father turn against his son ! — 
 horrible I" 
 
 Again he seemed on the point of swooning. 
 In a few moments more his mind began evi- 
 dently to wander somewhat ; and just as Merle 
 (who, with his urchin-guide, had wandered 
 vainly over the whole town in search of the 
 peddler, until told that he had been seen in a 
 by-street, stopped and accosted by a tall man in 
 
 a rough great-coat, and then hurrying off, fol- 
 lowed by the stranger) — came back to re])ort his 
 ill success, Hartopp and George had led Waife 
 np stairs into his sleeping-room, laid him down 
 on his bed, and were standing beside him watch- 
 ing his troubled face, and whispering to each 
 other in alarm. 
 
 Waife overheard Hartopp proposing to go in 
 search of medical assistance, and exclaimed, 
 piteously, " Xo, that would scare me to death. 
 No doctors — no eaves-droppers. Leave me to 
 myself— quiet and darkness ; I shall be well to- 
 morrow." 
 
 George drew the curtains round the bed, and 
 Waife caught him by the arm. "You will not 
 let out what you heard, I know ; you under- 
 stand how little I can now care for men's judg- 
 ments ; but how dreadful it would be to undo 
 all I have done — I to be witness against my 
 Lizzy's child! I — I! I trust you — dear, dear 
 Mr. Morley ; make Mr. Harto[)p sensible that, 
 if he would not drive me mad, not a syllable of 
 what he heard must go forth — 'twould be base 
 in him." 
 
 "Nay!" said Hartopp, whispering also through 
 the dark — "Don't fear me; I will hold my peace, 
 though 'tis very hard not to tell Williams, at 
 least, that you did not take me in. But you 
 shall be obeyed." 
 
 They drew away Merle, who was wondering 
 what the whispered talk was about, catching a 
 word or two here and there, and left the old 
 man not quite to solitude — Waife's hand, in 
 quitting George's grasp, dropped on the dog's 
 head. 
 
 Hartopp went back to his daughter's home in 
 a state of great excitement, drinking more wine 
 than usual at dinner, talking more magisterial- 
 ly than he had ever been known to talk, railing 
 quite misanthropically against the world ; ob- 
 serving that Williams had become insufferably 
 overbearing, and should be pensioned oft': in 
 short, casting the whole family into the great- 
 est perplexity to guess what had come to the 
 mild man. ilerle found himself a lodging, and 
 cast a horarj' scheme as to what would happen 
 to Waife and himself for the next three months, 
 and found all the aspects so penersely contra- 
 dictory, that he owned he was no wiser as to the 
 future than he was before the scheme was cast. 
 George Morley remained in the Cottage, steal- 
 ing up, from time to time, to Waife's room, but 
 not fatiguing him with talk. Before midnight 
 the old man slept, but his slumber was much 
 perturbed, as if by fearful dreams. However, 
 he rose early, very weak, but free from fever, 
 and in full possession of his reason. To George's 
 delight, Waife's first words to him then were 
 expressive of a wish to return to Sophy. ' ' He 
 had dreamed," he said, "that he had heard her 
 voice calling oitt to him to come to her help." 
 He would not revert to the scene with Jasper. 
 George once ventured to touch on that reminis- 
 cence, but the old man's look became so implor- 
 ing that he desisted. Nevertheless, it was evi- 
 dent to the Pastor that Waife's desire of return 
 was induced by his belief that he had become 
 necessary to Sophy's p';otection. Jasper, whose 
 remorse would probably be very short-lived, had 
 clearly discovered Sophy's residence, and as 
 clearly Waife, and Waife alone, srill retained 
 some hold over his rugged breast. Perhaps, 
 
2G6 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 too, the old man had no longer the same dread 
 of encountering Jasper; rather, perhaps, a faint 
 hope that, in another meeting, he might more 
 availingly soften his son's heart. He was not 
 only willing, then — he was eager to depart, and 
 either regained or assumed much of his old 
 cheerfulness in settling with his hostess, and 
 parting with Merle, on whom he forced his latest 
 savings, and the tasteful contents of his panier. 
 Then he took aside George, and whispered in 
 his ear, "A very honest, kind-hearted man. Sir; 
 can you deliver him from the Planets! — they 
 bring him into sad trouble. Is there no open- 
 ing for a cobbler at Humberston?" 
 
 George nodded, and went back to Merle, who 
 was wiping his eyes with his coat-sleeve. " My 
 good friend," said the scholar, "do me two fa- 
 vors besides the greater one you have already 
 bestowed in conducting me back to a revered 
 friend. First, let me buy of you the contents 
 of tliat basket ; I have children among whom I 
 would divide them as heir-looms ; next, as we 
 were traveling thither, you told me that, in your 
 younger days, ere you took to a craft wliich does 
 not seem to have prospered, you were brought 
 up to country pursuits, and knew all about cows 
 and sheep, their cure and tlieir maladies. Well, 
 I have a few acres of glebe-land on my own 
 hands, not enough for a bailiff — too much for 
 my gardener — and a pretty cottage, which once 
 belonged to a schoolmaster, but we have built 
 him a larger one ; it is now vacant, and at your 
 service. Come and take all trouble of land and 
 stock off my hands ; we shall not quarrel about 
 the salary. But, hark-ye, my friend — on one 
 proviso — give up the Crystal, and leave the 
 Stars to mind their own business." 
 
 "Please your Reverence," said Merle, who, 
 at the earlier part of the address, had evinced 
 the most grateful emotion, but who, at the pro- 
 viso which closed it, jerked himself up, dignified 
 and displeased, "Please your Reverence, no! 
 Kit Merle is not so unnatral as to swop away 
 his Significator at Birth for a mess of porritch ! 
 There was that forrin chap, Gally-Leo — he stuck 
 to the stars, or the sun, which is the same thing 
 — and the stars stuck by him, and brought him 
 honor and glory, though the Parsons war dead 
 agin him. He had Malefics in his Ninth House, 
 which belongs to Parsons." 
 
 " Can't the matter be compromised, dear Mr. 
 George?" said Waife, persuasively. " Suppose 
 Merle promises to keep his crystal and astrolo- 
 gical schemes to himself, or at least only talk 
 of _ them to you ; they can't hurt you, I should 
 think. Sir? And science is a sacred thing, 
 Merle ; and the Chaldees, who were the great 
 star-gazers, never degraded themselves by show- 
 ing off to the vulgar. Mr. George, who is a 
 scliolar, will convince you of that fact." 
 
 "Content," said George. "So long as Mr. 
 Merle will leave my children and servants, and 
 the parish generally, in happy ignorance of the 
 future, I give him the fullest leave to discuss 
 his science with myself whenever we chat to- 
 gether on summer noons or in winter evenings ; 
 and perhaps I may — " 
 
 " Be converted ?" said Waife, with a twinkling 
 gleam of the jtlayful Humor which had ever 
 sported along his thorny way by the side of 
 Sorrow. 
 
 "I did not mean that," said the Parson, smil- 
 
 ing; "rather the contrary. What say you, 
 Merle ? Is it not a bargain ?" 
 
 "Sir — God bless you!" cried Merle, simply; 
 " I see you won't let me stand in my own light. 
 And what Gentleman Waife says as to the vul- 
 gar, is uncommon true." 
 
 This matter settled, and Merle's future se- 
 cured in a way that his stars, or his version of 
 j their language, had not foretold to him, George 
 and Waife walked on to the station. Merle fol- 
 lowing with the Parson's small carpet-bag, and 
 Sir Isaac charged w^ith Waife's bundle. They 
 had not gone many yards before they met Har- 
 topp, who was indeed on his way to Prospect 
 I Row. He was vexed at learning Waife was 
 I about to leave so abruptly ; he had set his heart 
 j on coaxing him to return to Gatesboro' with 
 i himself — astounding Williams and ilrs. H., and 
 I proclaiming to Market Place and Higli Street, 
 that, in deeming Mr. Chapman a g(5od and a 
 great man disguised, he, Josiah Havtopp, had 
 not been taken in. He consoled himself a little 
 for Waife's refusal of this kind invitation and 
 unexpected departure, by walking ])roudly be- 
 side him to the station, finding it thronged with 
 passengers — some of them great burgesses of 
 Ouzelford — in whose presence he kept bowing 
 his head to AVaife wuth every word he uttered; 
 and, calling the guard — who was no stranger to 
 his own name and importance — he told him 
 pompously to be particularly attentive to that 
 elderly gentleman, and see that he and his 
 companion had a carriage to themselves all the 
 way, and that Sir Isaac had a particularly com- 
 fortable box. "A very great man," he said, 
 with his finger to his lip, " only he will not 
 have it known — just at present." The guard 
 stares, and promises all defei'ence — opens the 
 door of a central first-class carriage — assures 
 Waife that he and his friend shall not l>e dis- 
 turbed by other jjussengers. The train heaves 
 into movement — Ilartopp runs on by its side 
 along the stand — his hat off— kissing his hand ; 
 then, as the convoy shoots under yon dark tun- 
 nel, and is lost to sight, he turns back, and see- 
 ing Merle, says to him, " You know that gentle- 
 man — the old one ?" 
 "Yes, a many year." 
 "Ever heard any thing against him?" 
 " Yes, once — at Gatesboro'." 
 "At Gatesboro'! — ah! and you did not be- 
 lieve it ?" 
 
 "Onlyjist for a moment — transiting." 
 "I envy you," said Hartopp ; and he went 
 off with a sigh. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Jasper Losely in his Element. O young Reader, who- 
 soever tilou art, on whom Nature has bestowed lier 
 magnificent gift of physical power witli tlie joys it 
 commands, with tiie daring that springs from it — on 
 closing this chapter, pause a moment and think — 
 "Wliat wilt thou do with it?" Shall it he brute-like 
 or God-like ? With what advantage for life — its de- 
 liglits or its perils — toils borne with Ciise, and glories 
 cheap bought — dost thou start at lift's onset ? Give 
 thy sinews a Mind that conceives the Heroic, and what 
 noble things thou maysi do ! But value tliy sinews 
 for rude Strength alone, and that strength may be 
 turned to tliy shame and thy torture. The Wealth of 
 thy life win' but tempt to its Waste. Abuse, at first 
 felt not, will poison the uses of Sense. Wild bulls 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 267 
 
 gore and trample their foes. Thou hast Soul! Wilt ; 
 tiiou trample and gore it? j 
 
 Jaspek Losely, on quitting his father, spent 
 his last coins in payment for his horse's food, 
 and on fierv diink for himself. In haste he 
 mounted — in haste he spurred on to London ; 
 not even pence for the toll-bai-s. Where he ' 
 found the gates open, he dashed through them | 
 headlong ; where closed, as the night advanced, | 
 he forced his horse across the fields, over hedge 
 and ditch — more than once the animal faUing 
 with him — more than once thrown from the 
 saddle ; for, while a most daring, he was not a ' 
 very practiced rider; but it was not easy to 
 break bones so strong, and though bruised and 
 dizzy he continued his fierce way. At morn- 
 ing his horse was thoroughly exhausted, and at 
 the first village he reached after sunrise he left 
 the poor beast at an inn, and succeeded in bor- 
 rowing of the landlord £1 on the pawn of the 
 horse thus left as hostage. Eesolved to husband 
 this sum he performed the rest of his journey 
 on foot. He reached London at night, and 
 went straight to Cutts's lodging. Cutts was, 
 however, in the club-room of those dark associ- 
 ates against whom Losely had been warned. 
 Oblivious of his solemn promise to Arabella, 
 Jasper startled the revelers as he stalked into 
 the room, and toward the chair of honor at the 
 far end of it, on which he had been accustomed 
 to lord it over the fell groups he had treated out 
 of Poole's pm-se. One of the biggest and most 
 redoubted of the Black Family was now in that 
 seat of dignity, and, refusing siu'lily to yield it 
 at Jasper's rude summons, was seized by the 
 scufl' of the neck, and literally hurled on the 
 table iri front, coming do^Ti with clatter and 
 crash among mugs and glasses. Jasper seated 
 himself coolly, while the hubbub began to swell 
 — and roared for drink. An old man, who 
 served as drawer to these cavaliers, went out to 
 obey the order; and when he was gf^ne, those 
 near the door swung across it a heavy bar.' 
 Wrath against the domineering intruder was 
 gathering, and waited but the moment to ex- 
 plode. Jasper, turning round his bloodshot eyes, 
 saw Cutts within a few chairs of him, seeking 
 to shrink out of sight. 
 
 " Cutts, come hither I" cried he, imperiously. 
 Cutts did not stir. 
 
 " Throw me that cur this way — you who sit 
 next him!" 
 
 '• Don't, don't ; his mad fit is on him ; he will 
 murder me — murder me, who have helped and 
 saved you all so often. Stand by me '." 
 
 "We will," said both his neighbors, the one 
 groping for his case-knife, the other for his re- 
 volver. 
 
 '•Do you fear I should lop your ears, dog I" 
 cried Jasper, "for shrinking from my side with 
 your tail between your legs. Pooh I I scorn to 
 •waste force on a thing so small. After all, I 
 am glad you left me : I did not want you. You 
 will find your horse at an inn in the village of 
 
 . I will pay for its hire whenever we meet 
 
 again. Meanwhile, find another master — I dis- 
 charge you. Milk tonneres ! why does that wea- 
 sel-faced snail not bring me the brandy? By 
 yonr leave," and he appropriated to himself the 
 brimming glass of his next neighbor. Thus re- 
 freshed, he glanced round through the reek of 
 tobacco smoke ; saw the man he had dislodged. 
 
 and who, rather amazed than stunned by his 
 fall, had kept silence on rising, and was now 
 ominously interchanging muttered words with 
 two of his comrades, who were also on their 
 legs. Jasper turned from him contemptuous- 
 ly ; ^^'^th increasing contempt in his hard, fierce 
 sneer, noted the lowering frowns on either side 
 the Pandemonium ; and it was only with an 
 angry flash from his eyes that he marked, on 
 closing his survey, the bar dropped across the 
 door, and two forms, knife in hand, stationed 
 at the threshold. 
 
 " Aha I my jolly companions," said he, then, 
 " you do right to bar the door. Prudent fami- 
 lies can't settle their quarrels too snugly among 
 themselves. I am come here on purpose to give 
 you all a proper scolding ; and rf some cf you 
 don't hang your heads for shame before I have 
 done, you'll die more game than I think for, 
 whenever you come to the last Drop I" 
 
 He rose as he thus spoke, folding his sinewy 
 arms across his wide chest. Most of the men 
 had risen too — some, however, remained seat- 
 ed. There might be eighteen or twenty men in 
 all. Every eye was fixed on him, and many a 
 hand was on a deadly weapon. 
 
 " Scum of the earth I" burst forth Jasper, 
 with voice like a roll of thunder, "I stooped to 
 come among you — I shared among you my mon- 
 ey. Was any one of you too poor to pay up his 
 club fee — to buy a draught of Forgetfulness — I 
 said, ' Brother, take 1' Did brawl break out in 
 vour jollities — were knives drawn — a throat in 
 "danger — this right hand struck down the up- 
 roar, crushed back the coward murder. If I 
 did not join in your rogueries,' it was because 
 they were sneaking and pitiful. I came as your 
 Patron, not as your Pal ; I did not meddle with 
 your secrets — did not touch your plunder. I 
 owed you nothing. Ofl^al that you 'are! to me 
 you owed drink, and meat, and good-fellowship. 
 I gave you mirth, and I gave you Law ; and in 
 return ye laid a plot among you to get rid of 
 me — how, ye white-livered scoundrels ? Oho ! 
 not by those fists, and knives, and bludgeons. 
 All yovu- pigeon breasts clubbed together had 
 not manhood for that. But to palm ofl" upon 
 me some dastardly deed of your own, by snares 
 and scraps of false evidence — false oaths, too, 
 no doubt — to smuggle me oft to the hangman. 
 That was your precious contrivance. Once 
 again I am here ; but this once only. What 
 for? — why, to laugh at, and spit at, and spurn 
 you. And if one man among you has in him 
 an ounce of man's blood, let him show me the 
 traitors who planned that pitiful project, and be 
 they a dozen, they shall caiTy the mark of this 
 hand till their carcasses go to the stu-geon's 
 scalpel." 
 
 He ceased. Though each was now hustling 
 the other toward him, and the whole pack of 
 miscreants was closing up, hke hounds round a 
 \vild boar at bay, the only one who gave audi- 
 ble tongue was'that thin' splinter of life called 
 Cutts ! 
 
 "Look you, General Jas, it was all a mis- 
 take your ever coming here. You were a fine 
 fellow once, particularly in the French way of 
 doing business — large prizes and lots of row. 
 That don't suit us ; we are quiet Englishmen. 
 You brag of beating and bullying the gentle- 
 men who admit you among them, and of not 
 
268 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 sharing their plans or risks ; but that sort of 
 thing is quite out of order — no jjrecedent for it. 
 How do we know that you are not a spy, or 
 could not be made one, since you say you owe 
 us nothing, and hold us in such scorn ? Truth 
 is, we are all sick of you. You say you only 
 come this once : very well, you have spun your 
 yarn — now go. That's all we want ; go in peace, 
 and never trouble us again. Gentlemen, I move 
 that General Jas be expelled this club, and re- 
 quested to withdraw." 
 
 " I second it," said the man whom Jasper 
 had flung on the table. 
 
 " Those who are in favor of the resolution 
 hold up their hands ; all — carried unanimously. 
 General Jas is expelled." 
 
 '• Expel me I" said Jasper, who, in the mean 
 while, swaying to and fro his brawny bulk, had 
 cleared the space round him, and stood resting 
 his hands on the heavy arm-chair from which 
 he had risen. 
 
 A hostile and simultaneous movement of the 
 group brought four or five of the foremost on 
 him. Up rose the chair on which Jasper had 
 leaned — up it rose in his right hand, and two 
 of the assailants fell as falls an ox to the butch- 
 er's blow. With his left hand he wrenched a 
 knife from a third of the foes, and thus armed 
 with blade and buckler, he sprang on the table, 
 towering over all. Before him was the man 
 with the revolver, a genteeler outlaw than the 
 rest — ticket-of-leave man, who had been trans- 
 ported for forgery. " Shall I shoot him ?" whis- 
 pered this knave to Cutts. Cutts drew back the 
 hesitating arm. *' No ; the noise ! bludgeons 
 safer." Pounce, as Cutts whispered — pounce 
 as a hawk on its quarry, darted Jasper's swoop 
 on the Forger, and the next moment, flinging 
 the chair in the faces of those who were now 
 swarming up the table, Jasper was armed with 
 the revolver, which he had clutched from its 
 startled owner, and its six barrels threatened 
 death, right and left, beside and before and 
 around him, as he turned from face to face. 
 Instantly there fell a hush — instantly the as- 
 sault paused. Every one felt that there no fal- 
 tering would make the hand tremble or the ball 
 swerve. Wherever Jasper turned the foes re- 
 coiled. He laughed with audacious mockery as 
 he surveyed the recreants. 
 
 " Down with your arms, each of you — down 
 that knife, down that bludgeon! That's well. 
 Down yours — there ; yours-^yours. What, all 
 down ! Pile them here on the table at my feet. 
 Dogs, what do you fear ? — death ? The first 
 who refuses dies." 
 
 Mute and servile as a repentant Legion to a 
 Caesar's order, the knaves piled their weapons. 
 
 " Unbar the door, you two. You, orator 
 Cutts, go in front ; light a candle ; open the 
 street-door. So — so — so. Who will treat me 
 with a parting cup — to your healths? Thank 
 you. Sir. Fall back there ; stand back— along 
 the wall — each of you. Line my way. Ho, 
 ho ! — yon harm me — you daunt me — yoii — you ! 
 Stop — I have a resolution to propose. Hear it, 
 and cheer. ' That this meeting rescinds the res- 
 olution for the expulsion of General Jasper, and 
 entreats him humbly to remain, tlie pride and 
 ornament of the club !' Those who are for that 
 resolution, hold up their hands — as many as are 
 against it, theirs. Carried unanimouslv. Gen- 
 
 tlemen, I thank you — proudest day of my life — 
 but I'll see you hanged first ; and'till that sight 
 diverts me — gentlemen, your health !" 
 
 Descending from his eminence, he passed 
 slowly down the room unscathed, unmenaced, 
 and, with a low mocking bow at the threshold, 
 strode along the passage to the street-door. 
 There, seeing Cutts with the light in his hand, 
 he uncocked the pistol, striking off the caps, 
 and giving it to his quondam associate, said, 
 " Return that to its owner, with my compli- 
 ments. One word— speak truth, and" fear no- 
 thing. Did you send help to Darrell ?" 
 
 " No ; I swear it." 
 
 "I am sorry for it. I should like to^^ave 
 owed so trusty a friend that one favor. Go 
 back to your pals. Understand now why I 
 scorned to work with such rotten tools." 
 
 "A wonderful fellow, indeed!" muttered 
 Cutts, as his eye followed the receding form of 
 the triumphant bravo. "All London might look 
 to itself if he had more solid brains and less 
 liquid fire in them." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII, 
 
 .Jasper Losely sleeps under the portico from which False- 
 hood was borne by Black Horses. He forgets a prom- 
 ise, reweaves a scheme, visits a liver side; and a door 
 closes on the Strong Wan and the Grim Woman. 
 
 Jasper had satisfied the wild yeaminsrs of his 
 wounded vanity. He had vindicated his claim 
 to hardihood and address, which it seemed to 
 him he had forfeited in his interview with Dar- 
 rell. With crest erect and a positive sense of 
 elation, of animal joy that predominated over 
 hunger, fatigue, remorse, he strided on — he 
 knew not whither. He would not go back to 
 his former lodgings ; they were too familiarly 
 known to the set which he had just flung from 
 him, witif a vague resolve to abjure henceforth 
 all accomplices, and trust to himself alone. 
 The hour was now late — the streets deserted — 
 the air bitingly cold. Must he at last resign 
 himself to the loathed dictation of Arabella 
 Crane? Well, lie now preferred even that to 
 humbling himself to Darrell, after what had 
 passed. Darrell's parting words had certainly 
 implied that he would not be as obdurate to en- 
 treaty as he had shown himself to threats. But 
 Jasper was in no humor to entreat. Mechanic- 
 ally he continued to stride on toward the soli- 
 tary district in which Arabella held her home ; 
 but the night was now so far advanced that he 
 sJirunk from disturbing the grim woman at that 
 hour — almost as respectfully afraid of her dark 
 eye and stern voice as the outlaws he had quitted 
 were of his own crushing hand and leveled pis- 
 tol. So, finding himself in one of the large 
 squares of Bloomsbnry, he gathered himself up 
 under the sheltering porch of a spacious man- 
 sion, unconscious that it was the very residence 
 which Darrell had once occupied, and that from 
 that portico the Black Horses had borne away 
 the mother of his wife. In a few minutes he 
 was fastasleep — sleeping with such heavy, death- 
 like soundness, that the policeman passing him 
 on his beat, after one or two vain attempts to 
 rouse him, was seized with a rare compassion, 
 and suffered the weary outcast to slumber on. 
 
 When Jasper woke at last in the gray dawn, 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 269 
 
 he felt a strange numbness in his limbs ; it was 
 even with difficulty that he could lift himself 
 up. This sensation gradually wearing off, was 
 followed by a quick tingling down the arms to 
 the tips of the fingers. A gloomy noise rang in 
 his ears, like the boom of funeral church-bells ; 
 and the pavement seemed to be sliding from 
 under him. Little heeding these symptoms, 
 which he ascribed to cold and want of food, and 
 rather agreeably surprised not to feel the gnaw 
 of his accustomed pains, Jasper now betook 
 himself to I'odden Place. The house was still 
 unclosed; and it was not till Jasper's knock 
 had been pretty often repeated that the bolts 
 were withdrawn from the door and Bridgett 
 Greggs appeared. " Oh, it is you, Mr. Losely," 
 she said, with much sullenness, but with no ap- 
 parent surprise. " Mistress thought you would 
 come while she was away ; and I'm to get you 
 the bedroom you had, over the stationer's, six 
 years ago, if you like it. You are to take your 
 meals here, and have the best of every thing; 
 that's mistress's orders." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Crane is out of town," said Jas- 
 per, much relieved; "where has she gone?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " When will she be back?" 
 
 " In a few days ; so she told me. Will you 
 walk in and have breakfast ? Mistress said 
 there was to be always plenty in the house — 
 you might come any moment. Please scrape 
 your feet." 
 
 Jasper hea\'ily mounted into the drawing- 
 room, and impatiently waited the substantial re- 
 freshments which were soon placed before him. 
 The room looked unaltered, as if he had left it 
 but the day before — the prim book-shelves — 
 the empty bird-cage — the broken lute — the pat- 
 ent easy-chair — the footstool — the sofa, which 
 had been added to the original furniture for his 
 express comfort, in the days when he was first 
 adopted as a son — nay, on the hearth-rug the 
 very slippers, on the back of the chair the very 
 dressing-gown, graciously worn by him while 
 yet the fairness of his form justified his fond 
 respect for it. 
 
 For that day he was contented with the neg- 
 ative luxur}- of complete repose ; the more so 
 as, in every attempt to move, he felt the same 
 numbness of limb as that with which he had 
 woke, accompanied by a kind of painful weight 
 at the back of the head, and at the junction 
 which the great seat of intelligence forms at 
 the spine with the great mainspring of force ; 
 and, withal, a reluctance to stir, and a more 
 than usual inclination to doze. But the next 
 day, though these unpleasant sensations con- 
 tinued, his impatience of thought and hate of 
 solitude made him anxious to go forth and seek 
 some distraction. Xo distraction left to him 
 but the gambling-table — no companions but fel- 
 low-victims in that sucking whirlpool. Well, 
 he knew a low gaming-house, open all dav as 
 all night. Wishing to add somewhat to "the 
 miserable remains of the £1 borrowed on the 
 horse, that made all his capital, he asked Brid- 
 gett, indifferently, to oblige him with two or 
 three sovereigns ; if she had them not, she 
 might borrow them in the neighborhood till her 
 mistress returned. Bridgett answered, with ill- 
 simulated glee, that her mistress had given posi- 
 tive orders that Mr. Losely was to have every 
 
 thing he called for except — money. Jasper 
 ' colored with wrath and shame ; but he said no 
 I more — whistled — took his hat — went out — re- 
 paired to the gaming-house — lost his last shil- 
 ling, and returned moodily to dine in Podden 
 I Place. The austerity of the room, the loneli- 
 ' ness of the evening, began now to inspire him 
 , with unmitigated disgust, which was added iu 
 . fresh account to his old score of repugnance for 
 the absent Arabella. The affront put upon him 
 : in the orders which Bridgett had so faithfully 
 I repeated, made him yet more distastefully con- 
 j template the dire necessity of falling under the 
 rigid despotism of this determined guardian : it 
 j was like going back to a preparatory school, to 
 be mulcted of pocket-money, and set in a dark 
 I corner I But what other resource? Xone but 
 appeal to Darrell — still more intolerable ; except 
 I — he paused in his cogitation, shook his head, 
 'muttered "Xo, no." But that "except" Kould 
 return I Except to forget his father's prayer 
 and his own promise — except to hunt out Sophy, 
 and extract from the generosity, compassion, or 
 fear of her protectress, some such conditions as 
 he would have wi-ung from Darrell. He had no 
 doubt now that the girl was with Lady Mont- 
 fort; he felt that, if she really loved So]jhy, and 
 i were sheltering her fi-om any tender recollection, 
 ] whether of Matilda or of Darrell himself, he 
 I might much more easily work on the delicate 
 ' nerves of a woman, shrinking from all noise and 
 scandal, than he could on the stubborn pride of 
 I his resolute father-in-law. Perhaps it was on 
 I account of Sopihy — perhaps to plead for her — 
 ! that Lady Montfort had gone to Fawley ; per- 
 ' haps the grief visible on that lady's countenance, 
 ! as he caught so hasty a glimpse of it, might be 
 : occasioned by the failure of her mission. If so, 
 , there might be now some breach or dissension 
 . between her and Darrell, which might render 
 , the Marchioness still more accessible to his de- 
 mands. As for his father — if Jasper played his 
 i cards well and luckily, his father might never 
 ': know of his disobedience ; he might coax or 
 j frighten Lady Montfort into secrecy. It might 
 be quite unnecessary for him even to see Sophy ; 
 1 if she caught sight of him, she would surely no 
 more recognize his altered features than Eugge 
 had done. These thoughts gathered on him 
 stronger and stronger all the evening, and grew 
 into resolves with the next morning. He sallied 
 : out after breakfast — the same numbness ; but 
 he walked it off. Easy enough to find the ad- 
 dress of the ilarchioness of ]Montfort. He asked 
 it boldly of the porter at the well-known house 
 of the present Lord, and, on learning it, pro- 
 ceeded at once to Eichmond — on foot, and 
 thence to the small, scattered hamlet immedi- 
 ately contiguous to Lady !Montfort's villa. Here 
 he found two or three idle boatmen lounging near 
 the river side ; and entering into conversation 
 with them about their craft, which was sufficient- 
 ly familiar to him, for he had plied the stron- 
 gest oar on that tide in the holidays of his youth, 
 he proceeded to inquiries, which were readily 
 and unsuspectingly answered. " Yes, there teas 
 a young lady withLady Jlontfort ; they did not 
 know her name. They had seen her often in 
 the lawn — seen her, too, at church. She was 
 very pretty ; yes, she had blue eyes and fair hair." 
 Of his father he only heard that " there hadbeen 
 an old gentleman such as he described — lame, 
 
270 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 and with one eye — who had lived some months 
 ago in a cottage on Lady Montfort's grounds. 
 They heard he had gone away. He had made 
 baskets — they did not know if for sale ; if so, 
 perhaps for a charity. They supposed he was 
 a gentleman, for they had heard he was some 
 relation to the young lady. But Lady ^Montfort's 
 head coachman lived in the village, and could, 
 no doubt, give him all the information he re- 
 quired." Jas])er was too wary to call on the 
 coachman ; he had learned enough for the pres- 
 ent. Had he pi-osecuted his researches farther, 
 he miglit only have exposed himself to questions, 
 and to the chance of his inquiries being repeated 
 to Lady Jlontfort by one of her servants, and 
 thus setting her on her guard ; for no doubt his 
 father had cautioned her against him. It never 
 occurred to him that the old man could already 
 have returned ; and those to whom he confined 
 his interrogatories were quite ignorant of that 
 fact. Jasper had no intention to intrude him- 
 self that day on Lady Montfort. His self-love 
 shrank from presenting himself to a lady of such 
 rank, and to whom he had been once presented 
 on equal terms, a.s the bridegroom of her friend 
 and the confidential visitor to her mother, in 
 habiliments that bespoke so utter a fall. Better, 
 too, on all accounts, to appear something of a 
 gentleman ; more likely to excite pity for suffer- 
 ing — less likely to suggest excuse for rebutting 
 his claims, and showing him to the door. Nay, 
 indeed, so dressed, in that villainous pea-jacket, 
 and with all other habiliments to match, would 
 any servant admit him? — could he get into Lady 
 Montfort's presence? He must go back — wait 
 for Mrs. Crane's return. Doubtless she would 
 hail his wish — half a reform in itself — to cast 
 
 off the outward signs of an accepted degrada- 
 tion. 
 
 Accordingly he went back to town in much 
 better spirits, and so absorbed in his hopes, that, 
 when he arrived at Podden Place, he did not 
 observe that, from some obliquity of vision, or 
 want of the normal con-espondence between will 
 and muscle, his hand twice missed the knocker 
 — wandering first above, then below it ; and 
 that, when actually in his clasp, he did not feel 
 the solid iron : the sense of touch seemed sus- 
 pended. Bridgett appeared. "Mistress is come 
 back, and will see you." 
 
 Jasper did not look charmed ; he winced, but 
 screwed up his courage, and mounted the stairs 
 — slowly — heavily. From the landing-place 
 above glared down the dark shining-eyes that 
 had almost quailed his bold spirit nearly six 
 years before ; and almost in the same words as 
 then, a voice as exulting, but less stern, said, 
 " So you come at last to me, Jasper Losely — 
 you are come!" Eapidly — flittingly, with a 
 step noiseless as a spectre's, Arabella Crane de- 
 scended the stairs ; but she did not, as when he 
 first sought that house in years before, grasp his 
 hand or gaze into his face. Rather, it was with 
 a slirinking avoidance of his touch — with some- 
 thing like a shudder — that she glided by him 
 into the open drawing-room, beckoning to him 
 to follow. He halted a moment ; he felt a long- 
 ing to retreat — to fly the house ; his supersti- 
 tious awe of her very benefits came back to him 
 more strongly than ever. But her help at the mo- 
 ment was necessary to his very hope to escape 
 all future need of her, and, tliough with a vague 
 foreboding of unconjecturable evil, he stepped 
 into the room, and the door closed on both. 
 
 BOOK XI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " The course of true love never does run smooth !" May 
 it not be because where there are no obstacles, there 
 are no tests to tlie truth of Love? Where the course 
 is smooth, the stream is crowded with pleasure-boats. 
 AVhere the wave swells, and the shoals threaten, and 
 the sky lowers, the pleasure-boats have gone back into 
 harbor. Ships titled for rough weather are those built 
 and stored for long voyage. 
 
 I PASS over the joyous meeting between Waife 
 and Sophy. I pass over George's account to his 
 fair cousin of the scene he and Hartopp had 
 witnessed, in which Waife's innocence had been 
 manifested, and his reasons for accepting the 
 penalties of guilt had been explained. The 
 first few agitated days following Waife's return 
 have rolled away. He is resettled in the cot- 
 tage from which he had fled ; he refuses, as be- 
 fore, to take up his abode at Lady Montfort's 
 house. But Sophy has been almost constantly 
 his companion, and Lady Montfort herself has 
 spent hours with him each day — sometimes in 
 his rustic parlor, sometimes in the small gar- 
 den-plot round his cottage, to which his ram- 
 bles are confined. George has gone back to his 
 
 home and duties at Humberston, promising very 
 soon to revisit his old friend and discuss future 
 plans. 
 
 The scholar, though with a sharp pang, con- 
 ceding to Waife that all attempt publicly to 
 clear his good name at the cost of reversing the 
 sacrifice he had made, must be forborne, could 
 not, however, be induced to pledge himself to 
 unconditional silence. George felt that there 
 were at least some others to whom the knowl- 
 edge of Waife's innocence was imperatively 
 due. 
 
 Waife is seated by his open window. It is 
 noon ; there is sunshine in the pale blue skies 
 — an unusual softness in the wintry air. His 
 Bible lies on the table beside him. He has just 
 set his mark in the page, and reverently closed 
 the Book. He is alone. Lady Montfort — who, 
 since her return from Fawley, has been suffer- 
 ing from a kind of hectic fever, accompanied by 
 a languor that made even the walk to Waife's 
 cottage a fatigue, which the sweetness of her 
 kindly nature enabled her to overcome, and 
 would not permit her to confess — has been so 
 much worse that morning as to be unable to 
 
WHAT WELL HE DO WITH IT ? ' 
 
 271 
 
 leave ber room. Sophy has gone to see her. 
 Waife is now leaning his face upon his hand, 
 and that face is sadder and more disquieted 
 than it had been, perhaps, in all his wanderings. 
 His darling Sophy is evidently unhappy. Her 
 sorrow bad not been visible during the first two 
 or three days of his return, chased away by the 
 jov of seeing him — the excitement of tender i-e- 
 proach and question — of tears that seemed as 
 joyous as the silvery laugh which responded to 
 the gayety that sported round the depth of feel- 
 ing with which he himself beheld her once 
 more clinging to his side, or seated, with up- 
 ward loving eyes, on the footstool by his knees. 
 Even at the "first look, however, he had found 
 her altered ; her cheek was thinner, her color 
 paled. Tbat might be from fretting for him. 
 She would be herself again, now that her ten- 
 der anxiety was relieved. But she did not be- 
 come hei-self again. The arch and playful 
 Sophy he had left was gone, as if never to re- 
 turn. He marked that her step, once so bound- 
 ing, had become slow and spiritless. Often 
 when she sate near him, seemingly reading or 
 at her work, he noticed that her eyes were not 
 on the page — that the work stopped abruptly in 
 listless hands ; and then he would hear her sigh 
 — a heavy but short impatient sigh ! Xo mis- 
 taking that sigh by those who have studied 
 grief: Whether in maid or man, in young or 
 old, in the gentle Sophy, so new to life, oivin 
 the haughty Dan-ell, weaiy of the world, and 
 shrinking from its honors, that sigh had the 
 same character, a like symptom of a malady in 
 common : the same effort to free the heart from 
 an oppressive load ; the same token of a sharp 
 and rankling remembrance lodged deep in that 
 finest nerve-work of being, which no anodyne 
 can reach — a pain that comes without apparent 
 cause, and is sought to be expelled without con- 
 scious effort. 
 
 The old man feared at first that she might, 
 by some means or other, in his absence, have 
 become apprised of the brand on his own name, 
 the verdict that had blackened his repute, the 
 sentence that had hurled him from his native 
 sphere ; or that, as her reason had insensibly 
 matured, she, hei-self, reflecting on all the mys- 
 tery that surrounded him — his incognitos, his 
 hidings, the incongruity between his social grade 
 and his education or bearing, and his repeated 
 acknowledgments that there were charges against 
 him which compelled him to concealment, and 
 from which he could not be cleared on earth ; 
 that she, reflecting on all these evidences to his 
 disfavor, had either secretly admitted into her 
 breast a conviction of his guilt, or that* as she 
 grew up to woman, she had felt, through him, 
 the disgrace entailed upon herself. Orif such 
 were not the cause of her sadness, had she 
 learned more of her father's evil courses ; had 
 any emissary of Jasper's worked upon her sensi- 
 bilities or her fears? No, that could not be the 
 case, since whatever the grounds upon which 
 Jasper had conjectured that Sophy was with 
 Lady Montfort, the accuracy of his conjectures 
 had evidently been doubted by Jasper himself; 
 or why so earnestly have questioned Waife ? 
 Had she learned that she was the grandchild 
 and natural heiress of a man wealthy and re- 
 no^^Tied — a chief among the chiefs of England 
 — who rejected her with disdain? Was she 
 
 pining for true position ? or mortified by the 
 contempt of a kinsman, whose rank so contrasted 
 the vagrancy of the grandsire by whom alone 
 she was acknowledged ? 
 
 Tormented by these doubts, he was unable to 
 solve them by such guarded and delicate ques- 
 tions as he addressed to Sophy herself. For 
 she, when he falteringly asked what ailed his 
 darhng, would start, brighten up for the mo- 
 ment, answer — "Nothing, now that he had 
 come back ;" kiss his forehead, play with Sir 
 Isaac, and then manage furtively to glide away. 
 
 But the day before that in which we now see 
 him alone, he had asked her abruptly, " if, dur- 
 ing his absence, any one besides George Morley 
 had visited at Lady Montfort's — any one whom 
 she had seen?' And Sophy's cheek had as 
 suddenly become crimson, then deadly pale ; 
 and first she said '"No," and then "Yes;" and 
 after a pause, looking away from him, she added 
 — " The young gentleman who — who helped us 
 to buy Sir Isaac, he has visited Lady Montfort 
 — related to some dear friend of hers." 
 
 "What, the painter?" 
 
 "No — the other, with the dark eyes." 
 
 " Haughton !" said Waife, with an expression 
 of great pain in his face. 
 
 " Yes — ^Ir. Haughton ; but he has not been 
 here a long, long time. He will not come again, 
 I believe." 
 
 Her voice quivered, despite herself, at the 
 last words, and she began to bustle about the 
 room — filled Waife's pipe, thrust it into his 
 hands with a laugh, the false mirth of which 
 went to his very heart, and then stejiped from 
 the open window into the little garden, and be- 
 gan to sing one of Waife's favorite simple old 
 Border songs ; but before she got through the 
 first line the song ceased, and she was as lost 
 to sight as a ring-dove, whose note comes and 
 goes so quickly among the impenetrable coverts. 
 
 But Waife had heard enough to justify pro- 
 found alarm for Sophy's peace of mind, and to 
 waken in his own heart some of its most painful 
 associations. The reader, who knows the wrong 
 inflicted on William Losely by Lionel Haugh- 
 ton's father — a wrong which had led to all poor 
 Willy's subsequent misfortunes — may conceive 
 that the very name of Haughton was wounding 
 to his ear; and when, in his brief, sole, and 
 bitter interview with Darrell, the latter had 
 dropped out that Lionel Haughton, however dis- 
 tant of kin, would be a more grateful heir than 
 the grandchild of a convicted felon — if Willy's 
 sweet nature cou/d have admitted a momentary 
 hate — it would have been for the thus vaunted 
 son of the man who had stripped him of the 
 modest all which would perhaps have saved his 
 own child from the robber's guilt, and himself 
 from the robber's doom. Long since, therefore, 
 the reader will have comprehended why, when 
 Waife came to meet Sophy at the river-side, and 
 learned at the inn on its margin that the name 
 of her younger companion was Lionel Haughton 
 — why, I say, he had so morosely parted from 
 the boy, and so imperiously bade Sophy to dis- 
 miss all thought of meeting " the pretty young 
 gentleman" again. 
 
 And now again this very Lionel Haughton to 
 have stolen into the retreat in which poor Waife 
 had deemed he left his treasure so secure ! Was 
 it for this he had fled from her ? Did he retmTi 
 
272 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 to find her youth blighted, her affections robbed 
 from him, by the son of Charles Haughton ? The 
 father had despoiled his manhood of independ- 
 ence ; must it be the son who despoiled his age 
 of its only solace ? Grant even that Lionel was 
 worthy of Sophy — grant that she had been loy- 
 ally wooed — must not that attachment be fruit- 
 less — be fatal ? If Lionel were really now adopt- 
 ed by Darrell, Waife knew human nature too 
 well to believe that Darrell would complacently 
 hear Lionel ask a wife in her whose claim to 
 his lineage had so galled and incensed liim. It 
 was wliile plunged in these torturing reflections 
 that Lady Montfort (not many minutes after 
 Sophy's song had ceased and her form vanish- 
 ed) had come to visit him, and he at once ac- 
 costed her with agitated inquiries — "When had 
 Mr. Haughton first presented himself? — how 
 often had he seen iSophy ? — what had passed 
 between them? — did not Lady Montfort see that 
 his darling's heart was breaking?" 
 
 But he stopped as suddenly as he had rushed 
 into this thorny maze of questions ; for, looking 
 imploringly into Caroline Montfort's face, he 
 saw there more settled signs of a breaking heart 
 than Sophy had yet betrayed, despite her pale- 
 ness and her sighs. Sad, indeed, the change in 
 her countenance since he had left the place 
 months ago, though Waife, absorbed in Sophy, 
 had not much remarked it till now, when seek- 
 ing to read therein secrets that concerned his 
 darling's welfare. Lady Montfort's beauty was 
 so perfect in that rare harmony of feature which 
 poets, before Byron, have compared to music, 
 that sorrow could no more mar the effect of 
 that beauty on the eye than pathos can mar the 
 effect of the music that admits it on the ear. 
 But the change in her face seemed that of a 
 sorrow which has lost all earthly hope. Waife 
 therefore checked questions that took the tone 
 of reproaches, and involuntarily murmured, 
 "Pardon." 
 
 Then Caroline Montfort told him all the ten- 
 der projects she had conceived for his grand- 
 child's ha])piness — how, finding Lionel so dis- 
 interested and noble, she had imagined she saw 
 in him the providential agent to place Sophy in 
 the position to which Waife had desired to raise 
 her; Lionel to share with her the heritage of 
 which he might otherwise despoil her — both to 
 become the united source of joy and of pride to 
 the childless man who now favored the one to 
 exclude the other. Nor in these schemes had 
 the absent wanderer been forgotten. No ; could 
 Sophy's virtues once be recognized by Darrell, 
 and her alleged birth acknowledged by him — 
 could the guardian who, in fostering those vir- 
 tues to bloom by Darrell's hearth, had laid un- 
 der the deepest obligations one who, if unfor- 
 giving to treachery, was grateful for the hum- 
 blest service — could that guardian justify the 
 belief in his innocence which George Morley 
 had ever entertained, and, as it now proved, 
 with reason — then where on all earth a man 
 like Guy Darrell to vindicate William Losely's 
 attainted honor, or from whom William Losely 
 might accept cherishing friendshij) and inde- 
 pendent ease, with so indisputable a right to 
 both ! Such had been the picture that tlie fond 
 and sanguine imagination of Caroline Montfort 
 had drawn from generous hope, and colored 
 with tender fancies. But alas for such castles 
 
 in the air ! All had failed. She had only her- 
 self to blame. Instead of securing Sophy's wel- 
 fare she had endangered Sophy's happiness. 
 They whom she had desired to unite were ir- 
 revocably separated. Bitterly she accused her- 
 self — her error in relying so much on Lionel's 
 influence with Darrell — on her owm early re- 
 membrance of Darrell's affectionate nature, and 
 singular sympathies with the young — and thus 
 suffering Lionel and Sophy to grow familiar 
 with each other's winning characters, and carry 
 on childlike romance into maturer sentiment. 
 She spoke, though briefly, of her visit to Dar- 
 rell, and its ill success — of the few letters that 
 had passed since then between herself and 
 Lionel, in which it was settled that he should 
 seek no parting interview with Sophy ._ He had 
 declared to Sophy no formal suit — they had ex- 
 changed no lovers' vows. It would be, there- 
 fore, but a dishonorable cruelty to her to say, 
 " I come to tell you that I love you, and that 
 we must part forever." And how avow the 
 reason — that reason that would humble her to 
 the dust ? Lionel was forbidden to wed with 
 one whom Jasper Losely called daughter, and 
 whom the guardian she so venerated believed 
 to be his grandchild. All of comfort that Lady 
 Montfort could suggest was, that Sophy was so 
 young that she would conquer what might be 
 but a girl's romantic sentiment — or, if a more 
 serious attachment, one that no troth had ce- 
 mented — for a person she might not see again 
 for years ; Lionel was negotiating exchange 
 into a regiment on active service. " Mean- 
 while," said Lady Montfort, "I shall never wed 
 again. I shall make it known that I look on 
 your Sophy as the child of my adoption. If I 
 do not live to save sufiicient for her out of an 
 income that is more than thrice what I require, 
 I have instructed my lawyers to insure my life 
 for her provision ; it will be ample. Many a 
 wooer, captivating as Lionel, and free from the 
 scruples that fetter his choice, will be proud to 
 kneel at the feet of one so lovely. This rank 
 of mine, which has never yet bestowed on me a 
 joy, now becomes of value, since it will give 
 dignity to — to Matilda's child, and — and to — " 
 
 Lady Montfort sobbed. 
 
 Waife listened respectfully, and for the time 
 was comforted. Certainly, in his own heart he 
 v.as glad that Lionel Haughton was permanently 
 separated from Sophy. There was scarcely a 
 man on earth, of fair station and repute, to whom 
 he would have surrendered Sophy with so keen 
 a pang as to Charles Haughton's son. 
 
 The poor young lovers 1 all the stars seemed 
 against them ! Was it not enough th^it Guy 
 Darrell should be so obdurate? must the mild 
 William Losely be also a malefic in their horo- 
 scope ? 
 
 But when, that same evening, the old man 
 more observantly than ever watched his grand- 
 child, his comfort vanished — misgivings came 
 over him — he felt assured that the fatal shaft 
 had been broken in the wound, and that the 
 heart was bleeding inly. 
 
 True ; not without prophetic insight had Ara- 
 bella Crane said to the pining, but resolute, 
 quiet child, behind the scenes of Mr. Rugge's 
 show, " How much you will love one day !" All 
 that night Waife lay awake, pondering — revolv- 
 ing — exhausting that wondrous fertility of re- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 273 
 
 source which teemed in liis inventive brain. In 
 vain ! 
 
 And now — (the day after this conversation 
 with Lady ISIontfort, whose illness grieves, but 
 does not surprise him) — now, as he sits and 
 thinks, and gazes abstractedly into that far, pale, 
 winter sky — now, the old man is still scheming 
 how to reconcile a human loving heart to the 
 eternal loss of that atfection which has so many 
 perisliable counterfeits, but which, when true in 
 all its elements — complete in all its varied 
 Mcalth of feeling — is never to be forgotten, and 
 never to be replaced. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 An offering to the Manes. 
 Three sides of Waife's cottage weie within 
 Ladj- Montfort's grounds ; the fourth side, with 
 its more public entrance, bordered the lane. 
 Now, as he thus sate, he was startled by a low 
 timid ring at the door which opened on the 
 lane. Who could it be ? — not Jasper ! He be- 
 gan to tremble. The ring was repeated. One 
 woman-servant composed all his establishment. 
 He heard her opening the door — heard a low 
 voice ; it seemed a soft, fresh young voice. His 
 room-door opened, and the woman, who, of 
 course, knew the visitor by sight and name, hav- 
 ing often remarked him on the grounds with 
 Lady Montfort and Sophy, said, in a cheerful 
 tone, as if bringing good news, "Mr. Lionel 
 Haughton." 
 
 Scarcely was the door closed — scarcely tlie 
 young man in the room, before, with all his de- 
 lightful, passionate frankness, Lionel had clasjjed 
 Waife's reluctant hand in both his own, and, 
 with tears in his eyes, and choking in his voice, 
 was pouring forth sentences so loosely knit to- 
 gether, that they seemed almost incoherent ; — 
 now a burst of congratulation — now a falter of 
 condolence — now words that seemed to suppli- 
 cate as for pardon to an offense of his own — 
 rapid transitions from enthusiasm to pity — from 
 joy to grief — variable, with the stormy April of 
 a young, fresh, hearty nature. 
 
 Taken so wholly by surprise, Waife, in vain 
 attempting to appear cold and distant, and only 
 very vaguely comprehending what the unwel- 
 come visitor so confusedly expressed, at last 
 found voice to interrupt the jet and gush of 
 Lionel's impetuous emotions, and said as dryly 
 as he could, "I am really at a loss to conceive 
 the cause of what appears to be meant as con- 
 gi'atulations to me and reproaches to yourself, 
 I^Ir. — ^Ir. Hauglit — "; his lips could not com- 
 plete the distasteful name. 
 
 " My name shocks you--no wonder," said 
 Lionel, deeply mortified, and bowing down his 
 head as he gently dropped the old man's hand. 
 "Reproaches to myself 1 — Ah, Sir, lam here as 
 Charles Haughton's son !" 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Waife, "you know? 
 How could you know that Charles Haughton — " 
 Lionel (interrupting). "I know! His own 
 lips confessed his shame to have so injured you." 
 Waife. " Confessed to whom?" 
 Lionel. "To Alban Morley. Believe me, 
 my father's remorse was bitter; it dies not in 
 his grave, it lives in me. I have so longed to 
 meet with William Losely." 
 S 
 
 Waife seated himself in silence, shading his 
 face with one hand, while with the other he 
 made a slight gesture, as if to discourage or re- 
 buke farther allusion to ancient wrong. Lionel, 
 in quick accents, but more connected meaning, 
 went on — 
 
 " I have just eome from Mr. Dan-ell, where I 
 and Colonel 3Iorley (here Lionel's countenance 
 was darkly troubled) have been staying some 
 days. Two days ago I received this letter from 
 George Morley, fonvarded to me from London. 
 It says — let me read it — 'You will rejoice to 
 learn that our dear Waife' — pardon that name." 
 
 "I Iiave no other — go on." 
 
 "Is once more with his grandchild." (Here 
 Lionel sighed heavily — sigh like Sophy's.) ' ' You 
 will rejoice yet more to learn that it has pleased 
 Heaven to allow me and another witness, who, 
 some years ago, had been misled into condemn- 
 ing Waife, to be enabled to bear incontroverti- 
 ble testimony to the complete innocence of my 
 beloved friend; nay, more — I say to you most 
 solemnly, that in all which appeared to attest 
 guilt there has been a virtue, which, if known 
 to Mr. Darrell, would make him bow in rever- 
 ence to that old man. Tell Mr. Darrell so from 
 me; and add, that in saying it, I expressed my 
 conviction of his own admiring sympathy for all 
 that is noble and heroic." 
 
 "Too much — this is too, too much," stam 
 mered out Waife, restlessly turning away ; " but 
 — but, you are folding up the letter. That is 
 all ? — he does not say more ? — he does not men- 
 tion any one else? — eh — eh?" 
 
 "No", Sir; that is all." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! He is an honorable man! 
 Yet he has said more than he ought — much 
 more than lie can jirove, or than I — " He broke 
 off, and abruptly asked, " How did jNIr. Darrell 
 take these assertions? With an incredulous 
 laugh — eh ? — ' Why, the old rogue had pleaded 
 guilty !' " 
 
 " Sir, Alban ]\Iorley was there to speak of 
 the William Losely whom he had known ; to 
 explain, from facts which he had collected at 
 the time, of what natm-e was the evidence not 
 brought forward. The motive that induced you 
 to plead guilty I had long guessed ; it flashed 
 in an instant on Guy Darrell ; it was not mere 
 guess with him ! You ask me what he said ? 
 This : ' Grand nature ! George is rights and I 
 do bow my head in reverence !' " 
 
 " He said that ? — Guy Darrell ? On your hon- 
 or, he said that ?" 
 
 " Can you doubt it ? Is he not a gentleman ?" 
 
 Waife was fairly overcome. 
 
 "But, Sir," resumed Lionel, "I must not con- 
 ceal from you, that, though George's letter and 
 Alban ]Morley's communications suiBced to sat- 
 isfy Darrell, without farther question, your old 
 friend was naturally anxious to learn a more 
 full account, in the hope of legally substantia- 
 ting your innocence. He therefore dispatched 
 by the telegraph ai-equest to his nephew to come 
 at once to Fawley. George arrived there yes- 
 terday. Do not blame him. Sir, that we share 
 his secret." 
 
 " You do ? Good Heavens ! And that law- 
 yer will be barbarous enough too ; but no — he 
 has an interest in not accusing of midnight rob- 
 bery his daughter's husband; Jasper's secret is 
 safe with him. And Colonel Morley — surely 
 
274 
 
 WHAT AVILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 his cruel nephew will not suffer him to make 
 me — me, with one foot in the grave — a witness 
 against my Lizzy's son!" 
 
 "Colonel Morley, at Darrell's suggestion, 
 came with me to London ; and if he does not 
 accompany me to you, it is because he is even 
 now busied in finding out your son, not to undo, 
 but to complete, the purpose of youi' self-sacri- 
 fice. ' All other considerations,' said Guy Dar- 
 rell, ' must be merged in this one thought — that 
 such a father shall not have been in vain a mar- 
 tyr.' Colonel Morley is empowered to treat 
 with your son on any terms; but on this condi- 
 tion, that the rest of his life shall inflict no far- 
 ther pain, no farther fear on you. This is the 
 sole use to which, without your consent, we have 
 presumed to put the secret we have learned. 
 Do you pardon George now ?" 
 
 Waife's lips murmured inaudibly, but his face 
 grew very bright; and as it was i-aised upward, 
 Lionel's ear caught the whisper of a name — it 
 was not Jasper, it was "Lizzy." 
 
 " Ah I why," said Lionel, sadly, and after a 
 short pause, '• why was I not permitted to be the 
 one to attest your innocence — to clear your 
 name? I, who owed to you so vast an hered- 
 itarv debt I And now — dear, dear Mr. Lose- 
 
 " Hush ! Waife I — call me Waife still I — and 
 always." 
 
 • ' Willingly ! It is the name by which I have 
 accustomed myself to love you. Now, listen to 
 me. I am dishonored until at least the mere 
 pecuniary debt, due to you from my father, is 
 paid. Hist I hist I — Alban Morley says so — 
 Darrell says so. Darrell says ' he can not own 
 me as kinsman till that debt is canceled.' Dar- 
 rell lends me the means to do it ; he would 
 share his kinsman's ignominy if he did not. Be- 
 fore I could venture even to come hither, the 
 sum due to you from my father was repaid. I 
 hastened to town yesterday evening — saw Mr. 
 Darrell's lawyer. I have taken a great liberty 
 — I have invested this sum already in the pur- 
 chase of an annuity for yon. Mr. Darrell's law- 
 yer had a client who was in immediate want of 
 the sum due to you ; and, not wishing perma- 
 nently to burden his estate by mortgage, would 
 give a larger interest by way of annuity than 
 the public oSices would ; excellent landed se- 
 curity. . The lawyer said it would be a pity to 
 let the opportunity slip, so I ventured to act for 
 you. It was all settled this morning. The par- 
 ticulars are on this paper, Avhich I will leave mth 
 you. Of course the sum due to you is not ex- 
 actly the same as that which my father borrowed 
 before I was born. There is the interest — com- 
 pound interest ; nothing more. I don't under- 
 stand such matters ; Darrell's lawyer made the 
 calculation — it must be right." 
 
 Waife had taken the paper, glanced at its con- 
 tents, dropped it in confusion, amaze. Those 
 hundreds lent swelled into all those thousands 
 returned! And all methodically computed — 
 tersely — arithmetically — down to fractions. So 
 that every farthing seemed, and indeed was, his 
 lawful due. And that sum invested in an an- 
 nuity of £500 a year! — income which, to poor 
 Gentleman Waife, seemed a prince's revenue ! 
 
 "It is quite a business-like computation, I tell 
 you, Sir; all done by a lawyer. It is indeed," 
 cried Lionel, dismayed at Waife's look and ges- 
 
 ture. '■ Compound interest icill run up to what 
 seems a large amount at first ; every child knows 
 that. You can't deny Cocker and calculating 
 tables, and that sort of thing. William Losely, 
 you can not leave an eternal load of disgrace on 
 the head of Charles Haughton's son." 
 
 " Poor Charlie Haughton," murmured Waife. 
 " And I was feeling bitter against his memory 
 — bitter against his son. How Heaven loves to 
 teach us the injustice that dwells in anger ! But 
 — but — this can not be. I thank Mr. Darrell 
 humbly — I can not take his money." 
 
 "It is not his mone}' — it is mine; he only 
 advances it to me. It costs him really nothing, 
 for he deducts the £500 a year from the allow- 
 ance he makes me. And I don't want such an 
 absurd allowancfe as I had before going out of 
 the Guards into the line — I mean to be a sol- 
 dier in good earnest. Too much pocket-money 
 spoils a soldier — only gets one into scrapes. 
 Alban Morley says the same. Darrell, too, 
 says 'Right, no gold could buy a luxury like 
 the payment of a father's debt!' You can not 
 grudge me that luxury — you dare not ! — why ? 
 because you are an honest man." 
 
 "Softly, softly, softly," said Waife. "Let 
 me look at you. Don't talk of money now — 
 don't let us think of money ! What a" look of 
 your father! 'Tis he, 'tis he, whom I see be- 
 fore me! Charlie's sweet bright playful eyes — 
 that might have turned aside from the path of 
 duty — a sheriff's officer ! Ah! and Charlie's 
 happy laugh, too, at the slightest joke ! But 
 this is not Charlie's — it is all your own (touching, 
 with gentle finger, Lionel's broad truthful brow). 
 Poor Charlie, he was grieved — you are right — ^I 
 remember." 
 
 " Sir," said Lionel, who was now on one knee 
 by Waife's chair — " Sir, I have never yet asked 
 man for his blessing — not even Guy Darrell. 
 Will you put your hand on my head ; and oh! 
 that in the mystic world beyond us. some angel 
 may tell Charles Haughton "that William Losely 
 has blessed his son I" 
 
 Solemnly, but with profound humility — one 
 hand on the Bible beside him, one on the young 
 soldier's bended head— William Losely blessed 
 Charles Haughton's son — and, having done so, 
 involuntarily his arms opened, and blessing was 
 followed by embrace. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 Xothing so obstinate as a young man's hope ; nothing so 
 eloquent as a lover's tongue. 
 
 Hitherto there had been no reference to 
 Sophy. Not Sophy's lover, but Charles Haugh- 
 ton's son had knelt to Waife and received the 
 old man's blessing. But Waife could not be 
 long forgetful of his darling — nor his anxiety on 
 her account. The expression in his varying 
 face changed suddenly. Not half an hour be- 
 fore, Lionel Haughton was the last man in the 
 world to whom willingly he would have consigned 
 his grandchild. Now, of all men in the world 
 Lionel Haughton would have been his choice. 
 He sighed heavily ; he comprehended, by his 
 own changed feelings, how tender and profound 
 an affection Lionel Haughton might inspire in 
 a heart so fresh as Sophy's, and so tenacious of 
 the impressions it received. But they were sep- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 275 
 
 arated forever ; she ought not even again to see 
 him. Uneasily Waife glanced toward the open 
 window — rose involuntarily, closed it, and drew 
 down the blind. 
 
 '• You must go now, roung gentleman," said 
 he, almost churlishly. 
 
 The quick lover's sense in Lionel divined why 
 the blind was drawn, and the dismissal so ab- 
 ruptly given. 
 
 "Give me your address," said Waife ; " I will 
 write about — that paper. Don't now stay lon- 
 ger — pray — pray." 
 
 " Do not fear'. Sir. I am not lingering here 
 with the wish to see — her /" 
 Waife looked down. 
 
 '• Before I asked the servant to announce me, 
 I took the precaution to learn that you were 
 alone. But a few words more — hear them pa- 
 tiently. Have you any proof that could satisfy 
 Mr. DaiTcU's reason that your Sophy is his daugh- 
 ter's child?" 
 
 " I have Jasper's assurance that she is ; and 
 the copy of the nurse's attestation to the same 
 effect. They satisfied me. I would not have 
 asked Mr. Darrell to be as easily contented ; I 
 could but have asked him to inquire, and satis- 
 fy himself. Bat he would not even hear me." 
 " He will hear you now, and with respect." 
 " He will I" cried Waife, joyously. "And if 
 he should inquire, and if Sophy should prove to 
 be, as I have ever believed, his daughter's child, 
 would he not own, andreceive, and cherish her?" 
 " Alas ! Sir, do not let me pain you ; but that 
 is not my hope. If, indeed, it should prove that 
 your son deceived you — that Sophy is no way 
 related to him — if she should be the cliild of 
 peasants, but of honest peasants — why, Sir, that 
 is my hope, my last hope — for then I would 
 kneel once more at your feet, and implore your 
 permission to win her affection and ask her 
 hand," 
 
 " What ! Mr. Darrell would consent to yonr 
 union with the child of peasants, and not with 
 his own grandchild ?" 
 
 " Sir, Sir, you rack me to the heart; but if 
 you knew all, you would not wonder to hear me 
 say, ' I dare not ask Mr. Darrell to bless ray 
 union with the daughter of Jasper Losely.'" 
 
 Waife suppressed a groan, and began to pace 
 the room with disordered steps. 
 
 " But," resumed Lionel, " go to Fawley your- 
 self. Seek Darrell ; compare the reasons for 
 your belief with his for rejecting it. At this 
 moment his pride is more subdued than I have 
 ever known it. He will go calmly into the in- 
 vestigation of facts ; the truth will become clear. 
 Sir — dear, dear Sir — I am not without a hope." 
 "A hope that the child I have so cherished 
 should be nothing in the world to mc!" 
 
 '• Nothing to you ! Is memory such a shadow? 
 — is affection such a weathercock? Has the 
 love between you and Sophy been only the in- 
 stinct of kindred blood ? Has it not been hal- 
 lowed by al! that makes A^q and Childhood so 
 pure a blessing to each other, i-ooted in trials 
 borne together? Were you not the first who 
 taught her, in wanderings, in privations, to see 
 a Mother in Nature, and pray to a Father which 
 is in Heaven ? Would all this be blotted out of 
 your souls if she were not the child of that son 
 whom it chills you to remember? Sir, if there 
 be no tie to replace the mere bond of kindred. 
 
 why have you taken such vigilant pains to sep- 
 arate a child from him whom you believe to be 
 her father ?" 
 
 Waife stood motionless and voiceless. This 
 passionate appeal struck him forcibly. 
 
 " And, Sir," added Lionel, in a lower, sadder 
 tone — " can I ask you, whose later life has been 
 one sublime self-sacrifice, whether you would 
 rather that you might call Sophy grandchild, 
 and knov.- her wretched, than know her but as 
 the infant angel whom Heaven sent to your side 
 when bereaved and desolate, and know also that 
 she was happy ? Oh, William Losely, pray with 
 me that Sophy may not be your grandchild. 
 Her home will not be less your home — her at- 
 tachment will not less replace to you your lost 
 son — and on your knee her children may learn 
 to lisp the same prayers that you taught to her. 
 Go to Darrell — go — go I and take me with you !" 
 
 "I will — I will I" exclaimed Waife; and 
 snatching at his hat and staft' — "Come — come! 
 But Sophy should not learn that you have been 
 here — that I have gone away with you ; it might 
 set her thinking, dreaming, hoping — all to end 
 in greater sorrow." He bustled out of the room 
 to caution the old woman, and to write a few 
 hasty lines to Sophy herself — assuring her, on 
 his most solemn honor, that he was not now fly- 
 ing from her to resume his vagrant life — that, 
 without fail, please Heaven, he would return 
 that night or the next day. 
 
 In a few minutes he reopened the room door, 
 beckoning silently to Lionel, and then stole into 
 the quiet lane with quick steps. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Guy Barren's views in tlie invitation to Waife. 
 
 Lionel had but inadequately represented, for 
 he could but imperfectly comprehend, the pro- 
 found impression made upon Guy Darrell by 
 George Morley's disclosures. Himself so capa- 
 ble of self-sacrifice, Darrell was the man above 
 all others to regard with an admiring reverence, 
 which partook of awe, a self-immolation that 
 seemed almost above humanity — to him who 
 set so lofty an estimate on good name and 
 fair repute. He had not only willingly permit- 
 ted, but even urged Lionel to repair to Waife, 
 and persuade the old man to come to Fawley. 
 With Waife he was prepared to enter into the 
 full discussion of Sophy's alleged parentage. 
 But apart even from considerations that touched 
 a cause of perplexity which disquieted himself, 
 Darrell was eager to see and to show homage to 
 the sufferer, in whom he recognized a Ijero's 
 dignity. And if he had sent by Lionel no let- 
 ter from himself to Waife, it was only because, 
 in the exquisite delicacy of feeling that belonged 
 to him when his best emotions were aroused, he 
 felt it just that the whole merit, and the whole 
 delight of reparation to the wrongs of William 
 Losely, should, without direct interposition of 
 his own, be left exclusively to Charles Haugh- 
 ton's son. Thus far it will be acknowledged 
 that Guy Darrell was not one of those men 
 who, once warmed to magnanimous impulse, are 
 cooled by a thrifty prudence when action grows 
 out of the impulse. Guy Darrell could not be 
 generous by drachm and scruple. Not apt to 
 
276 
 
 WHAT AVILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 say, "I apologize" — slow to say, "I repent;" 
 very — very — very slow indeed to say. "I for- 
 give;" yet let him once say, "I repent," "I 
 apologize," or " I forgive," and it was said with 
 his whole heart and soul. 
 
 But it must not be supposed that, in authoriz- 
 ing Lionel to undertake the embassy to Waife, 
 or in the anticipation of what might pass be- 
 tween Waife and himself should the former 
 consent to revisit the old house from which 
 he had been so scornfully driven, Darrell had 
 altered, or dreamed of altering, one iota of his 
 resolves against a union between Lionel and 
 Sophy. True, Lionel had induced him to say, 
 "Could it be indisputably proved that no drop 
 of Jasper Losely's blood were in this girl's veins 
 — that she were the lawful child of honest par- 
 ents, however humble — my right to stand be- 
 tween her and yourself would cease." But a 
 lawyer's experience is less credulous than a 
 lover's hope. And to Darrell's judgment it was 
 wholly improbable that any honest parents, how- 
 ever humble, sliould have yielded their child to 
 a knave like Jasjjer, while it was so probable 
 that his own persuasion was well-founded, and 
 that she was Jasper's daughter, though not Ma- 
 tilda's. 
 
 The winter-evening had closed. George and 
 Darrell were conversing in the library; the 
 theme, of course, was Waife ; and Darrell list- 
 ened with vivid interest to George's graphic ac- 
 counts of the old man's gentle, playful humor 
 — with its vague desultory under-currents of 
 poetic fancy or subtle wisdom. But when 
 George turned to s])eak of Sophy's endearing, 
 lovely nature, and, though cautiously, to inti- 
 mate an appeal on her behalf to Darrell's sense 
 of duty, or susceptibility to kindly emotions, the 
 proud man's brow became knit, and his stately 
 air evinced displeasure. Fortunately, just at a 
 moment when farther words might have led to 
 a permanent coldness between men so disposed 
 to esteem each other, they heard the sound of 
 wheels on the frosty ground — the shrill bell at 
 the porch-door. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The vagabond received in the Manor House at Fawley. 
 
 Very lamely, very feebly, declining Lionel's 
 arm, but leaning heavily on his crutch-stick, 
 Waife crossed the threshold of the Manor House. 
 George sprang fonvard to welcome him. The 
 old man looked on the preacher's face with a 
 kind of wandering uncertainty in his eye, and 
 George saw that his cheek was very much flushed. 
 He limped on through the hall, still leaning on 
 his staff, George and Lionel at either side. A 
 pace or two, and there stood Darrell! Did he, 
 the host, not s})ring forward to offer an arm, to 
 extend a hand! No, such greeting in Darrell 
 would have been but vulgar courtesy. As the 
 old man's eye rested on him, the superb gentle- 
 man bowed low — bowed as we bow to kings ! 
 
 They entered the library. Darrell made a 
 sign to George and Lionel. They understood 
 the sign, and left visitor and host alone. 
 
 Lionel drew George into the quaint old din- 
 ing-hall. "I am verj' uneasy about our dear 
 friend," he said, in agitated accents. " I fear 
 that I have had too little consideration for his 
 
 years and his sensitive nature, and that, what 
 with the excitement of the conversation that 
 passed between us, and the fatigue of the jour- 
 ney, his nerves have broken down. We were 
 not half-way on the road, and as we had the rail- 
 way carriage to ourselves, I was talking to him 
 with imprudent earnestness, when he began to 
 tremble all over, and went into a hysterical 
 paroxysm of mingled tears and laughter. I 
 wished to stop at the next station, but he was 
 not long recovering, and insisted on coming on. 
 Still, as we approached Fawley, after muttering 
 to himself, as far as I could catch his words, in- 
 coherently, he sank into a heavy state of lethargy 
 or stupor, resting his head on my shoulder. It 
 was with difficulty I roused him when he en- 
 tered the park." ~- 
 
 " Poor old man," said George, feelingly ; " no 
 doubt the quick succession of emotions through 
 which he has lately passed has overcome him 
 for the time. But the worst is now past. His 
 interview with Darrell must cheer his heart and 
 soothe his spirits ; and that interview over, we 
 must give him all repose and nursing. But tell 
 me what passed between you — if he was very 
 indignant that I could not suffer men like you 
 and my uncle Alban, and Guy Darrell, to be- 
 lieve him a pick-lock and a thief?" 
 
 Lionel began his narrative, but had not pro- 
 ceeded far in it before Darrell's voice was heard 
 shouting loud and the library bell rang vio- 
 lently. 
 
 They hurried into the library, and Lionel's 
 fears were verified. Waife was in strong con- 
 vulsions ; and as these gradually ceased, and he 
 rested without struggle, half on the floor, half 
 in Darrell's arms, he was evidently unconscious 
 of all around him. His eye was open, but fixed 
 in a glassy stare. The servants thronged into 
 the room ; one was dispatched instantly to sum- 
 mon the nearest medical practitioner. "Help 
 me — George — Lionel," said Darrell, "to bear 
 him up stairs. Mills, light us." When they 
 reached the landing-place. Mills asked, ''Which 
 room, Sir?" 
 
 Darrell hesitated an instant, then his gray 
 eye lit into its dark fire. " ]\Iy father's room — 
 he sliall rest on my father's bed." 
 
 When the surgeon arrived, he declared Waife 
 to be in imminent danger — pressure on the brain. 
 He prescribed prom]]t and vigorous remedies, 
 which had indeed before the surgeon's arrival 
 suggested themselves to, and been partly com- 
 menced by, Darrell, M'ho had gone through too 
 many varieties of experience to be unversed in 
 the rudiments of leeehcraft. "If I were in my 
 guest's state," asked Darrell of the practitioner, 
 "what would you do?" 
 
 "Telegraph instantly for Dr. F ." 
 
 " Lionel — you hear? Take my own horse — 
 he will carry you like the wind. Off to * * * * ; 
 it is the nearest telegraph station." 
 
 Darrell did not stir from Waifc's bedside all 
 
 that anxious night. Dr. F did not arrive 
 
 till morning. He approved of all that had been 
 done, but nevertheless altered the treatment ; 
 and after staying some hours, said to Darrell, 
 " I am compelled f o leave you for the present ; 
 nor could I be of use in staying. I have given 
 all the aid in my power to Nature — we must 
 leave the rest to Nature herself. That fever — 
 those fierce throes and spasms — are but Na- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 ture's efforts to cast off the grasp of the enemy gre«- almost clear to her. Was not ]\rr. Darrell 
 we do not see. It now depends on what decp-ee that relation to her lost mother upon Avhom she 
 of rallying power be left to the patient. For- , had claims not hitherto conceded? Lionel and 
 tunately, his frame is robust, yet not plethoric, j Waife both with that relation now! Surelv the 
 Do you know his habits?" i clouds that had rested on her future were ad- 
 
 "I know," answered George; "most tern- mitting the sun through their opening rents — 
 perate, most innocent." and she blushed as she caught its ray. 
 
 " Then, with constant care, minute attention 
 to my directions, he may recover." 
 
 " If care and attention can save my guest's 
 life he shall not die," said Darrell. 
 
 The physician looked at the speaker's pale 
 face and compressed lips. "But, Mr. Darrell, 
 I must not have you on my hands too. You 
 must not be out of your bed again to-night." 
 
 " Certainly not," said George. " I shall 
 watch alone." 
 
 '• No," cried Lionel, " that is my post, too." 
 
 " I'ooh !" said Darrell; "young men so far 
 from Death are not such watchful sentinels 
 against his stroke as men of my years, who 
 have seen him in all aspects ; and, moreover, 
 base indeed is the host who deserts his own 
 guest's sick-chamber. Fear not for me, doc- 
 tor; no man needs sleep less than I do." 
 
 Dr. F slid his hand on Darrell's pulse. 
 
 "Irregular — quick; but what vitality'! what 
 power 1 — a young man's pulse ! Mr. Darrell, 
 many years for your country's service are yet in 
 these lusty beats." 
 
 Darrell breathed his chronic sigh, and, turn- 
 ing back to Waife's bedside, said, " When will 
 you come again?" 
 
 " The day after to-morrow." 
 
 When the doctor returned "^Yaife was out of 
 immediate danger. Nature, fortified by tiie 
 '• temperate, innocent habits" which husband 
 up her powers, had dislodged, at least for a 
 time, her enemy; but the attack was followed 
 by extreme debility. It was clear that for days, 
 perhaps even weeks to come, the vagrant must 
 remain a prisoner under Darrell's roof-tree. 
 
 Lionel had been too mindful of .Sophy's anx- 
 iety to nezlect writing to Lady Moiitfort the day 
 after Waife's seizure. But he could not find 
 the heart to state the old man's danger; and 
 with the sanguine tendencies of his young na- 
 ture, even when at the worst, he clung to belief I 
 in the liest. He refrained from any separate ! 
 and private communication of Waife's state to I 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Individual concession.? are like political ; when you once 
 begin, there is no saying where you will stop. 
 
 Waife's first words on recovering conscious- 
 ness were given to thoughts of Sophy. He had 
 promised her to return, at farthest, the next 
 day ; she would be so uneasy — he must get up 
 — he must go at once. When he found his 
 strength would not suffer him to rise, he shed 
 tears. It was only very gradually, and at inter- 
 vals, that he became acquainted with the length 
 and severity of his attack, or fully sensible that 
 he was in DaiTell's house; that that form, of 
 which he had retained vague, dreamv reminis- 
 cences, hanging over his pillow, wiping his brow, 
 and soothing him with the sweetest tones of the 
 sweet human voice — that that form, so genial, 
 so brotherlike, was the man who had once com- 
 manded him not to sully with his presence a 
 stainless home. 
 
 All that had passed within the last few days 
 was finally made clear to him in a short, unwit- 
 nessed, touching conversation with his host ; aft- 
 er which, however, he became gradually worse; 
 his mind remaining clear, but extremely deject- 
 ed; his bodily strength evidently sinking. Dr. 
 
 F was again summoned in haste. That 
 
 great physician was, as every great physician 
 should be, a profound philosopher, though with 
 a familiar ease of manner, and a light, off-hand 
 vein of talk, which made the philosophy less 
 sensible to the taste than any other ingredient 
 in his pharmacopaeia. Turning every body else 
 out of the room, he examined his patient alone 
 — sounded the old man's vital organs, with ear 
 and with stethoscope — talked to him now on his 
 feelings, now on the news of the day, and then 
 stepped out to Darrell. 
 
 "Something on the heart, my dear Sir; I 
 
 can't get at it ; perhaps you can. Take oft" that 
 Lady Montfort, lest the sadness it would not I something, and the springs will react, and my 
 fail to occasion her should be perceptible to So- ! patient will soon recover. All about him sound 
 phy, and lead her to divine the cause. So he ! as a rock — but the heart ; that has been horri- 
 contented himself with saying that Waife had I bly worried; something worries it now. His 
 accompanied him to Mr. Darrell's, and would heart may be seen in his eye. Watch his eye ; 
 be detained there, treated with all kindness and | it is missing some face it is accustomed to see." 
 honor, for some days. j Darrell changed color. He stole back into 
 Sophy's mind was relieved by this intelli- Waife's room, and took the old man's hand, 
 gence, but it filled her with wonder and conjee- Waife returned the pressure, and said, "I was 
 ture. That Waife, who had so pertinaciously just praying for you — and — and — I am sinking 
 refused to break bread as a guest under anv ! fast. Do not let me die. Sir, without wishing 
 man's roof-tree, should be for days receiving ' poor Sophy a last good-by I" 
 the hospitality of Lionel Hanghton's wealthy j Darrell passed back to the landing-place, 
 and powerful kinsman, was indeed mysterious, where George and Lionel were standing, while 
 But whatever brought Waife and Lionel thus ' Dr. F was snatching a hasty refreshment in 
 
 in confidential intercourse could not but renew 
 yet more vividly the hopes she had been en- 
 
 the library before his return to town. Darrell 
 laid his hand on Lionel's shoulder. "Lionel, 
 
 deavoring of late to stifle. And combining to- I you must go back to London with Dr. F- 
 
 gether many desultory remembrances of words I I can not keep you here longer. I want your 
 
 escaped unawares from Lionel, from Lady Mont- 
 
 /ort, from Waife himself, the truth (of which her 
 
 native acuteuess had before admitted glimpses) still so ill ! You can not be thus unkind." 
 
 room. 
 
 Sir," said Lionel, aghast, "while Waife is 
 
278 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 "Inconsiderate egotist! would you deprive 
 the old man of a presence dearer to him than 
 yours ? George, you will go too ; but you will 
 return. You told me yesterday that your wife 
 was in London for a few days ; entreat her to 
 accompany j'ou hither ; entreat her to bring 
 with her the poor young lady whom my guest 
 pines to see at his bedside — the face that his eye 
 misses." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Sophy, Darrell, and the Flute-player. Darrell prepares 
 a surprise for Waife. 
 
 Sophy is come. She has crossed that inex- 
 orable threshold. She is a guest in the house 
 which rejects her as a daughter. She has been 
 there some days. Waife revived at the first sight 
 of her tender face. He has left his bed ; can 
 move for some hours a day into an adjoining 
 chamber, which has been hastily arranged for 
 his private sitting-room ; and can walk its floors 
 with a step that grows daily firmer in the delight 
 of leaning on Sophy's arm. 
 
 Since the girls twrival, Dan-ell has relaxed 
 his watch over the patient. He never now 
 enters his guest's apartment without previous 
 notice ; and, by that incommunicable instinct 
 which passes in households between one silent 
 breast and another, as by a law equally strong 
 to attract or repel — here drawing together, there 
 keeping apart — though no rule in either case has 
 been laid down — by virtue, I say, of that strange 
 inteUigence, Sophy is not in the old man's room 
 when Darrell enters. Rarely in the twenty- 
 four hours do the host and the fair young guest 
 encounter. But Darrell is a quick and keen ob- 
 server. He has seen enough of Sophy to be 
 sensible of her charm — to penetrate into her 
 simple, natural loveliness of character — to feel 
 a deep interest in her, and a still deeper pity for 
 Lionel. Secluding himself as much as possible 
 in his private room, or in his leafless woods, his 
 reveries increase in gloom. Nothing unbends 
 his moody brow like Fairthorn's flute or Fair- 
 thorn's familiar converse. 
 
 It has been said before that Fairthorn knew 
 his secrets. Fairthorn had idolized Caroline 
 Lyndsay. Fairthorn was the only being in the 
 world to whom Guy Dan-ell could speak of Car- 
 oline Lyndsay — to whom he could own the un- 
 conquerable but unforgiving love which had twice 
 driven him from the social world. Even to Fair- 
 thorn, of course, all could not be told. Darrell 
 could not speak of the letter he had received at 
 Malta, nor of Caroline's visit to him at Fawley ; 
 for to do so, even to Fairthorn, was like a trea- 
 son to the diijmti) of the Belo\ed. And Guy 
 Darrell miglit rail at her inconstancy — her heart- 
 lessness; but to boast that she had lowered her- 
 self by the profl'ers that were dictated by repent- 
 ance, Guy Darrell could not do that ; — he was a 
 gentleman. Still there was much left to say. 
 He could own that he thought she would now 
 accept his hand ; and when Fairtliorn looked 
 happy at that thought, and hinted at excuses 
 for her former fickleness, it was a great relief 
 to Darrell to fly into a rage ; but if the flute- 
 player meanly turned round and became liim- 
 self Caroline's accuser, then poor Fairthorn was 
 indeed frightened, for Darrell's trembling lip or 
 
 melancholy manner overwhelmed the assailant 
 with self-reproach, and sent him sidelong into 
 one of his hidden coverts. 
 
 But at this moment Fairthorn was a support 
 to him under other trials — Fairthorn, who re- 
 spects as he does, as no one else ever can, the 
 sanctity of the Darrell line — who would shrink 
 like himself from the thought that the daughter 
 of Jasper Losely, and in all probability not a 
 daughter of Matilda Darrell, should ever be mis- 
 tress of that ancestral hall, lowly and obscure 
 and mouldering though it be — and" that the child 
 of a sharper, a thief, a midnight assassin, should 
 carry on the lineage of knights and warriors in 
 whose stainless scutcheons, on many a Gothic 
 tomb or over the portals of ruined castles, was 
 impaled the heraldry of Brides sprung from the 
 loins of Lion Kings ! Darrell, then, doing full 
 justice to all Sophy's beauty and grace, purity 
 and goodness, was more and more tortured by 
 the conviction that she could never be wife to 
 the man on whom, for want of all nearer kin- 
 dred, would devolve the heritage of the Darrell 
 name. 
 
 On the other hand, Sophy's feelings toward 
 her host were almost equally painfui and im- 
 bittered. The tenderness and reverence that he 
 had showed to her beloved grandfather, the af- 
 fecting gratitude with which Waife spoke of him, 
 necessarily deepened her prepossessions in his 
 favor as Lionel's kinsman ; and though she saw 
 him so sparingly, still, when they did meet, she 
 had no right to complain of his manner. It 
 might be distant, taciturn ; but it was gentle, 
 courteous — the manner which might be expect- 
 ed, in a host of secluded habits, to a young guest 
 from whose sympathies he was remo\ed by years, 
 but to whose comforts he was unobtrusively con- 
 siderate — whose wishes were delicately fore- 
 stalled. Yet was this all that her imagination 
 had dared to picture on entering those gi-ay 
 walls ? Where was the evidence of the relation- 
 ship of which she had dreamed ? — where a single 
 sign that she was more in that house than a mere 
 guest? — where, alas! a token that even Lionel 
 had named her to his kinsman, and that for 
 Lionel's sake tliat kinsman bade her welcome? 
 And Lionel too — gone the very day before she 
 arrived ! That she learned incidentally from 
 the servant who showed her into her room. 
 Gone, and not addressed a line to herself, though 
 but to condole with her on her grandfather's ill- 
 ness, or congratulate her that the illness had 
 spared the life ! She felt wounded to the very 
 core. As Waife's progressive restoration al- 
 lowed her tlioughts more to revert to so many 
 causes for pain and perplexity, the mystery of 
 all connected with lier own and AVaife's sojourn 
 under that roof baffled her attempts at conject- 
 ure. The old man did not volunteer exjilana- 
 tions. Timidly she questioned him ; but his 
 nerves yet were so unstrung, and her questions 
 so evidently harassed him, that she only once 
 made that attempt to satist^y her own bewilder- 
 ment, and smiled as if contented when he said, 
 after a long pause, "Patience yet, my child; 
 let me get a little stronger. You see Mr. Darrell 
 will not sulfer me to talk with him on matters 
 that must be discussed with him before I go ; 
 and then — and then — Patience till then, Sophy." 
 Keither George nor his wife gave her any clew 
 to the inquiries that preyed upon her mind, Tlie 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 279 
 
 latter, a kind, excellent woman, meekly devoted 
 to her husband, either was, or affected to be, in 
 ignorance of the causes that had led Waife to 
 Fawley, save very generally that Darrell had 
 once wronged him by an erring judgment, and 
 had hastened to efface that wrong. And then 
 she kissed Sophy fondly, and told her that bright- 
 er days were in store for the old man and her- 
 self. George said, with more authority — the 
 authoi-ity of the priest — "Ask no questions. 
 Time, that solves all riddles, is hurrying on, and 
 Heaven directs its movements." 
 
 Her very heart was shut up, except where it 
 could gush forth — nor even then with full tide 
 — in letters to Lady Montfort. Caroline had 
 heard from George's wife, with intense emotion, 
 that Sojihy was summoned to Darrell's house, 
 the gravity of Waife's illness being considerate- 
 ly suppressed. Lady IMontfort could but sup- 
 pose that Darrell's convictions had been shaken 
 — his resolutions softened ; that he sought an 
 excuse to see Sophy, and judge of her himself. 
 Under this impression, in parting with her young 
 charge, Caroline besought Sophy to write to her 
 constantly, and frankly. Sophy felt an inex- 
 pressible relief in this correspondence. But 
 Lady IMontfort in her replies was not more 
 communicative than ^^^aife or the Morleys, only 
 she seemed more thoughtfully anxious that 
 Sophy should devote herself to the task of pro- 
 pitiating her host's affections. She urged her to 
 trj' and break through his reserve — see more of 
 him ; as if that were possible ! And her letters 
 were moro filled with questions about Darrell 
 than even with admonitions and soothings to 
 Sophy. The letters that arrived at Fawley 
 were brought in a bag, which Darrell opened ; 
 but Sophy noticed that it was with a peculiar 
 compression of lip, and a marked change of col- 
 or, that he had noticed the handwriting on Lady 
 Montfort's first letter to her, and that after that 
 first time her letters were not inclosed in the 
 bag, but came apart, and were never again given 
 to her by her host. 
 
 Thus passed days in which Sophy's time was 
 spent chiefly in Waife's sick-room. But now 
 he is regaining strength hourly. To his sitting- 
 room comes George frequently to relieve Sophy's 
 watch. There, once a day, comes Guy Darrell, 
 and what then passed between the two men 
 none witnessed. In these hours Waife insisted 
 upon Sophy's going forth for air and exercise. 
 She is glad to steal out alone — steal down by 
 the banks of the calm lake, or into the gloom 
 of the mournful woods. Here she not unfre- 
 quently encounters Fairthorn, who, having tak- 
 en more than ever to the flute, is driven more 
 than ever to outdoor rambles ; for he has been 
 cautioned not to indulge in his melodious re- 
 source within doors lest he disturb the patient, 
 
 Fairthorn and Sophy thus made acquaintance, 
 distant and shy at first on both sides ; but it 
 gradually became more frank and cordial. Fair- 
 thorn had an object not altogether friendly in 
 encouraging this intimacy. He thought, poor 
 man, that he should be enabled to extract from 
 Sophy some revelations of her early life, which 
 would elucidate, not in favor of her asserted 
 claims, tiie mystery that hung upon her parent- 
 age. But had Dick Fairthorn been the astutest 
 of diplomatists, in this hope he would have been 
 equally disappointed, Sophy had nothing to 
 
 communicate. Her ingenuousness utterly baf- 
 fled the poor flute-player. Out of an innocent, 
 unconscious kind of spite, on ceasing to pry 
 into Sophy's descent, he began to enlarge upon 
 the dignity of Darrell's. He inflictedon her 
 the long-winded genealogical memoir, the re- 
 cital of which had, on a previous occasion, so 
 nearly driven Lionel Haughton from Fawley. 
 He took her to see the antiquary's grave ; he 
 spoke to her, as they stood there, of Darrell's 
 ambitious boyhood— his arid, laborious man- 
 hood — his determination to restore the fallen 
 line — the very vow he had made to the father 
 he had so pityingly revered. He sought to im- 
 press on her the consciousness that she was the 
 guest of one who belonged to a race with whom 
 spotless honor was the all in all; and who had 
 gone through life with bitter sorrows, but rever- 
 encing that race, and vindicating that honor : 
 Fairthorn's eye would tremble — his eyes flash 
 on her while he talked. She, poor child, could 
 not divine why ; but she felt that he was angry 
 with her — speaking at her. In fact, Fairthorn's 
 prickly tongue was on the barbed point of ex- 
 claiming, "And how dare you foist j-ourself 
 into this unsullied lineage! — how dare you 
 think that the dead would not turn in their 
 graves ere they would make room in the vault 
 of the Darrells for the daughter of a Jasper 
 Losely!" But though she could not conceive 
 the musician's covert meaning in these heraldic 
 discourses, Sophy, with a justness of discrimina- 
 tion that must have been intuitive, separated 
 from the more fantastic declamations of the 
 grotesque genealogist that which, was genuine 
 and pathetic in the single image of the last de- 
 scendant in a long and gradually-falling race, 
 lifting it up once more into power and note on 
 toiling shoulders, and standing on the verge of 
 age, with the melancholy consciousness that the 
 effort was successful only for his fleeting life ; 
 that, with all his gold, with all his fame, the 
 hope which had achieved alike the gold and the 
 fame was a lying mockery, and that name and 
 race would perish with himself, when the earth 
 yawned for him beside the antiquary's grave. 
 And these recitals made her conceive a more 
 soft and tender interest in Guj' Darrell than she 
 had before admitted ; they accounted for the 
 mournfulness on his brow ; they lessened her in- 
 voluntary awe of that stateliness of bearing, 
 which before had only chilled her as the evi- 
 dence of pride. 
 
 While Fairthorn and Sophy thus matured ac- 
 quaintance, Darrell and Waife were drawing 
 closer and closer to each other. Certainly no 
 one would be predisposed to suspect any con- 
 geniality of taste, intellect, experience, or emo- 
 tion, between two men whose lives had been so 
 widely different — in whose faults or merits the 
 ordinary observer would have seen nothing but 
 antagonism and contrast. Unquestionably their 
 characters were strikingly dissimilar, vet there 
 was that in each which the other recognized as 
 familiar to his own nature. Each had been the 
 victim of his heart ; each had passed over the 
 plowshare of self-sacrifice, Darrell had offered 
 u]) his youth — Waife his age; — Darrell to a Fa- 
 ther and the unrequitiiig Dead — Waife to a Son 
 wliose life had become his terror. To one man, 
 NAjfE had been an idol ; to the other, nami: had 
 been a weed cast away into the mire. To the 
 
280 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 one man, iinjoyoiis, evanescent glory — to the 
 other, a shame that had been borne with a sport- 
 ive cheerfnhiess, dashed into sorrow only when 
 the world's contumely threatened to despoil Af- 
 fection of its food. But there was something 
 akin in their joint experience of earthly vani- 
 ties ; — so little solace in worldly honors to the 
 triumphant Orator — so little of misery to the 
 vagrant Mime while his conscience mutely aj)- 
 pealed to Heaven from the verdict of his kind. 
 And as beneath all the levity and whim of the 
 man reared and nurtured, and fitted by his char- 
 acteristic tendencies, to view life through its 
 humors, not through its passions, there still ran 
 a deep under-current of grave and earnest in- 
 tellect and feeling — so too, amidst the severer 
 and statelier texture of the once ambitious, la- 
 borious mind, which had conducted Darrell to 
 renown — amidst all that gathered-up intensity 
 of passion, which admitted no comedy into Sor- 
 row, and saw in Love but the aspect of Fate — 
 amidst all this lofty seriousness of soul, there 
 was yet a vivid capacity of enjoyment — those 
 fine sensibilities to the pleasurable sun-rays of 
 life, which are constitutional to all genius, no 
 matter how grave its vocations. True, afHiction 
 at last may dull them, as it dulls all else that 
 we took from Nature when she equipped us for 
 life. Yet, in the mind of Darrell, affliction had 
 shattered the tilings most gravely coveted, even 
 more than it had marred its perceptive acknowl- 
 edgment of the sympathies between fancies that 
 move to smiles, and thoughts that bequeath 
 solemn lessons, or melt to no idle tears. Had 
 Darrell been placed amidst the circumstances 
 that make happy the homes of earnest men, 
 Darrell would have been mirthful ; had Waife 
 been placed among the circumstances that con- 
 centrate talent, and hedge round life with 
 trained thicksets and belting laurels, Waife 
 would have been grave. 
 
 It was not in the earlier conferences that took 
 place in Waife's apartment that the subject 
 whicli had led the old man to Fawley was 
 brought into discussion. When Waife had 
 sought to introduce it — when, after Sophy's 
 arrival, he had looked wistfully into Darrell's 
 face, striving to read there the impression she 
 had created, and, unable to discover, had be- 
 gun, with tremulous accents, to reopen the 
 cause that weighed on him — Darrell stopped 
 him at once. "Hush — not yet ; remember that 
 it was in the very moment you first broached 
 this sorrowful tojiic, on arriving here, and per- 
 ceived how different the point of view from 
 which we two must regard it, that your nerves 
 gave way — your illness rushed on you. Wait, 
 not only till you are stronger, but till we know 
 each other better. This subject is one that it 
 becomes us to treat with all the strength of our 
 reason — with all the calm which either can im- 
 pose upon the feelings that ruffle judgment. At 
 present, talk we of all matters except that, which 
 I promise you shall be fairly discussed at last." 
 
 Darrell found, however, that his most effect- 
 ive diversion from the subject connected with 
 Sophy was through another channel in the old 
 man's atirections, hopes, and fears. George 
 Morlcy, in rejieating the conversation he had 
 overheard between Waife and Jasper, had nat- 
 urally, while clearing the father, somewhat soft- 
 ened tlie bravado and cynicism of the sou's lan- 
 
 guage, and more than somewhat brightened the 
 touches of natural feeling by which the bravado 
 and cynicism had been alternated. And Dar- 
 rell had sufficient magnanimity to conquer the 
 repugnance with which he approached a name 
 associated with so many dark and hateful mem- 
 ories, and, avoiding as much as possible distinct 
 reference to Jasper's past life, to court a con- 
 sultation on the chances of saving from the 
 worst the life that yet remained. With whom 
 else, indeed, than Jasper's father could Darrell 
 so properly and so unreservedly discuss a mat- 
 ter in which their interest and their fear were 
 in common ? — As though he were rendering 
 some compensation to Waife for the disappoint- 
 ment he would experience when Sojihy's claims 
 came to be discussed — if he could assist in re- 
 lieving the old man's mind as to the ultimate 
 fate of the son for whom he had made so grand 
 a sacrifice, Darrell spoke to Waife somewhat in 
 detail of the views with which he had instruct- 
 ed Colonel INIorley to find out and to treat with 
 Jasper. He heard from the Colonel almost 
 daily. Alban had not yet discovered Jasper, 
 nor even succeeded in tracing Mrs. Crane ! But 
 an account of Jasper's wild farewell visit to that 
 den of thieves, from which he had issued safe 
 and triumphant, had reached the ears of a de- 
 tective employed by the Colonel, and on tolera- 
 bly good terms with Cutts ; and it was no small 
 comfort to know that Jasper had finally broken 
 with those miscreant comrades, and had never 
 again been seen in their haunts. As Arabella 
 had introduced herself to Alban hy her former 
 name, and neither he nor Darrell was acquaint- 
 ed with that she now bore, and as no questions 
 on the suljject could be put to Waife during the 
 earlier stages of his illness, so it was several 
 days before the Colonel had succeeded in trac- 
 ing her out as Mrs. Crane of Podden Place — a 
 discovery effected by a distant relation to whom 
 he had been referred at the famous school of 
 which Araliella had been the pride, and who 
 was no doubt the owner of those sheepskin ac- 
 count-books by which the poor grim woman had 
 once vainly sought to bribe Jasper into honest 
 work. But the house in Podden Place was 
 shut up — not a soul in charge of it. The houses 
 immediatel}' adjoining it were tenantless. The 
 Colonel learned, however, from a female serv- 
 ant in an oj>posite house, that several days ago 
 she had seen a tall, ])owerful-looking man enter 
 Mrs. Crane's street-door; that she had not seen 
 him quit it; that some evenings afterward, as 
 this servant was closing up the house in wiiich 
 she served, she had remarked a large private 
 carriage driving away from Mrs. Crane's door; 
 that it was too dark to see who were in the car- 
 liage, but she had noticed a woman whom she 
 felt fully sure was JNIrs. Crane's servant, Brid- 
 gett Greggs, on the box beside the coachman. 
 
 Alban had been to the agent employed by 
 Mrs. Crane in the letting of her houses, but had 
 not there gained any information. The Colonel 
 believed that Mrs. Crane had succeeded in re- 
 moving Jasper from London — had, perhaps, 
 accompanied him abroad. If with her, at all 
 events, tor tiie ])resent, he was safe from the 
 stings of want, and with one who had sworn to 
 save him from his own guilty self. If, however, 
 still in England, Albauhad no doubt, sooner or 
 later, to hunt him up. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 281 
 
 Upon the whole, this conjectural information, 
 though unsatisfactory, allayed much anxiety. 
 Darrell made the most of it iu his representa- 
 tions to Waife. And tlie old man, as we know, 
 was one not hard to comfort, never quarreling 
 irrevocably with Hope. 
 
 And now Waife is rapidly recovering. Dar- 
 rell, after spending the greater part of several 
 days, intent upon a kind of study from which 
 he had been estranged for many years, takes to 
 frequent absences for the whole day ; goes up 
 to London by the earliest train, comes back by 
 the latest. George Morley also goes to London 
 for a few hours. Darrell, on returning, does 
 not allude to the business which took him to the 
 metropolis ; neither does George, but the latter 
 seems unusually animated and excited. At 
 length, after one of these excursions, so foreign 
 to his habits, he and George enter together the 
 old man's apartment not long before the early 
 hour at which the convalescent retires to rest. 
 Sophy was seated on the footstool at Waife's 
 knee, reading the Bible to him, his hand rest- 
 ing lightly on her bended head. The sight 
 touched both George and Darrell ; but Darrell, 
 of the two, was the more affected. What young, 
 pure voice shall read to 1dm the Book of Hope 
 in the evening of lonely age?" Sophy started in 
 some confusion, and as, in quitting the room, 
 she passed by Darrell, he took her hand gently, 
 and scanned her features more deliberately, 
 more earnestly than he had ever yet seemed to 
 do ; then he sighed, and dropped the hand, 
 murmuring, " Pardon me." Was he seeking to 
 read in that fair face some likeness to the Dar- 
 rell lineaments ? If he had found it, what then ? 
 But when Sophy was gone, Darrell came straight 
 to Waife with a cheerful Ijrow — with a kind- 
 ling eye. 
 
 "William Losely," said he. 
 
 "Waife, if you please, Sir," interrupted the 
 old man. 
 
 "William Losely," repeated Darrell, "jus- 
 tice seeks to repair, so far as, alas I it now can, 
 the wrongs inflicted on the name of William 
 Losely. Your old friend Alban Morley supply- 
 ing me with the notes he had made in the mat- 
 ter of your trial, I arranged the evidence they 
 furnished. The Secretary for the Home Depart- 
 ment is one of my most intimate political friends 
 — a man of humanity — of sense. I jjlaced that 
 evidence before him. I, George, and ]\Ir. Har- 
 topp — saw him after he had perused it — " 
 
 " I\Iy — son — Lizzy's son!" 
 
 "His secret will be kept. The question was 
 not who committed the act for which you suf- 
 fered, but whether j/oM were clearly, incontesta- 
 bly innocent of the act, and, in pleading guilty, 
 did but sublimely bear the penalty of another. 
 There will be no new trial — there are none 
 who would prosecute. I bring back to you the 
 Queen's free pardon under the Great Seal. I 
 should explain to you that this form of the rov- 
 al grace is so rarely given that it needed all the 
 strength and affecting circumstance of your pe- 
 culiar case to justify the Home Secretary in list- 
 ening, not only to the interest I could bring to 
 bear in your favor, but to his own humane in- 
 clinations. The pardon under the Great Seal 
 diffei-s from an ordinary pardon. It purges the 
 blood from tlie taint of felony — it remits all the 
 civil disabilities which the mere expiry of a 
 
 penal sentence does not remove. In short, as 
 applicable to your case, it becomes virtuallv a 
 complete and formal attestation of your inno- 
 cence. Alban Morley will take caie to aj prise 
 those of your old friends who may yet survive 
 of that revocation of unjust obloquy which this 
 royal deed implies — Alban INIorley, who would 
 turn his back on a prince of the blood if but 
 guilty of some jockey trick on the turf! Live 
 henceforth openly, and in broad daylight, if you 
 please ; and trust to us three — the Soldier, the 
 Lawyer, the Churchman — to give to this paper 
 tliat value which your Sovereign's advisers in- 
 tend it to receive." 
 
 "Your hand now, dear old friend!" cried 
 George. "You remember I commanded you 
 once to take mine as man and gentleman ; as 
 man and gentleman now honor me with yours." 
 
 "Is it possible?" faltered Waife, one hand in 
 George's, the other extended in imiiloring ap- 
 peal to Darrell — "is it possible? I vindicated 
 — I cleared — and yet no felon's dock for Jasper! 
 — the son not criminated by the father's acquit- 
 tal ! Tell me that ! again — again !" 
 
 "It is so, believe me. All that rests is to 
 force on that son, if he have a human heart, the 
 conviction that he will be worse than a parricide 
 if he will not save himself." 
 
 " And he will— he shall ! Oh that I could but 
 get at him !" exclaimed the preacher. 
 
 "And now," said DaiTell — "now, George, 
 leave ns; for now, upon equal terms, we two 
 fathers can discuss family diilerences." 
 
 CHAPTER Vni. 
 
 Sophy's claim examined and canvassed. 
 
 "I TAKE this moment," said Darrell, when 
 left alone with Waife — (ah, reader, let vs keep 
 to that familiar name to the last !) — " I take 
 this moment," said DaiTcll, "the first moment 
 in which you can feel thoroughly assured that 
 no prejudice against yourself clouds my judg- 
 ment iu reference to her whom you believe to 
 be your grandchild, to commence — and, I trust, 
 to conclude forever — the subject which twice 
 brought you within these walls. On the night 
 of your recent arrival here you gave me this 
 copy of a French woman's declaration, to the 
 effect that two infants had been placed out with 
 her to nurse ; that one of them was my poor 
 daughter's infant, who was about to be taken 
 away from her; that the other was confided to 
 her by its parent, a French lady, whom she 
 speaks of as a very liberal and distinguished 
 person, but whose name is not stated in the 
 paper." 
 
 Waife. "The confession describes that lady 
 as an artiste; 'distinguished artiste' is the ex- 
 pression — viz., a professional person — a paint- 
 er — an actress — a singer — or — " 
 
 Darrell {dryly). "An opera-dancer! I un- 
 derstand the French word perfectly. And I 
 presume the name is not mentioned in the doc- 
 ument from motives of delicacy; the child of a 
 distinguished French artiste is not necessarily 
 born iu wedlock. Buc this lady was very grate- 
 ful to the nurse for the care shown to her in- 
 fant, who was verj- sickly ; and promised to take 
 the nurse, and the nurse's husband also, into her 
 
282 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 service. The nurse states that she herself was 
 very poor ; that the hidy's offer appeared to her 
 like a permanent provision ; that the life of this 
 artiste's infant was of the utmost value to her — 
 the life of my poor daughter's child of compara- 
 tive insignificance. But the infant of the artiste 
 died, and the nurse's husband put it into his 
 wife's liead to tell your son (then a widower, and 
 who had seen so little of his child as to be easi- 
 ly deceived) that it was his infant who died. 
 The nurse shortly afterward removed to Paris, 
 taking with her to the artiste's house the child 
 who in reality was my daughter's." 
 
 " It seems very probable, does it not — does it 
 not ?" said the ex-comedian, eagerly. 
 
 "It seems to me," replied the ex-lawyer, 
 "very probable that a witness entering into 
 court with the confession of one villainous false- 
 hood would have little scruple to tell another. 
 But I proceed. This rich and liberal artiste 
 dies ; the nurse's conscience then suddenly 
 awakens — she sees Mr. Hammond — she in- 
 forms him of the fraud she has practiced. A 
 lady of rank, who had known Matilda, and had 
 seen both the infants when both were living 
 under the nurse's charge, and observed them 
 more attentively than your son had done — cor- 
 roborates the woman's stor}', stating that the 
 artistes child had dark eyes instead of blue; 
 that the artiste herself was never deceived ; but, 
 having taken a great fancy to the spurious in- 
 fant, was willing to receive and cherish it as 
 her own ; and that she knows several persons 
 who will depose that they heard the artiste say 
 that the child was not her own. On this evi- 
 dence your son takes to himself this child — and 
 this child is your Sophy — and you wisli me to 
 acknowledge her as my daughter's offspring. 
 Do not look me so earnestly in the face, my 
 dear and respected guest! It was when you 
 read in my face what my lips shrunk from utter- 
 ing that your emotions overcame your strength, 
 and your very mind deserted you. Now, be 
 firmer. Your Sophy has no need of me — she 
 is under your charge, and your name is clear- 
 ed. She has found a friend — a protectress — in 
 her own sex. Lady Montfort's rank gives to 
 her a position in the world as high as I could 
 offer; and as to mere pecuniary ])rovision for 
 her, make your mind easy — it shall be secured. 
 But bear with me when I add, resolutely and 
 calmly, that this nurse's attestation is to me a 
 grosser and ])oorer attempt at imposture than I 
 had anticipated ; and I am amazed that a man 
 of your abilities should have been contented to 
 accept it." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Darrell, don't say so! It was such 
 a blessing to think, when my son was lost to me, 
 that I miglit fill up the void in mj' heart with an 
 innocent, loving child. Don't talk of my abili- 
 ties. If you, whose abilities none can question — 
 if you had longed and yearned for such a com- 
 forter — if you had wished — if you wished now 
 this tale to be true, you would liave believed it 
 too ; you would believe it now — you would, in- 
 deed. Two men look so differently at the same 
 story — one deeply interested that it should be 
 true — one determined, if possible, to find it 
 false. Is it not so?" 
 
 Darrell smiled slightly, but could not be in- 
 duced to assent even to so general a jiroposition. 
 He felt as if lie were jutted against a counsel 
 
 who would take advantage of every conces- 
 sion. 
 
 Waife continued. "And whatever seems 
 most improbable in this confession is rendered 
 probable at once — if — if — we may assume that 
 my unhappy son, tempted by the desire to — 
 to—" 
 
 " Spare yourself — I rmderstand — if your son 
 wished to obtain his wife's fortune, and there- 
 fore connived at the exchange of the infants, 
 and was therefore, too, enabled always to cor- 
 roborate the story of the exchange, whenever it 
 suited him to reclaim the infant. I grant this 
 — and I grant that the conjecture is sufficiently 
 plausible to justify you in attaching to it much 
 weight. We will allow that it was his interest 
 at one time to represent his child, thougtTliving, 
 as no more ; but you must allow also that he 
 would have deemed it his interest, later, to fasten 
 upon me, as my daughter's, a child to whom she 
 never gave birth. Here we entangle ourselves 
 in a controversy without data, without facts. 
 Let us close it. Believe what you please. Why 
 should I shake convictions that render you hap- 
 py ? Be equally forbearing with me. I do full 
 justice to your Sophy's charming qualities. In 
 herself, the proudest parent might rejoice to 
 own her ; but I can not acknowledge her to be 
 the daughter of Matilda Darrell. And the story 
 that assured you she was your grandchild, still 
 more convinces me that she is not mine !" 
 
 "But be not thus inflexible, I implore you — 
 you can be so kind, so gentle — she would be 
 such a blessing to yon ! later — perhaps — when I 
 am dead. I am pleading for your sake — I owe 
 you so much ! I should repay you, if I could 
 but induce you to inquire — and if inquiry should 
 prove that I am right." 
 
 "I have inquired sufficiently." 
 "Then I'll go and find out tlie Nurse. I'll 
 question her. I'll — " 
 
 "Hold. Be persuaded! Hug your belief! 
 Inquire no farther I" 
 " Why — why ?" 
 Darrell was mute. 
 
 Waife ])assed and repassed his hand over his 
 brow, and then cried, suddenly, "But if I could 
 prove her not to be my grandchild, then she 
 might be happy ! — then — then — ah. Sir, young 
 Haughton tells me that if she were but the 
 ', daughter of honest parents — no child of Jas- 
 per's, no grandchild of mine — then you might 
 not be too proud to bless her at least as his 
 bride ! And, Sir, the poor child loves the young 
 I man. How could she help it? And, at her 
 j age, life without hope is either very short, or 
 I very, very long ! Let me inquire ! I should be 
 { happy even to know that she was not my grand- 
 child. I should not love her less ; and then she 
 ' would have others to love her when I am gone 
 to Lizzy !" 
 
 Darrell was dee])ly moved. To him there 
 I was something in this old man — ever forgetting 
 himself, ever so hurried on by his heart — some- 
 [ thing, I say, in this old man, before which Dar- 
 rell felt his intellect subdued, and his pride 
 silenced and abashed. 
 j "Yes, Sir," said Waife, musingly, "so let it 
 ! be. I am well now. I will go to France to- 
 il 
 morrow. 
 
 Darrell nerved his courage. He had wished 
 to spare Waife the pain which his own persua- 
 
WHAT ^Y1L1, HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 283 
 
 sions caused to himself. Better now to be frank. 
 He laid his hand on Waife's shoulder, and, look- 
 ing him in the face, said, solemnl_v, '• I entreat 
 you not ! Do you suppose that I would not re- 
 sume inquiry in person, nor pause till the truth 
 were made amply clear, if I had not strong rea- 
 son to ))refer doubt to certainty?" 
 " What do you mean, Sir?" 
 " There is a woman whose career is, I believe, 
 at this moment revived into fresh notoriety as 
 the heroine of some drama on the stage of Paris 
 — a woman who, when years paled her fame and 
 reft her spoils, as a courtesan renowned for the 
 fools she had beggared, for the young hearts she 
 had corrupted, sought plunder still by crimes, to 
 which law is less lenient. Charged with swin- 
 dling, with fraud, with forgery, and at last more 
 than suspected as a practiced poisoner, she es- 
 caped by suicide the judgment of human tri- 
 bunals." 
 
 " I know of whom you speak — that dreadful 
 Gabrielle Desmarets, but for whom my sacrifice 
 to Jasper's future might not have been in vain ! 
 It was to save Sophy from the chance of Jasper's 
 ever placing her within reach of that woman's 
 example that I took her away." 
 
 " Is it not, then, better to forbear asking who 
 were your Sophy's parents, than to learn from 
 inquiry that she is inileed your grandchild, and 
 that her mother was Gabrielle Desmarets ?" 
 
 Waife uttered a cry like a shriek, and then 
 sate voiceless and aghast. At last he exclaimed, 
 " I am certain it is not so ! Did you ever see 
 that woman?" 
 
 " Never that I know of; but George tells me 
 that he heard your son state to you that she 
 had made acquaintance with me under another 
 name, and if there was a design to employ her 
 in confirmation of his tale — if he was then 
 speaking truth to you, doubtless this was the 
 lady of rank referred to in the Nurse's confes- 
 sion — doubtless this was the woman once palmed 
 upon me as Matilda's confidante. In that case 
 I have seen her. What, then?" 
 
 "Mother was not written on her face! She 
 could never have been a mother. Oh, you may 
 smile. Sir ; but all my life I have been a reader 
 of the human face; and there is in the aspects 
 of some women the barrenness as of stone — no 
 mother's throb in their bosom — no mother's kiss 
 on their lips." 
 
 "I am a poor reader of women's faces," said 
 Darrell ; " but she must be very unlike women 
 in general, who allows you to know her a bit 
 better if you stood reading her face till dooms- 
 day. Besides, at the time you saw Gabrielle 
 Desmarets her mode of life had perhaps given 
 to her an aspect not originally in her counte- 
 nance. And I can only answer your poetic con- 
 ceit by a poetic illustration — Xiobe turned to 
 stone ; but she had a great many daughters be- 
 fore she petrified. Pardon me, if I would turn 
 off by a jest a thought that I see would shock 
 you, as myself, if gravely encouraged. Encour- 
 age it not. Let us suppose it only a chance 
 that inquiry might confirm this conjecture ; but 
 Ictus shun that chance. Meanwhile, if inquiry 
 is to be made, one more liRely than either of us 
 to pet at the truth has promised to make it, and 
 sooner or later we may learn from her the re- 
 sults — I mean that ill-fated Arabella Eosset, 
 whom you knew as Crane." 
 
 Waife was silent; but he kept turning in his 
 hand, almost disconsolately, the document which 
 assoiled him from the felon's taint, and said at 
 length, as Darrell was about to leave, "And 
 this thing is of no use to her, then?" 
 
 Darrell came back to the old man's chair, and 
 said, softly, "Erien'd, do not fancy that the young 
 have only one path to happiness. You grieve 
 that I can not consent to Lionel's marriage with 
 your Sophy. Dismiss from your mind the de- 
 sire for the Impossible. Gently wean from hers 
 what is but a girl's first fancy." 
 
 "It is a girl's first love." 
 
 "And if it be," said Darrell, calmly, "no 
 complaint more sure to yield to change of air. 
 I have known a girl as affectionate, as pure, as 
 full of all womanly virtues, as your Sojdiy (and 
 I can give her no higher praise) — loved more 
 deeply than Lionel can love ; professing, doubt- 
 less at the time believing, that she also loved 
 for life ; betrothed too ; faith solemnized by 
 promise ; yet in less than a year she was an- 
 other's wife. Change of air, change of heart ! 
 I do not underrate the effect which a young 
 man, so winning a» Lionel, would naturally 
 produce on the fancy or the feelings of a girl 
 who as yet, too, has seen no others ; but im- 
 pressions in youth are characters in the sand. 
 Grave them ever so deeply, the tide rolls over 
 them; and when the ebb shows the surface 
 again the characters are gone, for the sands are 
 shifted. Courage ! Lady JMontfort will present 
 to her others with forms as fair as Lionel's and 
 as elegantly dressed. With so muchinher o^^'Il 
 favor, there are young patricians enough who 
 will care not a rush what her birth — young lords 
 — Lady Montfort knows well how fascinating 
 young lords can he ! Courage — before a year 
 is out, you will find new characters written on 
 the sand." 
 
 " You don't know Sophy, Sir," said Waife, 
 simply ; " and I see you are resolved not to 
 know her. But you say Arabella Crane is to 
 inquire ; and should the inquiry prove that she 
 is no child of Gabrielle Desmarets — that she is 
 either your own grandchild or not mine — that — " 
 " Let me interrupt you. If there be a thing 
 in the world that is cruel and treacherous, it is 
 a false hope ! Crush out of every longing thought 
 the belief that this poor girl can prove to be one 
 whom, with my consent, my kinsman can woo 
 to be his wife. Lionel Haughton is the sole 
 kinsman left to whom I can bequeath this roof- 
 tree — these acres, hallowed to me because as- 
 sociated with my earliest lessons in honor, and 
 with the dreams which directed my life. He 
 must take with the heritage the name it repre- 
 sents. In his children, that name of Dan-ell 
 can alone live still in the land. I say to you, 
 that even were my daughter now in existence, 
 she would not succeed me — she would not in- 
 herit nor transmit that name. Why? — not be- 
 cause I am incapable of a Christian's forgive- 
 ness, but because I am not capable of a gentle- 
 man's treason to his ancestors and himself — 
 because Matilda Darrell was false and perfidi- 
 ous — because she was dead to honor, and there- 
 fore her birth-right to a heritage of honor was 
 irrevocably forfeited. And since you compel 
 me to speak rudely, while in you I revere a 
 man above the power of law to degrade — while, 
 could we pass a generation, and Sophy were 
 
28i 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 your child by your Lizzy, I should proudly wel- 
 come an alliance that made you and me broth- 
 ers — yet I can not contemiilate — it is beyond 
 my power — I can not contemplate the picture 
 of Jasper Losely's daughter, even by my own 
 child, the Mistress in my lather's home — the 
 bearer of my father's name. 'Tis in vain to 
 argue. Grant rae the slave of a prejudice — 
 grant these ideas to be antiquated bigotry — I 
 am too old to change. I ask from others no 
 sacrifice which I have not borne. And what- 
 ever be Lionel's grief at my resolve, grief will 
 be my companion long after he has forgotten 
 that he mourned." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Poor Sophy! 
 
 The next morning Mills, in giving Sophy a 
 letter from Lady Montfort, gave her also one 
 for Waife, and she recognized Lionel Haugh- 
 ton's handwriting on the address. She went 
 straight to Waife's sitting-room, for the old man 
 had now resumed iiis early habits, and was up 
 and dressed. She phiced the letter in his hands 
 without a word, and stood by his side while he 
 opened it, with a certain still firmness in the 
 expression of her face, as if she were making 
 u\> her mind to some great eft'ort. The letter 
 was ostensibly one of congratulation. Lionel 
 had seen Darrell the day before, after the latter 
 had left the Home Secretary's office, and had 
 learned that all which Justice could do to repair 
 tlie wrong iutiicted had been done. Here Li- 
 onel's words, though brief, were cordial, and al- 
 most joyous ; but then came a few sentences 
 steeped in gloom. There was an allusion, vague 
 and delicate in itself, to the eventful conversa- 
 tion with Waife in reference to Sophy — a som- 
 bre, solentn farewell conveyed to her and to 
 hope — a passionate praj-er for her hajipiness — 
 and then an abrujit wrench, as it were, away 
 from a subject too intolerably painful to prolong 
 — an intimation that lie had succeeded in ex- 
 changing into a regiment very shortly to be sent 
 into active service ; that he should set out the 
 next day to join that regiment in a distant part 
 of the country ; and that he trusted, should his 
 life be spared by war, that it would be many 
 years before he should revisit England. The 
 sense of the letter was the more atfecting in 
 what was concealed than in what A\as express- 
 ed. Evidently Lionel desired to convey to 
 Waife, and leave it to him to inform Sophy, 
 that she was henceforth to regard the writer as 
 vani.--hcd out of her existence — dejiarted, as ir- 
 revocably as depart the Dead. 
 
 While Waife was reading he had turned him- 
 self aside from Sophy ; he had risen — he had 
 gone to the deep recess of the old muUion win- 
 dow, half screening himself beside the curtain. 
 Noiselessly Sophy followed; and when he had 
 closed the letter she laid her hand on his arm, 
 and said, very quietly, " Grandfather, may I read 
 that letter':"' 
 
 Waife was startled, and replied, on the in- 
 stant, " No, my dear." 
 
 "It is better that I should," said she, with 
 the same quiet firmness ; and then, seeing the 
 distress iu his face, she added, with her more 
 
 accustomed sweet docility, yet with a forlorn 
 droop of the head, "But as you please, grand- 
 father." 
 
 Waife hesitated an instant. Was she not 
 right ? — would it not be better to show the let- 
 ter? After all, she must confront the fact that 
 Lionel could be nothing to her henceforth ; and 
 would not Lionel's own words wound her less 
 than all Waife could say ? So he put the letter 
 into her hands, and sate down, watching her 
 countenance. 
 
 At the ofiening sentences of congratulatioa 
 she looked up inquiringly. Poor man I he had 
 not spoken to her of what at another time it 
 would have been such joy to speak; and he 
 now, in answer to her look, said, almost sadl}', 
 " Onlj'^ about me, Sophy ; what does tTiat mat- 
 ter?" But before the girl read a line farther 
 she smiled on him, and tenderly kissed his fur- 
 rowed brow. 
 
 "Don't read on, Sophy," said he, quickly. 
 She shook her head and resumed. His eye 
 still upon her face, he marked it changing as 
 the sense of the letter grew upon her, till, as, 
 without a word, with scarce a visible heave of 
 the bosom, she laid the letter -on his knees, the 
 change had become so complete that it seemed 
 as if Another stood in her place. In very 
 young and sensitive persons, esjjecially female 
 (though I have seen it even in our hard sex), a 
 great and sudden shock or revulsion of feeling 
 reveals itself thus in the almost preternatm-al 
 alteration of the countenance. It is not a mere 
 paleness — a skin-deep loss of color; it is as if 
 the whole bloom of youth had rushed away ; 
 hollows, never discernible before, ajjpear in the 
 cheek that was so round and smooth; the mus- 
 cles fall as in mortal illness ; a havoc, as of 
 years, seems to have been wrought in a mo- 
 ment ; Flame itself does not so suddenly ravage 
 — so suddenly alter — leave behind it so ineft'a- 
 ble an air of desolation and ruin. Waife sprang 
 forward and clasped her to his breast. 
 
 " You will bear it, Sophy ! The worst is over 
 now. Fortitude, my child! — fortitude! The 
 human heart is wonderfully sustained when it 
 is not the conscience that weighs it down — 
 griefs that we think at the moment must kill us 
 wear themselves away. I speak the truth, for I 
 too have suftered !" 
 
 " Poor grandfather !" said Sophy, gently; and 
 she said no more. But when he would have con- 
 tinued to speak comfort, or exiiort to patience, 
 she pressed his hand tightly, and laid her fin- 
 ger on her lip. He was hushed in an instant. 
 
 Presently she began to move about the room, 
 busying herself, as usual, in those slight, scarce 
 perceptible arrangements liy which she loved to 
 think that she ministered to the old man"s sim- 
 ple comforts. She placed the arm-chair in his 
 favorite nook by the window, and before it the 
 footstool for the poor lame foot ; and drew the 
 table near the chair, and looked over the books 
 that George had selected for his perusal from 
 Darrell's library ; and chose the volume in which 
 she saw his murk to place nearest to his hand, 
 and tenderly cleared the mist from his reading- 
 glass ; and removed one or two withered or ail- 
 ing snow-drops from the little winter nosegay she 
 had gathered for him the day before — he watch- 
 ing her all the time, silent as herself, not daring, 
 indeed, to speak, lest his heart should overfiow. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 285 
 
 These little tasks of love over, she came to- 
 ward him a few paces, and said, " Please, dear 
 grandfather, tell me all about what has happen- 
 ed to 3'ourself which should make us glad — that 
 is, by-aud-by ; but nothing as to the rest of that 
 letter. I will just thiuk over it by myself; but 
 never let us talk of it, grandy dear, never more 
 — never more." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Trees that, like the poplar, lift upward all their boughs, 
 give no shade and no shelter, whatever their height. 
 Trees the most loyingly shelter and sliade us, when, 
 like the willow, the higher soar their summits, the 
 lowlier droop their boughs. 
 
 Usually, when Sophy left Waife in the morn- 
 ing, she would wander out into the gi'ounds, 
 and he could see her pass before his window ; 
 or she would look into the library, which was 
 almost exclusively given up to the Morleys, and 
 he could hear her tread on the old creaking 
 stairs. But now she had stolen into her own 
 room, v.hich communicated with his sitting- 
 room — a small lobby alone intervening — and 
 there she remained so long that he grew un- 
 easy. He crept softly to her door and listened. 
 He had a fineness of hearing almost equal to 
 his son's ; but he could not hear a sob-— not a 
 breath. At length he softly opened the door, 
 and looked in with caution. 
 
 The girl was seated at the foot of the bed, 
 quite still — her eyes fixed on the ground, and 
 her finger to her lip, just as she had placed it 
 there when imploring silence; so still, it might 
 be even slumber. All who have grieved respect 
 grief. Waife did not like to approach her ; but 
 he said, from his stand at the threshold — ''The 
 sun is quite bright now, Sophy ; go out for a 
 little while, darling." 
 
 She did not look round'— she did not stir ; 
 but she answered with readiness — "Yes, pres- 
 ently." 
 
 So he closed the door, and left her. An hour 
 passed away ; he looked in again ; there she 
 was still — in the same place, in the same atti- 
 tude. 
 
 " Sophy, dear, it is time to take your walk; 
 go — ^Irs. Morley is in front, before my window. 
 I have called to her to wait for you." 
 
 "Yes — presently," answered Sophy, and she 
 did not move. 
 
 Waife was seriously alarmed. He paused a 
 moment — then went back to his room — took his 
 hat and his staff — came back. 
 
 " Sophy, I should like to hobble out and 
 breathe the air; it will do me good. Will you 
 give me your arm? I am still very weak." 
 
 Soj'hy now started — shook back her fair curls 
 — rose — put on her bonnet, and in less than a 
 minute v.as by the old man's side. Drawing 
 his arm fondly into hers, they descend the 
 stairs ; they are in the garden ; Mrs. Morley 
 comes to meet them — then George. Waife ex- 
 erts himself to talk — to be gay — to protect So- 
 phy's abstracted silence, by his own active, des- 
 ultory, erratic humor. Twice or thrice, as he 
 leans on Sophy's arm, she draws it still nearer 
 to her, and presses it tenderly. She under- 
 stands — she thanks him. Hark ! from some 
 undiscovered hiding-place near the water — Fair- 
 
 I thorn's flute ! The Music fills the landscape 
 
 as with a living jjresence ; the swans pause 
 
 upon the still lake — the tame doe steals through 
 
 yonder leafless trees ; and now, musing and 
 
 I slow, from the same desolate coverts, comes the 
 
 I doe's master. The music spells them all. Guy 
 
 I Uarrell sees his guests where they have halted 
 
 by the stone sun-dial. He advances — joins 
 
 them — congratulates Waife on his first walk as 
 
 a convalescent. He quotes Gray's well-known 
 
 verses applicable to that event,* and when, in 
 
 that voice sweet as the flute itself, he comes to 
 
 the lines — 
 
 "The common sun, the air, the skies, 
 To him are opening paradise"". — 
 
 Sophy, as if suddenly struck with remorse at the 
 thought that she, and she alone, was mamng 
 that opening paradise to the old man in liis es- 
 cape from the sick room to "the sun, the air, 
 the skies," abruptly raised her looks from the 
 ground, and turned them full upon her guard- 
 ian's face, with an attempt at gladness in her 
 quivering smile, which, whatever its efl:ect on 
 Waife, went straight to the innermost heart of 
 Guy Darrell. On the instant he recognized, 
 as by intuitive sympathy, the anguish from 
 which that smile struggled forth — knew that, 
 Sophy had now learned that grief which lay 
 deep within himself — that grief which makes a 
 sick chamber of the whole external world, and 
 which greets no more, in the common boons 
 of Nature, the opening Paradise of recovered 
 Hope ! His eye lingered on her face as its 
 smile waned, and perceived that chaxge which 
 had so startled Waife. Involuntarily he moved 
 to her side — involuntarily drew her arm within 
 his own — she thus supporting the one who cher- 
 ished — supported by the one who disowned her. 
 Guy Darrell might be stern in resolves which 
 aflSicted others, as he was stern in afflicting 
 himself; but for others he had at least compas- 
 sion. 
 
 Poor Waife, with nature so different, marked 
 Darrell's movement, and, ever ready to seize on 
 comfort, said inly — " He relents. I will not go 
 to-morrow, as I had intended. Sophy must win 
 her way ; who can resist her?" 
 
 Talk languished — the wintry sun began to 
 slope — the air grew keen — Waife was led in — 
 the Morleys went uj) into his room to keep him 
 company — Sophy escaped back to her own. 
 Darrell continued his walk, plunging deep into 
 his maze of beechwoods, followed by the doe. 
 The swans dip their necks among the watei"- 
 weeds ; the flute has ceased, and drearily still 
 is the gray horizon, seen through the skeleton 
 boughs — seen behind the ragged sky-line of shaft 
 and parapet in the skeleton palace. 
 
 Darrell does not visit Waife's room that day ; 
 he concludes that Waife and Sophy would wish 
 to be much alone ; he dreads renewal of the 
 only subject on which he has no cheering word 
 to say. Sophy's smile, Sophy's face haunted 
 him. In vain he repeated to himself — "Tut, it 
 will soon pass — only a girl's first fancy." 
 
 But Sophy does not come back to Waife's 
 room when the Morleys have left it ; Waife 
 creeps into her room as before, and, as before, 
 there she sits — still as if in slumber. She comes 
 in, however, of her own accord, to assist, as 
 usual, in the meal which he takes apart in his 
 • "See the wretch who long has tost," etc. — Geay. 
 
286 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 room: helps him — helps herself, but eats no- loquy which may be heaped on ns bv that crowd 
 thing. She talks, however, almost gayly ; hopes of mere strangers to us and to each "other, which 
 he will be well enough to leave the next day ; is called ' the world,' yet to slink out of sight 
 wonders whether Sir Isaac has missed them from a friend, as one more to be shunned than 
 very much ; reads to him Lady Montfort's af- a foe — to take, like a coward, the lashings of 
 fectionate letter to herself; and, when dinner , scorn — to wince, one raw sore, from the kind- 
 is over, and Waife's chair drawn to the fireside, ness of Pity — to feel that in life the sole end 
 she takes her old habitual place on the stool be- ■ of each shift and contrivance is to slip the view- 
 side him, and says — " Now, dear gi-andfather hallo, into a grave without epitaph, by paths as 
 — all about yourself — what happy thing has stealthy and sly as the poor hunted fox, when 
 chanced to you ?" j his last chance — and sole one — is, by v, inding 
 
 Alas I poor Waife has but little heart to and doubling, to run under the earth ; to know 
 speak; but he forces himself; what he has to I that it would bean ungrateful imposture to take 
 say may do good to her. ■ chair at the board — at the hearth, of the man 
 
 "You know that, on my own account, I had : who, unknowing your secret, says — 'Friend, be 
 reasons for secrecy — change of name. I shunned ' social;' accepting not a crust that one does not 
 all those whom I had ever known in former pay for, lest one feel a swindler to the^cind fel- 
 days ; could take no calling in life by which I low-creature whose equal we must not be I — all 
 might be recognized ; deemed it a blessed mer- { this — all this, Sophy, did at times chafe and gall 
 cy of Providence that when, not able to resist ; more than I ought to have let it do, considering 
 offers that would have enabled me to provide for j that there was oxe who saw it all, and would — 
 you as I never othenvise could, I assented to Don't cry, Sophy; it is all over now." 
 hazard an engagement at a London theatre — I "Xot cry! Oli, it does me so much good!" 
 trusting for my incognito to an actor's arts of "All over now! I am under this roof — with- 
 disguise — came the accident which, of itself, ; out shame or scruple ; andif Guy Darrell, know- 
 annihilated the temptation into which I had ; ing all my past, has proved my innocence in the 
 .suffered myself to be led. For, ah child ! had ' eyes of those whom alone I cared for, I feel as 
 it been known who and what was the William ' if I had the right to stand before any crowd of 
 Waife whose stage-mime tricks moved harmless men erect and shameless — a Z^Ian once more 
 mirth, or tears as pleasant, the audience would : with Men ! Oh, darling, let me but see thy old 
 have risen, not to applaud, but hoot — 'Off, off,' ^ happy smile again ! The happy smiles of the 
 from both worlds — the ilimic as the Real ! young are the sunshine of the old. Be patient 
 
 Well, had I been dishonest, you — you alone 
 felt that I could not have dared to take you, 
 guiltless infant, by the hand. You remember 
 that, on my return to Rugge's wandering thea- 
 tre, bringing you with me, I exaggerated the 
 effects of my accident — affected to have lost 
 voice — stipulated to be spared appearing on his 
 stage. That was not the mere pride of man- 
 hood shrinking from the display of physical af- 
 flictions. No. In the first village that we ar- 
 rived at I recognized an old friend, and I saw 
 
 -be firm ; Providence is so very kind, Sophy." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Waife exacts from George Movley the fulfillment of one 
 of those promises which mean nothing or every thing. 
 
 The next day George ^lorley visited Waife's 
 room earlier than usual. Waife had sent for 
 him. Sophy was seated by her grandfather — 
 that, in spite of time, and the accident that had his hand in hers. She had been exerting her- 
 disfigured me, he recognized me, and turned : self to the utmost to talk cheerfully — to shake 
 away his face, as if in loathing. An old friend, from her aspect every cloud of sorrow. But 
 Sophy — an old friend I Oh, it pierced me to j still that chaxge was there — more marked 
 the heart ; and I resolved, from that day, to es- ] than even on the previous day. A few hours 
 cape from Rugge's stage ; and I consented, till ' of intense struggle, a single night wholly with- 
 the means of escape, and some less dependent j out sleep, will tell on the face of early youth, 
 mode of livelihood were found, to live on thy I Not till we, hard veterans, have gone through 
 earnings, child; for if I were discovered by oth- \ such struggles as life permits not to the slight 
 er old friends, and they spoke out, my disgrace [ responsibilities of new recruits — not till sleepless 
 would reflect on you, and better to accept sup- | nights have grown to us familiar — will Thought 
 port from you than that ! Alas ! appearances j seem to take, as it were, strength, not exhaust- 
 were so strong against me I never deemed they ' ion, from unrelaxing exercise — nourish the 
 could be cleared away, even from the sight of - brain, sustain the form by its own untiring, 
 my nearest friends. But Providence, you know, i fleshless, spiritual immortality; not till many a 
 has been so kind to us hitherto ; and so Provi- j winter has stnpped the leaves ; not till deep, 
 dence will be kind to us again, Sophy. And and far out of sight, spread the roots that sup- 
 now, the very man I thought most hard to me port the stem — will the beat of the east wind 
 — this very Guy Darrell, under whose roof we leave no sign on the rind, 
 
 are — has been the man to make those whose j George had not, indeed, so noticed the day 
 opinion I most value know that I am not dis- before the kind of withering blight that hacl 
 honest; and Providence has raised a witness on I passed over the girl's countenance; but he did 
 my behalf in that very Mr. Ilartopp who judged now — when she met his eye more steadfastly, 
 me (and any one else might have done the same) ' and had resumed something of the open genial 
 too bad to be fit company for you! And that is infantine grace of manner which constituted her 
 why I am congratulated; and oh, Sophy! though ! peculiar charm, and which it was difficult to as- 
 I have borne it as Heaven does enable us to bear ! sociate with deeper griefs than those of child- 
 what of ourselves we could not, and though one l hood, 
 learns to shrug a patient shoulder under the ob- I " You must scold my grandfather," she said. 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 287 
 
 " He chooses to fancy that he is not well enough 
 yet to leave ; and I am sure that he is, and will 
 recover more quickly at home than here." 
 
 "Pooh!" said Waife ; "you young things 
 suppose we old folks can be as brisk as your- 
 selves ; but if I am to be scolded, leave Mr. 
 George unawed by your presence, and go out, 
 my dear, while the sun lasts; I know by the 
 ways of that blackbird that the day will be over- 
 cast by noon." 
 
 As soon as they were alone, George said, ab- 
 ruptly, " Your Sophy is looking very ill, and, if 
 you are well enough to leave, it might be better 
 for her to move from this gloomy house. Move- 
 ment itself is a great restorative," added George, 
 with emphasis. 
 
 " You see, then, that she looks ill — very ill," 
 said Waife, deliberately; "and there is that 
 in your manner which tells me you guess the 
 cause." 
 
 "I do guess it, from the glimpse which I 
 caught of Lionel's face after he had been clos- 
 eted a short time with Mr. Darrell at my uncle's 
 house two days ago. I guess it also from a let- 
 ter I have received from my uncle." 
 
 "You guess right — very right," said Waife, 
 still with the same serious, tranquil manner. 
 "I showed her this letter from young Haugh- 
 ton. Read it." George hurried his eye over 
 the letter, and i-eturned it silently. Waife pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 "I was frightened yesterday by the strange 
 composure she showed. In her face alone could 
 be read what she suffered. We talked last night. 
 I spoke of myself — of my old sorrows — in order 
 to give her strength to support hers ; and tlie 
 girl has a heroic nature, Sir. George — and she 
 is resolved to conquer or to die. But she will 
 not conquer." 
 
 George began the usual strain of a consoler 
 in such trials. Waife stopped him. "All that 
 you can say, i\Ir. George, I know beforehand ; 
 and she will need no exhortation to prayer and 
 to fortitude. I stole from my room when it was 
 almost dawn. I saw light under the door of her 
 chamber. I just looked in — softly — unperceived. 
 She had not gone to bed. She was by the open 
 window^stars dying out of the sky — kneeling 
 on the floor, her face buried in her hands. She 
 has prayed. In her soul, at this moment, be 
 sure that she is praying now. She will devote 
 herself to me — she will be cheerful — you will 
 hear her laugh, Mr. George : but she "will not 
 conquer in this world ; long before the new year 
 is out she will be looking down upon our grief 
 with her bright smile ; but we shall not seeher, 
 Mr. George. Do not think this is an old man's 
 foolish terror ; I know sorrow as physicians know 
 disease ; it has its mortal symptoms. Hush ! 
 hear me out. I have one hope — it is in you." 
 " In me?" 
 
 "Yes. Do you remember that you said, if I 
 could succeed in opening to your intellect its 
 fair career, you would be the best friend to 
 
 me man ever had ; and I said, ' Agreed, but 
 change the party in the contract; befriend my 
 Sophy instead of me, and, if ever I ask you, help 
 me in aught for her welfare and happiness ;' 
 and you said, ' With heart and soul.' That was 
 the bargain, jNIr. George. Now, you have all 
 that you then despaired of; you have the dignity 
 of your sacred calling — you have the eloquence 
 of the preacher. I can not cope with JMr. Dar- 
 rell — you can. He has a heart— it can be soft- 
 ened ; he has a soul— it can be freed from the 
 withes that tether it down ; he has the virtues 
 you can appeal to ; and he has the pride which 
 you, as a Christian minister, have the right to 
 prove to be a sin. I can not argue with him ; 
 I can not reprove the man to whom I owe so 
 much. All ranks of men and of mind should 
 be equal to you, the pastor, the divine, l^ou 
 ministers of the Gospel address yourselves un- 
 abashed to the poor, the hunable, the uninstruct- 
 ed. Did Heaven give you power and command- 
 ment over these alone ? Go, Preacher ! go ! 
 Speak with the same authority to the great, to 
 the haughty, to the wise !" 
 
 The old man's look and gesture were sublime. 
 
 The Preacher felt a thrill vibrate from his ear 
 to his heart ; but his reason was less affected 
 than his heart. He shook his head mournfully. 
 The task thus assigned to him was beyond the 
 limits which custom prescribes to the priest of 
 the English Church — dictation to a man not 
 even of his own flock, upon the closest affairs of 
 that man's own private hearth and home ! Our 
 society allows no such privilege ; and our so- 
 ciety is right. 
 
 Waife, watching his countenance, saw at once 
 what was passing in his mind, and resumed, as 
 if aTiswering George's own thought. 
 
 ' ' Ay, if you were but tJie commonplace priest ! 
 But you are something more ; you are the priest 
 specially endowed for all special purposes of 
 good. You have the mind to reason — the tongue 
 to persuade — the majestic earnestness of impas- 
 sioned zeal. Xor are you here the priest alone ; 
 you are here the friend, the confidant, of all for 
 whom you may exert your powers. Oh, George 
 Morley, I am a poor ignorant blunderer when 
 presuming to exhort yon as Christian minister; 
 but in your own words — I address you as man 
 and gentleman— you declared that ' thought and 
 zeal should not stammer whenever I said — Keep 
 your ]n-omise.' I say it now— Keejj faith to the 
 child you swore to me to befriend !" 
 
 " I will go — and at once," said George, rising. 
 "But be not sanguine. I see not a chance of 
 success. A man so superior to myself in years, 
 station, abilities, repute !" 
 
 "Where would be Christianity," said Waife, 
 " if the earliest preachers had raised such ques- 
 tions? There is a soldier's courage — is there 
 not a priest's ?" 
 
 George made no answer, but, with abstracted 
 eye, gathered brow, and slow meditative step, 
 quitted the room, and sought Guy Darrell. 
 
288 
 
 WliAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 BOOK XII. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The man of the World shows more indifference to the 
 things and doctrines of the World than might be sup- 
 posed. — Ijiit he vindicates liis character, which might 
 otiierwise be jeopardized, by the adroitness with which, 
 having resolved to roast cliestnuts in the ashes of an- 
 other raan"s hearth, he handles them when hottest by 
 the proxy of a — Cat's paw. 
 
 In the letter which George told Waife he had 
 received from his uncle, George had an excuse 
 for the delicate and arduous mission he under- 
 took, which he did not confide to the old man, 
 lest it should convey more hopes than its nature 
 justified. In this letter Alban related, with a 
 degree of feeling that he rarely manifested, his 
 farewell conversation with Lionel, who had just 
 departed to join his new regiment. The poor 
 young man had buoyed himself uj> with delight- 
 ed expectations of the result of Sophy's prolonged 
 residence under Darrell's roof; he had persuaded 
 his reason that when Darrell had been thus en- 
 abled to see and judge of her for himself, he 
 would be irresistibly attracted toward her ; that 
 Innocence, like Truth, would be mighty and 
 prevail ; — Darrell was engaged in the attempt 
 to clear William Losely's name and blood from 
 the taint of felony; — Alban was commissioned 
 to negotiate with Jasper Losely on any terms 
 that would remove all chance of future disgrace 
 from that quarter. Oh yes ! to poor Lionel's 
 eyes, obstacles vanished — the future became 
 clear. And thus, when, after telling him of 
 his final interview with the minister, Darrell 
 said, "I trust that, in bringing to William Lose- 
 ly this intelligence, I shall at least soften his 
 disappointment, when I make it thoroughly clear 
 to him how impossible it is that his Sophy can 
 ever be more to me — to us — than a stranger 
 whose virtues create an interest in her welfare" 
 — Lionel was stunned as by a blow. Scarcely 
 could he murmur — 
 
 " You have seen her — and your resolve re- 
 mains the same." 
 
 "Can you doubt it?" answered Darrell, as 
 if in surprise. "The resolve may now give me 
 pain on my account, as before it gave me pain 
 on yours. But if not moved by your pain, can 
 I be moved by mine ? That would be a base- 
 ness." 
 
 The Colonel, in depicting Lionel's state of 
 mind after the young soldier had written his 
 farewell to Waife, and previous to quitting Lon- 
 don, expressed very gloomy forebodings: " I do 
 not say," wrote he, "that Lionel will guiltily 
 seek death in the field, noi^ does death there 
 come more to those who seek than to those who 
 shun it ; but he will go Ufion a service exposed 
 to more than ordinary sntfering, ])rivation, and 
 disease — without that rallying power of hope — 
 that Will and Desire to Live, whicli constitute 
 the true stamina of Youth. And I have always 
 set a black mark upon those who go into war 
 joyless and despondent. Send a young fellow 
 to the camp with his spirits broken, his heart 
 
 heavy as a lump of lead, and the first of those 
 epidemics which thin ranks more than the can- 
 non says to itself, ' There is a man for me !' 
 Any doctor will tell you that, even at home, the 
 gay and light-hearted walk safe through the 
 pestilence, that settles on the moping as malaria 
 settles on a marsh. Confound Guy Darrell's 
 ancestors, they have spoiled Queen Victoria as 
 good a young soldier as ever wore sword. by his 
 side. Six months ago, and how blithely Li- 
 onel Haughton looked forth to the future I ' — all 
 laurel ! — no cypress ! And now, I feel as if I 
 had shaken hands with a victim sacrificed by 
 Superstition to the tombs of the dead. I can 
 not blame Darrell : I dare say in the same posi- 
 tion 1 might do the same. JBut no ; on second 
 thoughts I should not ! If Darrell does not 
 choose to marry and have sons of his own, he 
 has no right to load a poor boy with benefits, 
 and say, ' There is but one way to prove your 
 gratitude ; remember my ancestors, and be mis- 
 erable for the rest of your days !' Darrell, for- 
 sooth, intends to leave to Lionel the transmis- 
 sion of the old Darrell name ; and the old Dar- 
 rell name must not be tarnished by the marriage 
 on which Lionel has unluckily set his heart! I 
 respect the old name ; but it is not like the 
 House of Vipont — a British Institution. And 
 ■if some democratical cholera, which does not 
 care a rash for old names, caiTies off Lionel, 
 what becomes of tlie old name then ? Lionel 
 is not Darrell's son ; Lionel need not, perforce, 
 take the old name. Let the j'oung man live as 
 Lionel Haughton, and the old name die with 
 Guy Darrell ! 
 
 "As to the poor girl's birth and parentage, I 
 believe we shall never know them. I quite agree 
 with Darrell that it will be wisest never to in- 
 quire. But I dismiss, as far-fetched and improb- 
 able, his supposition that she is Gabrie'lle Des- 
 maret's daughter. To me it is infinitely more 
 likely, either that the deposition of the Nurse, 
 which poor Willy gave to Darrell, and which 
 Darrell showed to me, is true (only, that Jasper 
 was conniving at the temporary suspension of 
 his child's existence while it suited his purpose) 
 — or that, at the worst, this mysterious young 
 lady is the daughter of the artiste. In the for- 
 mer supposition, as I have said over and over 
 again, a marriage between Lionel and Sophy is 
 precisely that which Darrell should desire ; in 
 the latter case, of course, if Lionel were the head 
 of the House of Vipont, the idea of such a un- 
 ion would be inadmissible. But Lionel, enire 
 nous, is theson of a ruined spendthrift by a linen- 
 draper's daughter. And Darrell has but to give 
 the handsome young couple five or six thousand 
 a year, and I know the world well enough to 
 know that the world will trouble itself very little 
 about their pedigrees. And really Lionel should 
 be left wholly free to choose whether he prefer 
 a girl whom he loves with his whole heart, five 
 or six thousand a year, happiness, and the chance 
 of honors in a glorious profession to which he 
 
TVHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 289 
 
 vrill then look with glad spirits — or a life-long 
 misery, with the right, after Darrell's death — 
 that i hope will not be these thirty years — to 
 bear the name of Darrell instead of Haughton ; 
 which, if I were the last of the Haughtons, and 
 had any family pride — as, thank Heaven, I have 
 not — would be a painful exchange to me ; and 
 dearly-bought by the addition of some additional 
 thousands a year, when I had grown perhaps as 
 little disposed to spend them as Guy Darrell 
 himself is. But, after all, there is one I com- 
 passionate even more than young Haughton. 
 My morning rides of late have been much in 
 the direction of Twickenham, visiting our fair 
 cousin Lady Montfort. I went first to lecture 
 her for letting these young people see so much 
 of each other. But my anger melted into ad- 
 miration and sympathy when I found with what 
 tender, exquisite, matchless friendship she had 
 been ail the while scheming for Darrell's hap- 
 piness ; and with what remorse she now con- 
 templated the sorrow which a friendship so grate- 
 ful, and a belief so natural, had innocently oc- 
 casioned. That remorse is wearing her to death. 
 
 Dr. F , who attended poor dear Willy, is 
 
 also attending her; and he told me privately 
 that his skill was in vain — that her case baf- 
 fled him ; and he had very serious apprehen- 
 sions. Darrell owes some consideration to such 
 a friend. And to think that here are lives per- 
 manently imbittered, if not risked, by the ruth- 
 less obstinacy of the best-liearted man I ever 
 met I Now, though I have already intimated 
 my opinions to Darrell with a candor due to the 
 oldest and dearest of my friends, yet I have nev- 
 er, of course, in the letters I have written to 
 him, or the talk we have had together, spoken 
 out as plainly as I do in writing to you. And 
 having thus WTitten, without awe of his gray 
 eye and dark brow, I have half a mind to add — 
 'seize him in a happy moment and show him 
 this letter.' Yes, I give you full leave ; show it 
 to him if you think it would avail. If not, throw 
 it into the tire, and pray Heaven for those whom 
 we poor mortals can not serve." 
 
 On the envelope Alban had added these words 
 — "But, of course, before showing the inclosed, 
 you will prepare Darrell's mind to weigh its con- 
 tents." And probably it was in that curt and 
 simple injunction that the subtle man of the 
 world evinced the astuteness of which not a trace 
 was apparent in the body of his letter. 
 
 Though Alban's communication had mnch ex- 
 cited his nephew, yet George had not judged it 
 discreet to avail himself of the permission to 
 *how it to Darrell. It seemed to him that the 
 pride of his host would take much more oii'ense 
 at its transmission through the hands of a third 
 person than at the frank tone of its reasonings 
 and suggestions. And George had determined 
 to reinclose it to the Colonel, urging him to for- 
 ward it himself to Darrell just as it was, with 
 but a brief line to say, '"that, on reflection, Al- 
 ban submitted, direct to his old school-fellow, the 
 reasonings and apprehensions which he had so 
 unresenedly poured forth in a letter commenced 
 without the intention at which the writer arrived 
 at the close." But now that the preacher had 
 undertaken the duty of an advocate the letter 
 became his brief. 
 
 George passed throngh the library, through the 
 study, up the narrow stair that finally conducted 
 
 to the same lofty cell in which Darrell had con- 
 fronted the midnight robber who claimed a child 
 in Sophy. With a nervous hand George knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 Unaccustomed to any intrusion on the part of 
 guest or household in that solitaiw retreat, some- 
 what sharply, as if in anger, Darrell's voice ao- 
 swered the knock. 
 
 " Who's there ?" 
 
 "George Morley." 
 
 Darrell opened the door. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 " A good archer is not known by his arrows, bnt his aim." 
 '■A good man is no more to be feared than a sheep." 
 "A good surgeon must have an eagle's eye, a lion's 
 heart, and a lady's hand." "A good tongue is a good 
 weapon." And despite those suggestive or encoura- 
 ging proverbs, George Morley lias undertaken some- 
 thing so opposed to all proverbial philosophy, tliat it he- 
 comes a grave question what he will do with it. 
 
 "I COME," said George, "to ask yon one of 
 the greatest favors a man can confer upon an- 
 other ; it will take some little time to explain. 
 Are you at leisure?" 
 Darrell's brow relaxed. 
 
 " Seat yourself in comfort, my dear George. 
 If it be in my power to serve or to gratify Alban 
 ISIorley's nephew, it is I who receive a favor." 
 Darrell thought to himself, "the young man is 
 ambitious — I. may aid in his path toward a 
 See!" 
 
 George Moklet. "First let me say that I 
 would consult your intellect on a matter which 
 habitually attracts and engages mine — that old 
 vexed question of the origin and uses of Evil, 
 not only in the physical, but the moral world ; 
 it involves problems over which I would ponder 
 for hours as a boy — on which I wrote essays 
 as a schoolman — on which I perpetually collect 
 illustrations to fortify my views as a theolo- 
 gian." 
 
 "He is writing p Book," thought Darrell, 
 enviously ; "and a book on such a subject will 
 last him all his life. Happy man !" 
 
 George Morley. "The Pastor, you know, 
 is frequently consulted by the suff'ering and op- 
 pressed ; frequently called upon to answer that 
 question in which the skepticism of the humble 
 and the ignorant ordinarily begins — 'Why am I 
 suff'ering? Why am I oppressed? Is this the 
 justice of Providence ? Has the Great Father 
 that benign pity, that watchful care for his chil- 
 dren which you preachers tell us ?' Ever intent 
 on deducing examples from the lives to M'hich 
 the clew has become apparent, must be the 
 Priest who has to reason with Atiiiction caused 
 by no apparent fault ; and where, judged by the 
 canons of Human justice, cloud and darkness 
 obsctire the Divine — still to ' vindicate the ways 
 of God to man.' " 
 
 Darrell. " A philosophy that preceded, and 
 
 will outlive, all other schools. It is twin-born 
 
 with the worid itself. Go on ; though the theme 
 
 be inexhaustible, its interest never flags." 
 
 1 George Morlet. " Has it struck you, Mr. 
 
 ■ Darrell, that few lives have ever passed under 
 
 j your survey in which the inexpressible tender- 
 
 ' ness of the" Omniscient has been more visibly 
 
 J clear than in that of your guest William Losely ?" 
 
290 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 Daerell (surprised). "Clear? To me, I 
 confess that if ever there were an instance in 
 which the Divine tenderness, the Divine justice, 
 which I can never presume to doubt, was yet 
 undiscernible to my bounded vision, it is in the 
 instance of the very life you refer to. I see a 
 man of admirable virtues — of a childlike sim- 
 plicity of character, which makes him almost 
 unconscious of the grandeur of his own soul — 
 involved by a sublime self-sacrifice — by a virtue, 
 not by a fault — in the most dreadful of human 
 calamities — ignominious degradation ; — hurled 
 in the mid-day of life from the sphere of honest 
 men — a felon's brand on his name — a vagrant 
 in his age ; justice at last, but tardy and niggard, 
 and giving him but little joy when it arrives; 
 because, ever thinking only of others, his heart 
 is wrapped in a child whom he can not make 
 happy in the way in which his hopes have been 
 set! — George — no, your illustration might be 
 turned by a skeptic into an argument against 
 you." 
 
 George Morley. "Not unless the skeptic 
 refused the elementary starting-ground from 
 which you and I may reason ; not if it be 
 granted that Man has a soul, which it is the ob- 
 ject of this life to enrich and develop for an- 
 other. We know from my uncle what William 
 Losely was before this calamity befell him — a 
 genial boon-companion — a careless, frank, 'good 
 fellow' — all the virtues you now praise in him 
 dormant, unguessed even by himself. Sudden- 
 ly came Calamity! — suddenly arose the Soul! 
 Degradation of name, and with it dignity of 
 nature ? How poor, how slight, how insignifi- 
 cant William Losely, the hanger-on of rural 
 Thanes, compared with that William Waife 
 whose entrance into this house, you — despite 
 that felon's brand when you knew it was the 
 martyr's glory — greeted with noble reverence : 
 whom, when the mind itself was stricken down 
 — only the soul left to the wreck of the body — 
 you tendt'd with such pious care as he lay on 
 your father's bed ! And do you, who hold No- 
 bleness in such honor — do you, of all men, tell 
 me that you can not recognize that Celestial 
 tenderness which ennobled a Spirit for all Eter- 
 nity?" 
 
 " George, you are right!" cried Darrell ; " and 
 I was a blockhead and blunderer, as man always 
 is when he mistakes a speck in his telescope for 
 a blotch in the sun of a system." 
 
 Gkorge Morley. "But more difficult it is to 
 recognize the mysterious agencies of Heavenly 
 Love when no great worldly adversity forces us 
 to pause and question. Let Fortune strike down 
 a victim, and even the heathen cries 'This is 
 the hand of God !' But where Fortune brings 
 no vicissitude ; where her wheel runs smooth, 
 dropping wealth or honors as it rolls — where 
 Affliction centres its work within the secret, un- 
 revealing heart — there, even the wisest man 
 may not readily perceive by what means Heaven 
 is admonishing, forcing, or wooing him nearer 
 to itself. I take the case of a man in whom 
 Heaven acknowledges a favored son. I assume 
 his outward life crowned with successes, his 
 mind stored with opulent gifts, his natui'e en- 
 dowed with lofty virtues ; what an heir to train 
 through the brief school of earth for due place 
 in the ages that roll on forever! But this man 
 has a parasite weed in each bed of a soul rich 
 
 in flowers ; weed and flowers intertwined, stem 
 with stem — their fibres uniting even deep down 
 to the root. Can you not conceive with what 
 untiring vigilant care Heaven will seek to dis- 
 entangle the flower from the weed ? — how (drop- 
 ping inadequate metaphor) Heaven will select 
 for its warning chastisements that very error 
 which the man has so blent with his virtues that 
 he holds it a virtue itself? — how, gradually, 
 slowly, pertinaciously, it will gather this beau- 
 tiful nature all to itself — insist on a sacrifice it 
 would ask from no other? To complete the 
 true nature of poor William Losely, Heaven 
 ordained the sacrifice of worldly repute ; to 
 complete the true nature of Guy Darrell, God 
 ordains him the sacrifice of pride !" 
 
 Darrell started — half rose ; his eye flashed — 
 his cheek paled ; but he remained silent. 
 
 " I have approached the favor I supplicate," 
 resumed George, drawing a deep breath, as of 
 relief. " Greater favor man can scarcely bestow 
 upon his fellow. I entreat you to believe that I 
 respect, and love, and honor you sufficiently to 
 be for a while so lifted up into your friendship, 
 that I may claim the privilege, without which 
 friendship is but a form — just as no freedom is 
 more obnoxious than intrusion on confidence 
 withheW, so no favor, I repeat, more precious 
 than the confidence which a man of worth 
 vouchsafes to him who invites it with no claim 
 but the loyalty of his motives." 
 
 Said Darrell, softened, but with stateliness — 
 "All human lives are as separate circles; they 
 may touch at one point in friendly approach, 
 but, even where they touch, each rounds itself 
 from oft" the other. With this hint I am con- 
 tented to ask at what point in my circle you 
 would touch ?" 
 
 George Morley. "I thank you gratefully; 
 I accept yoiu- illustration. The point is touched; 
 I need no other." He paused a moment, as if 
 concentrating all his thoughts, and then said, 
 with musing accents — " Yes, I accept your ilUis- 
 tration ; I will even strengthen the force of the 
 truth implied in it by a more homely illustration 
 of my own. There are small skeleton abridg- 
 ments of history which we give to children. In 
 such a year a king was crowned — a battle was 
 fought ; there was some great disaster, or some 
 great triumph. Of the true progress and de- 
 velopment of the nation whose record is thus 
 epitomized — of the complicated causes which 
 lead to these salient events — of the animated, 
 varied, multitudinous life which has been hurry- 
 ing on from epoch to epoch, the abridgment 
 tells nothing. It is so with the life of each in-, 
 dividual man ; the life as it stands before us is 
 but a sterile epitome — hid from our sight the 
 emotions which are the People of the Heart. 
 In such a year occurred a visible something — a 
 gain — a loss — a success — a disappointment ; the 
 People of the Heart crowned or deposed a king. 
 This is all we know; and the most voluminous 
 biography ever written must still be a meagre 
 abridgment of all that really individualized and 
 formed a man. I ask not your confidence in a 
 single detail or fact in your existence which lies 
 beyond my sight. Far from me so curious an 
 insolence ; but I do ask you this — Reflecting on 
 your past life as a whole, have not your chief 
 sorrows had a common idiosyncrasy ? Have 
 they not been strangely directed toward the 
 
WHAT ATTLL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 291 
 
 frustration of some one single object — cherished 
 by your earliest hopes, and, as it in defiance of 
 fate, resolutely clunij to even now?" 
 
 "It is true," muttered Darrell. "You do 
 not offend me ; go on I" 
 
 " And have not these Sorrows, in frustrating 
 your object, often assumed, too, a certain uni- 
 formity in the weapons they use, in the quarter 
 they harass or invade, almost as if it were a 
 strategic policy that guided them where they 
 could most pain, or humble, or eject a Foe 
 that they were ordered to storm ? Degrade you 
 they could not ; such was not their mission. 
 Heaven left you intact a kingliness of nature — 
 a loftiness of spirit, unabased by assaults leveled 
 not against yourself, but your pride ; your per- 
 sonardignity, though singularly sensitive, though 
 bitterly galled, stood proof What might lower 
 lesser men, lowered not you ; Heaven left you 
 that dignity, for it belongs alike to your intellect 
 and vour virtues — but suffered it to be a source 
 of your anguish. Why? Because not content 
 with adorning your virtues, it was covering the 
 fault against which were directed the sorrows. 
 You frown — forgive me." 
 
 " You do not transgress unless it be as a flat- 
 terer ! If I frowned, it was unconsciously — the 
 sign of thought, not anger. Pause! — my mind 
 has left you for a moment ; it is looking into 
 the past." 
 
 The past ! — Was it not true ! That home to 
 whose porch came in time the Black Horses, in 
 time just to save from the last, worst dishonor, 
 but not save from years racked by each pang 
 that can harrow man's dignity in each daily 
 assault on the fort of man's pride ; the sly, treach- 
 erous daughter — her terrible marriage — the man 
 whose disgrace she had linked to her blood, and 
 whose life still was insult and threat to his own. 
 True, what a war upon Pride ! And even in 
 that secret and fatal love which had been of all 
 his griefs the most influential and enduring, had 
 his pride been less bitterly wounded, and that 
 pride less enthroned in his being, would his 
 grief have been so relentless, his attempts at its 
 conquest so vain? And then, even now — what 
 was it said, " I can bless" — holy Love ! What 
 was it said, " but not pardon" — stern Peide ! 
 And so on to these last revolutions of sterile 
 life. Was he not miserable in Lionel's and 
 Sophy's misery? Forlorn in that Citadel of 
 Pride — closed round and invested with Sorrows 
 — and the last Hopes that had fled to the for- 
 tress, slain in defense of its outworks. With 
 hand shading his face, Darrell remained some 
 minutes silent. At last he raised his head, and 
 his eye was steadfast, his lip firm. 
 
 "George Morley," said he, "I acknowledge 
 much justice in the censure you have conveyed, 
 with so artful a delicacy, that if it fail to reform 
 it can not displease, and leaves much to be seri- 
 ously revolved in solitary self-commune. But 
 though I may own that pride is not made for 
 man, and that in the blindness of human judg- 
 ment I may often have confounded pride with 
 duty, and suffered for the mistake, yet that one 
 prevailing object of my life, which with so start- 
 ling a truth you say it has pleased Heaven to 
 frustrate, I can not hold an error in itself. 
 You have learned enough fi'om your uncle, seen 
 enough of me yourself, to know what that ob- 
 ject has been. You are scholar enough to con- 
 
 cede to me that it is no ignoble homage which 
 either nations or persons render to the ancestral 
 ■Dead — that homage is an instinct in all but 
 vulgar and sordid natures. Has a man no an- 
 cestry of his own, rightly and justly, if himself 
 of worth, he appropriates to his lineage all the 
 heroes, and bards, and patriots of his fatherland ? 
 A free citizen has ancestors in all the glorious 
 chiefs that have adorned the state, on the sole 
 condition that he shall revere their tombs, and 
 guard their memon.- as a son I And thus, when- 
 ever they who speak trumpet-tongued to grand 
 democracies, would rouse some quailing genera- 
 tion to heroic deed or sacrifice, they ajjpeal in 
 the Name of Ancestors, and call upon the living 
 to be worthy of the dead! That which is so 
 laudable — nay, so necessarj' a sentiment in the 
 mass, can not be a fault that angers Heaven in 
 the man. Like all high sentiments, it may com- 
 pel harsh and rugged duties; it may need the 
 stern suppression of many a gentle impulse — of 
 many a pleasing wish. But we must regard it 
 in its merit and consistency as a whole. And 
 if, my eloquent and subtle friend, all yoti have 
 hitherto said be designed but to wind into 
 pleas for the same cause that I have already de- 
 cided against the advocate in my own heart 
 which sides with Lionel's generous love and j-oii 
 fair girl's ingenuous and touching grace, let us 
 break up the court : the judge has no choice but 
 the law which imperiously governs his judg- 
 ment." 
 
 George Morlet. "I have not hitherto pre- 
 sumed to apply to particular cases the general 
 argument you so indulgently allow me to urge 
 in favor of my theory, that in the world of the 
 human heart, when closely examined, there is 
 the same harmony of design as in the external 
 universe ; that in Fault and in Sorrow are the 
 axioms, and problems, and postulates of a sci- 
 ence. Bear with me a little longer if I still 
 pursue the same course of reasoning. I shall 
 not have the arrogance to argue a special in- 
 stance — to say, 'This you should do, this you 
 should not do.' All I would ask is, leave to 
 proffer a few more suggestions to your own 
 large and candid experience." 
 
 Said Darrell, irresistibly allured on, but with 
 a tinge of his grave irony, " You have the true 
 genius of the pulpit, and I concede to you its 
 rights. I will listen with the wish to profit — 
 the more susceptible of conviction, because freed 
 from the necessity to reply." 
 
 George Morlet. " You vindicate the ob- 
 ject which has been the main ambition of your 
 life. You say ' not an ignoble object.' Truly I 
 ignoble objects are not for you. The questicn 
 is, are there not objects nobler, which should 
 have attained higher value, and led to larger 
 results in the soul which Providence assigned 
 to you ; was not the proper place of the object 
 you vindicate that of an auxiliaiw — a subordin- 
 ate, rather than that of the all-directing seif- 
 suilicing leader and autocrat of such varioi:s 
 powers of mind? I picture you to myself — a 
 lone, bold-hearted boy— in this ancient hall, 
 amidst these primitive landscapes, in which old 
 associations are so little disturbed by the mod- 
 ern — in which the wild turf of waste lands, van- 
 ishing deep into mazes of solemn wood, lend 
 the scene to dreams of gone days — bring Ad- 
 venture and Knighthood, and all the poetical 
 
292 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 colors of Eld to unite the homage due to the 
 ancestral dead with the future ambition of 
 life; — Image full of interest and of jjathos — a 
 friendless child of a race more beloved for its 
 decay, looking dauntless on to poverty and toil, 
 with that conviction of power which is born of 
 collected purpose and earnest wiM ; and record- 
 ing his secret vow, that single-handed he will 
 undo the work of destroying ages, and restore 
 his line to its place of honor in the land!" 
 
 George paused, and tears stood in Darrell's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Yes," resumed the scholar — "yes, for the 
 child, for the youth, for the man in his first 
 daring stride into the Action of Life, that object 
 commands our respectful sympathies. But wait 
 a few years. Has that object expanded ? Has 
 it led on into objects embracing humanity? 
 Remains it alone and sterile in tlie bosom of 
 successful genius? Or is it prolific and fruit- 
 ful of grander designs — of more wide-spread- 
 ing uses ? Make genius successful, and all 
 men have the right to say, ' Brother, help us !' 
 What ! no other object still but to build up a 
 house ! — to i-ecover a line ! What was grand at 
 one stage of an onward career is narrow and 
 small at another! Ambition limited to the rise 
 of a family ! Can our symjjathies still hallow 
 tliat ! No ! In Guy Uarrell successful — that 
 ambition was treason to earth! IMankind was 
 his family now ! Therefore Heaven thwarted 
 the object which opposed its own ends in creating 
 you! Therefore childless you stand on your 
 desolate hearth! — Therefore, lo! side by side 
 — von uncompleted pile — ^your own uncompleted 
 life !" 
 
 Darrell sate dumb. — He was appalled ! 
 
 George IMorley. "Has not that object stint- 
 ed your very intellect? Has it not, while baf- 
 fled in its own centred aim — has it not robbed 
 you of the glory which youth craved, and which 
 manhood might have Vvon ? Idolater to the creed 
 of an Ancestor's Name, has your own name that 
 hold on the grateful respect of the Future which 
 men ever give to that genius whose objects are 
 knit with mankind? Suddenly, in the zenith 
 of life, amidst cheers, not of genuine renown — 
 cheers loud and brief as a mob's hurrah — calam- 
 ities, all of which I know not nor conjecture, in- 
 terrupt your career ; and when your own life- 
 long object is arrested, or rather when it is 
 snatched from your eye, your genius renounces 
 all uses. Fame, ever-duriug, was before you 
 still, had your objects been those for which 
 genius is given. You muse. Heaven permits 
 these rude words to strike home ! Guy Darrell, 
 it is not too late ! Heaven's warnings are al- 
 ways in time ! Reflect, with the one narrow 
 object was fostered and fed the one master fail- 
 ing of Bride. To us, as Christians or as rea- 
 soiiers, it is not in this world that every duty is 
 to find its special meed ; yet by that same mys- 
 tical LAW which makes Science of Sorrow, re- 
 wards are but often the normal eflfect of duties 
 sublimely fulfilled. Out of your pride and your 
 one-cherished object has there grown hajipi- 
 ness ? Has the success which was not denied 
 you achieved the link with ])Osterrty that your 
 hand, if not fettered, would long since have 
 forged ? Grant that Heaven says, ' Stubborn 
 child, yield at last to the warnings that came 
 from my love ! From a son so favored and 
 
 strong I exact the most difficult offering ! Thou 
 hast sacrificed much, but for ends not prescribed 
 in my law ; sacrifice now to me the thing thou 
 most clingest to — Bride. I make the pang I 
 demand purjiosely bitter. I twine round the 
 ottering I ask tlie fibres that bleed in relaxing. 
 What to other men would be no duty is duty to 
 thee, because it entails a triumphant self-con- 
 quest, and pays to Humanity the arrears of just 
 dues long neglected.' Grant the hard sacrifice 
 made ; I must think Heaven has ends for your 
 joy even here, when it asks you to part with the 
 cause of your sorrows ; I must think that your 
 evening of life may have sunshine denied to its 
 noon. But with God are no bargains. A vir- 
 tue, the more arduous because it must trample 
 down what your life has exalted as virtue, is 
 before you — distasteful, austere, repellant. The 
 most inviting arguments in its favor are that it 
 proffers no bribes ; men would acquit you in re- 
 jecting it ; judged by our world's ordinary rule, 
 men would be right in acquitting you. ]3ut if, 
 on reflection, you say in your heart of hearts, 
 ' This is a virtue,' you will follow its noiseless 
 path up to the smile of God!" 
 
 The Breacher ceased. 
 
 Darrell breathed a long sigh, rose slowly, took 
 George's hand, pressed it warmly in both his 
 own, and turned quickly and silently away. He 
 paused in the deep recess, where the gleam of 
 the wintry sun shot through the small casement, 
 aslant and pale, on the massive wall. Ojjening 
 the lattice, he looked forth on the old hereditary 
 trees — on the Gothic church-tower — on the dark 
 evergreens that belted his father's tomb. Again 
 he sighed, but this time the sigh had a haughty 
 sound in its abrupt impatience ; and George felt 
 that words written must remain to strengthen 
 and confirm the effect of words spoken. He 
 had at least obeyed his uncle's wise injunction 
 — he had prepared Darrell's mind to weigh the 
 contents of a letter, which, given in the first in- 
 stance, would perhaps have rendered Darrell's 
 resolution not less stubborn, by increasing the 
 pain to himself which the resolution already in- 
 flicted. 
 
 Darrell turned, and looked toward George, 
 as if in surprise to see him still lingering there. 
 
 " I have now but to place before you this let- 
 ter from my uncle to myself; it enters into those 
 details which it would have misbecome me spe- 
 cially to discuss. Remember, I entreat you, in 
 reading it, that it is written by your oldest friend 
 — by a man who has no dull discrimination in 
 the perplexities of life, or the niceties of hon- 
 or." 
 
 Darrell bowed his head in assent, and took 
 the letter. George was about to leave the 
 room. 
 
 "Stay," said Darrell, "'tis best to have but 
 one interview — one conversation on the subject 
 which has been just enforced on me ; and the 
 letter may need a comment, or a message to 
 your uncle." He stood hesitating, with the let- 
 ter open in his hand ; and, fixing his keen eye 
 on George's pale and powerful countenance, 
 said, " How is it that, with an experience of 
 mankind, which you will pardon me for assum- 
 ing to be limited, you yet rend so wondrously 
 the complicated human heart?" 
 
 "If I really have tiiat gift." said George, "I 
 will answer your question by another: Is it 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT I 
 
 293 
 
 through experience that we learn to read the 
 human heart — or is it through sympathy? If it 
 he experience, what becomes of the Poet? If 
 the Poet be born, not made, is it not because he 
 is born to sympathize with what he has never 
 experienced?" 
 
 "I see! There are bom Preachers I" 
 Darrell reseated himself, and began Alban's 
 letter. He was evidently moved by the Colo- 
 nel's account of Lionel's grief — muttering to 
 himself, '-Poor boy I — but he is brave — he is 
 young." When he came to Alban's forebod- 
 ings, on the eftects of dejection upon the stam- 
 ina of life, he pressed his hand quickly against 
 his breast as if he had received a shock I He 
 mused a while before he resumed his task : then 
 he read rapidly and silently till his face flushed, 
 and he repeated in a hollow tone, inexpressibly 
 mournful, '"'Let the young man live, and the 
 old name die with Guy Darrell.' Ay. ay ! see 
 how the world sides with Youth ! What mat- 
 ters all else so that Youth have its toy I" Again 
 his eye hurried on impatiently till he came to 
 the passage devoted to Lady Montfort; then 
 George saw that the paper trembled violently in 
 his hand, and that his very lips grew white. 
 "'Serious apprehensions,'" he muttered. '"I 
 owe 'consideration to such a friend.' This 
 man is without a heart I" 
 
 He clenched the paper in his hand without 
 reading farther. "Leave me this letter, 
 George ; I will give an answer to that and to 
 you before night." He caught up his hat as he 
 spoke, passed into the lifeless picture-gallery, 
 and so out into the open air. George, dubious 
 and anxious, gained the solitude of bis own 
 room, and locked the door. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 At last, the great Qnestion br Torture is fairly applied 
 to Guy Darrell. 
 
 What m-ill he do -vriTH it? What will 
 Guy Darrell do with the thought that weighs on 
 his brain, rankles in his heart, perplexes his du- 
 bious conscience? "\^^lat will he do with the 
 Law which has governed his past life ? What 
 will he do with that shadow of a Xajie, which, 
 alike in swarming crowds or in lonely burial- 
 places, has spelled his eye and lured his step as 
 a beckoning ghost ? What will he do with the 
 Pride from which the mask has been so mdely 
 torn? What will he do with idols s'o long re- 
 vered ? Are they idols, or are they but symbols 
 and images of holy truths ? What will he do 
 with the torturing problem, on the solution of 
 which depend the honor due to consecrated 
 ashes, and the rights due to beating hearts ? 
 There, restless he goes, the arrow of that ques- 
 tion in his side — now through the broad waste 
 lands — now through the dim woods, pausing oft 
 with short quick sigh, with hand swept across 
 his brow as if to clear away a cloud ; — now 
 snatched from our sight by the evergreens round 
 the tomb in that still church-yard — now emerg- 
 ing slow, with melancholy eyes fixed on the old 
 roof-tree I What will he do with it ? The 
 Question of Questions in which all Futurity is 
 opened, has him on its rack. What ■vtill he 
 DO WITH IT ? Let us see. 
 
 Immnnis aram, fi tetigit maaas, 
 
 Non suniptuosa blandior hostia, 
 JlolUvit aversas Penates, 
 Farre pio et saliente mica Hobat. 
 
 It is the gray of the evening. Fairthom is 
 sauntering somewhat sullenly along the banks 
 of the lake. He has missed, the last three dars, 
 his walk with Sophy — missed the pleasing ex- 
 citement of talking at her, and of the familv in 
 whose obsolete glories he considers her verj- 
 interest an obtrusive impertinence. He has 
 missed, too, his more habitual and less irritat- 
 ing conversation with Darrell. In short, alto- 
 gether he is put out. and he vents his spleen on 
 the swans, who foHow him along the wave as 
 he walks along the margin, iniiraatino- either 
 their aflection for himself, or their anticipation 
 of the bread crumbs associated with his image 
 — by the amiable note, half snort and half 
 grunt, to which change of time or climate has 
 reduced the vocal accomplishments of those 
 classical birds, so pathetically melodious in the 
 age of Moschus and on the banks of Cayster. 
 
 "Xot a crumb, you nnprincipled beggars," 
 growled the musician. "You imagine that 
 mankind are to have no other thought but that 
 of supplying you with luxuries! And if yon 
 were asked, in a competitive examination, to 
 define me, your benefactor, you would say — 'A 
 thing very low in the scale of creation, without 
 wings or even feathers, but which Proridence 
 endowed with a peculiar instinct for aflbrding 
 nutritious and palatable additions to the ordi- 
 nary aliment of Swans I' Ay, you may grunt ; 
 I wish I had you — in a pie I" 
 
 Slowly, out through the gap between yon gray 
 crag and the thorn-tree, paces the doe, halting 
 to drink just where the faint star of eve shoots 
 its gleam along the wave. The musician for- 
 gets the swans and quickens his pace, expecting 
 to meet the doe's wonted companion. He is 
 not disappointed. He comes on Guy Darrell 
 where the twilight shadow falls darkest between 
 the gray crag and the thorn-tree. 
 
 "Dear Fellow Hermit," said Darrell, almost 
 gayly, yet with more than usual affection in his 
 greeting and voice, "yon find me just when I 
 want you. I am as one whose eyes have been 
 strained by a riolent conflict of colors, and your 
 quiet presence is like the relief of a return to 
 green. I have news for you, Fairthorn. You, 
 who know more of my secrets than any other 
 man, shall be the first to learn a decision that 
 must bind you and me more together — but not 
 in these scenes, Dick. 
 
 ' Ibimus — ibimns! 
 -Supremum 
 
 Carpere iter, comites, parati ." " 
 
 "What do you mean, Sir?" asked Fairthom. 
 " !My mind always misgives me when I hear 
 you quoting Horace. Some reflection about the 
 certainty of death, or other disagreeable sub- 
 jects is sure to follow!" 
 
 "Death! No. Dick — not now. Marriage- 
 bells and jov, Dick! We shall have a wed- 
 ding !" 
 
 " What ! Yoit will marry at last ! And it 
 must be that beautiful Caroline Lyndsay ! It 
 must — it must! You can never love another! 
 You know it, my dear, dear master! I shall 
 see you, then, happy before I die." 
 
294 
 
 WHAT '«*ILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 "Tut, foolish old friend 1" said Darrell, lean- 
 ing; his arm tenderly on Fairthorn's shoulder, 
 and walking on slowly toward the house. '• How 
 often must I tell you that no maiTiage-bells can 
 ring for me I" 
 
 "But you have told me, too, that you went 
 to Twickenham to steal a sight of her again ; 
 and that it was the sight of her that made you 
 resolve to wed no one else. And when I have 
 railed against her for fickleness, have not you 
 nearly frightened me out of my wits, as if no 
 one might rail against her but youi-self ? And 
 now she is free — and did you not grant that she 
 would not refuse your hand, and would be true 
 and faithful henceforth ? And yet you insist 
 on being — granite 1" 
 
 " No, Dick, not granite ; I wish I were I" 
 
 " Granite and pride," persisted Dick, coura- 
 geously. " If one chips a bit off the one, one 
 only breaks one's spade against the other." 
 
 " Pride I — you too I" muttered Darrell, mourn- 
 fully; then aloud, ''Xo, it is not pride now, 
 whatever it mi^^ht have been even yesterday. 
 But I would rather be racked by all the tortures 
 that pious inquisitors ever invented out of com- 
 passion for obstinate heretics, than condemn the 
 woman I have so fatally loved to a penance the 
 misery of which she can not foresee. She would 
 accept me ? — certainly 1 Why ? Because she 
 thinks she owes me reparation — because she 
 pities me. And my heart tells me that I might 
 become cruel, and mean, and vindictive, if I 
 were to live day b\' day with one who created in 
 me, while my life was at noon, a love never 
 known in its morn, and to feel that that love's 
 sole return was the pity vouchsafed to the night- 
 fall of my age. 2S'o ; if she pitied, but did not 
 love me, when, eighteen years ago, we parted 
 under yonder beech-tree, I should be a dotard 
 to dream that woman's pity mellows into love as 
 our locks become gray, and Youth turns our 
 TOWS into ridicule. It is not pride that speaks 
 here ; it is rather humility, Dick I But we must 
 not now talk of old age and by-gones. Youth 
 and marriage-bells, Dick ! Know that I have 
 been for hours pondering how to reconcile with 
 my old-fashioned notions dear Lionel's happi- 
 ness. We must think of the li\"ing as well as 
 the dead, Dick. I have solved the problem. I 
 am happy, and so shall the young folks be." 
 
 "You don't mean to say that you will con- 
 sent to — " 
 
 " Yes, to Lionel's marriage with that beauti- 
 ful girl, whose parentage we never will ask. 
 Great men are their own ancestors ; why not 
 sometimes fair women ? Enough — I consent I 
 I shall of course secure to my kinsman and his 
 bride an ample fortune. Lionel will have time 
 for his honeymoon before he departs for the 
 wars. He will fight with good heart now, Dick. 
 Young folks of the present day can not bear up 
 against sorrow as they were trained to do in 
 mine. And that amiable lady who has so much 
 pity for me, has, of course, still more pity for a 
 cliarming young couple for whose marriage she 
 schemed, in order to give me a liome, Dick. 
 And rather than she should pine and fall ill, 
 and — no matter ; all shall be settled as it should 
 be for the happiness of the living. But some- 
 
 1 thing else must be settled ; we must think of 
 the dead as well as the living; and this name 
 
 i of Darrell shall be buried with me in the grave 
 
 j beside my father's. Lionel Haughton will keep 
 
 i to his own name. Live the HaughtonsI Per- 
 ish, but with no blot on their shield — perish the 
 
 JDarrells: Why, what is that? Tears, Dick? 
 Pooh ! — be a man 1 And I want all your 
 strength ; for you, too, must have a share in the 
 sacrifice. What follows is not the dictate of 
 pride, if I ca?i read myself aright. No; it is the 
 
 '. final completion and surrender of the object on 
 which so much of my life has been wasted — but 
 
 , a surrender that satisfies my crotchets of honor. 
 At all events, if it be pride in disguise, it will 
 
 ! demand no victim in others ; you and I may 
 have a sharp pang — we must bear it, Dit!k." 
 
 I " What on eai'th is coming now ?" said Dick, 
 
 , dolefully. 
 
 "The due to the dead, Richard Fairthorn. 
 
 I This nook of fair England, in which I learned 
 from the dead to love honor — this poor domain 
 
 I of Fawley — shall go in bequest to the College 
 at which I was reared." 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " It will serve for a fellowship or two to hon- 
 est, brave-hearted young scholars. It will be 
 thus, while English institutions may last, de- 
 voted to Learning and Honor. It may sustain 
 for mankind some ambition more generous than 
 mine, it appears, ever was — settled thus, not in 
 mine, but my dear father's name, like the Dar- 
 rell Mtiseum. These are my dues to the dead, 
 Dick I And the old house thus becomes use- 
 less. The new house was ever a folly. They 
 must go down both, as soon as the young foll^ 
 are married ; not a stone stand on stone I The 
 plowshare shall pass over their sites! And 
 this task I order you to see done. I have not 
 strength. You will then hasten to join me at 
 Sorrento, that corner of earth on which Horace 
 Mished to breathe his last sigh. 
 
 'lUe te mecam locus et beatae 
 Postulant arces — ibi — tu — '" 
 
 " Don't, Sir, don't. Horace again ! It is too 
 , much." Fairthorn was choking ; but as if the 
 ' idea presented to him was really too monstrous 
 I for belief, he clutched at DaiTell with so uncer- 
 I tain and vehement a hand that he almost caught 
 him by the throat, and sobbed out, " You must 
 be joking." 
 
 " Seriousl}- and solemnly, Richard Fairthorn," 
 
 I said Dartell, gently disentangling the fingers 
 
 i that threatened him with strangulation. " Se- 
 
 { riously and solemnly I have uttered to yoa my 
 
 deliberate purpose. I implore you, in the name 
 
 of our lifelong friendship, to face this pain as I 
 
 do — resolutely, cheerfully. I implore you to 
 
 execute to the letter the instructions I shall 
 
 leave with you on quitting England, which I 
 
 shall do the day Lionel is married; and then, 
 
 dear old friend, calm days, clear consciences. 
 
 In climes where whole races have passed away 
 
 — proud cities themselves sunk in graves — where 
 
 our petty grief for a squirearch's lost house we 
 
 shall both grow ashamed to indulge — there we 
 
 will moralize, rail against vain dreams and idle 
 
 I pride, cultivate vines and orange-trees, with 
 
 1 Horace — nay, nay, Dick — viiih. the Flcxe I" 
 
WHAT "STILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 More bounteous run rivers when the ice that locked their ) 
 flow melts into their water?. And when fine natures I 
 relent, their kindness is swelled by the thaw. 
 
 Dakrell escaped into the house ; Fairthom 
 sunk upon the ground, and resigned himself for 
 some minutes to unmanly lamentations. Sud- 
 denly he started up; a thought came into his 
 brain — a hope into his breast. He made a ca- 
 per — launched himself into a precipitate zigzag 
 —gained the hall-door — plunged into his o^vn 
 mysterious hiding-place — and in less than an 
 hour re-emerged, a letter in his hand, with which 
 he had just time to catch the postman, as that 
 functionary was striding off from the back-yard 
 with the official bag. 
 
 This exploit performed, Fairthom shambled 
 into his chair at the dinner-table, as George 
 Morley concluded the grace which preceded the 
 meal that, in Fairthorn's estimation, usually 
 made the grand event of the passing day. But 
 the poor man's appetite was gone. As Sophy 
 dined with Waife, the Morleys alone shared, 
 with host and secretary, the melancholy enter- 
 tainment. George was no less silent than Fair- 
 thorn ; Darrell's manner perplexed him. ]Mrs. 
 ilorley, not admitted into her husband's confi- 
 dence in secrets that concerned others, though 
 in all his own he was to her conjugal sight pel- 
 htcidhr vitro, was the chief talker; and, being 
 the best woman in the world, ever wishing to 
 say something pleasant, she fell to praising the 
 dear old family pictures that scowled at her 
 from the wall, and informed Fairthorn that she 
 had made great progress with her sketch of the 
 old house as seen from the lake, and was in 
 doubt whether she should introduce in the fore- 
 ground some figures of the olden time, as in 
 Nash's Views of Baronial Mansions. But not 
 a word could she coax out of Fairthorn; and 
 when she turned to appeal to Darrell, the host 
 suddenly addressed to George a question as to 
 the texts and authorities by which the Papal 
 Church defends its doctrine of Purgatory. That 
 entailed a long, and no doubt erudite, reply, 
 which lasted not only through the rest of the 
 dinner, but till ISIrs. Morley, edified by the dis- 
 course, and delighted to notice the undeviating 
 attention which Darrell paid to her distinguish- 
 ed spouse, took advantage of the first full stop, 
 and retired. Fairthom finished his bottle of 
 port, and, far from convinced that there was no 
 Purgato'iy, but inclined to advance the novel 
 heresy that Purgatory sometimes commenced 
 on this side the grave — slinked away, and was 
 seen no more that night ; neither was his flute 
 heard. 
 
 Then Darrell rose, and said, "I shall go up 
 stairs to our sick friend for a few minutes ; may 
 I find you here when 1 come back? Your visit 
 to him can follow mine." 
 
 On entering Waife's room, Darrell went 
 straight forward toward Sophy, and cut off her 
 retreat. 
 
 "Fair guest," said he, with a grace and ten- 
 derness of manner which, when he pleased it, 
 could be ineffably bewitching — '' teach me some 
 art by which in future rather to detain than to 
 scare away the presence in which a duller age 
 than mine could still recognize the charms that 
 subdue the young." He led her back gently to 
 the seat she had deserted — placed himself next 
 
 to her — addressed a few cordial queries to "Waife 
 about his health and comforts — and then said, 
 "You must not leave me for some days yet. I 
 have written by this post to my kinsman, Lionel 
 Haughton. I have refused to be his embassa- 
 dor at a court in which, by all the laws of na- 
 tions, he is bound to submit himself to his con- 
 queror. I can not even hope that he may escape 
 with his freedom. No I chains for life ! Thrice 
 happy, indeed, if that be the merciful sentence 
 you inflict." 
 
 He raised Sophy's hand to his lips as he end- 
 ed, and before she could even quite comprehend 
 the meaning of his words — so was she startled, 
 confused, incredulous of such sudden change in 
 fate — the door had closed on Darrell, and Waife 
 had clasped her to his breast, murmuring, "Is 
 not Providence kind?" 
 
 Darrell rejoined the scholar. " George," said 
 he, "be kind enough to tell Alban that you 
 showed me his letter. Be kind enough also to 
 write to Lady Montfort. and say that I grate- 
 fully acknowledge her wish to repair to me those 
 losses which have left me to face age and the 
 grave alone. Tell her that her old friend (yoa 
 remember, George, I knew her as a child) sees 
 in that wish the same sweet goodness of heart 
 which soothed him when his son died and his 
 daughter fled. Add that her wish is gratified. 
 To that maiTiage, in which she compassionately 
 foresaw the best solace left to my bereaved and 
 bafiled existence — to that marriage I give my 
 consent." 
 
 " You do I Oh, Mr. Darrell, how I honor 
 you 1" 
 
 "Nay, I no more deserve honor for consent- 
 ing than I should have deserved contempt if I 
 had continued to refuse. To do what I deem- 
 ed right is not more my wish now than it was 
 twelve hours ago. To what so sudden a change 
 of resolve in one who changes resolves very rare- 
 ly, may be due, whether to Lady Montfort, to 
 Alban, or to that metaphysical skill with which 
 you wound into my reason, and compelled me 
 to review all its judgments, I do not attempt to 
 determine ; yet I thought I had no option but 
 the course I had tclken. No ; it is fair to your- 
 self to give you the chief credit ; you made me 
 desire, you made me resolve, to find an option 
 — I have found one. And now pay your visit 
 where mine has been just paid. It will be three 
 days, I suppose, before Lionel, having joined 
 his new regiment at * * * *, can be here. And 
 then it will be weeks yet, I believe, before his 
 regiment sails ; — a^d I'm all for short court- 
 ships." 
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 Fairthom frightens Sophv. Sir,Isaac is invited by Dar- 
 rell, and forms one of a Family Circle. 
 
 SrcH a sweet voice in sinking breaks out from 
 yon leafless beeches I Waife hears it at noon 
 ifrom his window. Hark ! Sophy has found song 
 once more. 
 
 She is seated on a garden bench, looking 
 across the lake toward the gloomy old !Manor 
 House and the tall spectre-palace beside it. 3Irs. 
 Morley is also on the bench, hard at work on 
 her sketch ; Fairthom prowls through the thick- 
 ets behind, wandering restless and wretched, 
 
296 
 
 ■WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 and wrathful beyond all words to describe. He 
 hears that voice singing; he stops short, per- 
 fectly rabid with indignation. "Singing," he 
 muttered, " singing in triumph, and glowering 
 at the very House she dooms to destruction. 
 Worse than Xero striking his lyre amidst the 
 conflagi-ation of Rome !" 
 
 By-and-by Sophy, who somehow or other can 
 not sit long in any place, and tires that day of 
 any companion, wanders away from the lake, 
 and comes right upon Fairthorn. Hailing, in 
 her unutterable secret bliss, the musician who 
 had so often joined her rambles in the days of 
 unuttered secret sadness, she sprang toward 
 hira with welcome and mirth in a face that 
 would have lured Diogenes out of his tub. 
 Fairthorn recoiled sidelong, growling forth, 
 " Don't — you had better not I" — grinned the 
 most savage grin, showing all his teeth like a 
 wolf; and as she stood, mute with wonder, per- 
 haps with fright, he slunk edgewise off, as if 
 aware of his own murderous inclinations, turn- 
 ing his head more than once, and shaking it at 
 her; then, with the wonted mystery which en- 
 veloped his exits, he was gone I — vanished be- 
 hind a crag, or amidst a bush, or into a hole — 
 Heaven knows ; but like the lady in the Siege 
 of Corinth, who warned the renegade Alp of 
 his approaching end, he was " gone." 
 
 Twice again that day Sophy encountered the 
 enraged musician ; each time the same mena- 
 cing aspect and weird disappearance. 
 
 " Is Jlr. Fairthorn ever a little — odd ?" asked 
 Sophy, timidly, of George ilorley. 
 
 •' Always," answered George, dryly. 
 
 Sophy felt relieved at that reply. Whatever 
 is habitual in a man's manner, however un- 
 pleasant, is seldom formidable. Still Sophy 
 could not help saying, 
 
 *' I wish poor Sir Isaac were here I" 
 
 "Do you?" said a soft voice behind her; 
 " and, pray, who is Sir Isaac ?" 
 
 The Speaker was Darrell, who had come forth 
 with the resolute intent to see more of Sophy, 
 and make himself as amiably social as he could. 
 Guy Darrell could never be kind by halves. 
 
 " Sir Isaac is the wonderful dog you have 
 heard me describe," replied George. 
 
 " Would he hurt my doe if he came here?" 
 asked Darrell. 
 
 " Oh no," cried Sophy ; " he never hurts any 
 thing. He once found a wounded hare, and he 
 brought it in his mouth to us so tenderly, and 
 seemed so anxious that we should cure it, which 
 grandfather did, and the hare would sometimes 
 hurt him, but he never hurt the hare." 
 
 Said George, sonorously, 
 
 " Ingeniias didicisse fideliter artes 
 KmoUit mores, nee sinit esse feros." 
 
 DaiTcU drew Sophy's arm into his own. 
 "Will you walk back to the lake with me," 
 said he, "and help me to feed the swans? 
 George, send your servant express for Sir Isaac. 
 I am impatient to make his acquaintance." 
 
 Sophy's hand involuntarily pressed Darrell's 
 arm. She looked up into his face with inno- 
 cent, joyous gratitude ; feeling at once, and as 
 by magic, that her awe of him was gone. 
 
 Darrell and Sophy rambled thus together for 
 more than an hour. He sought to draw out her 
 mind, unaware to herself; he succeeded. He 
 was struck with a certain simple poctiy of 
 
 thought which pen^aded her ideas — not artifi- 
 cial sentimentality, but a natural tendency to 
 detect in all life a something of delicate or 
 beautiful which lies hid from the ordinary 
 sense. He found, thanks to Lady Montfort, 
 that, though far from learned, she was more ac- 
 quainted with literature than he had supposed. 
 And sometimes he changed color, or breathed 
 his short, quick sigh when he recognized her 
 familiarity with passages in his favorite authors 
 which he himself had commended, or read aloud, 
 to the Caroline of old. 
 
 The next day Waife, who seemed now recov- 
 ered as by enchantment, walked forth with 
 George, Darrell again ^Wth Sophy. Sir Isaac 
 arrived — immense joy ; the doe butts Sir Isaac, 
 who, retreating, stands on his hind legs^ and, 
 having possessed himself of Waife 's crutch, pre- 
 sents fire ; the doe in her turn retreats ; half 
 an hour afterward doe and dog are friends. 
 
 Waife is induced, without much persuasion, 
 to join the rest of the party at dinner. In the 
 evening all (Fairthorn excepted) draw round 
 the fire. Waife is entreated by George to read 
 a scene or two out of Shakspeare. He selects 
 the latter portion of " King Lear." Darrell, 
 who never was a play-goer, and who, to his 
 shame be it said, had looked verj- little into 
 Shakspeare since he left college, was wonder- 
 struck. He himself read beautifully — all great 
 orators, I suppose, do ; but his talent was not 
 mimetic — not imitative ; he could never have 
 been an actor — never thrown himself into ex- 
 istences wholly alien or repugnant to his own. 
 Grave or gay, stern or kind, Guy Darrell, though 
 often varying, was always Guy Darrell. 
 
 But when Waife was once in that magical 
 world of art, Waife was gone — nothing left of 
 him ; the part lived as if there were no actor to 
 it ; it icas tlie Fool — it avas Lear. 
 
 For the first time Darrell felt what a grand 
 creature a grand actor really is — what a lumin- 
 ous, unconscious critic bringing out beauties of 
 which no commentator ever dreamed! When 
 the reading was over talk still flowed; the 
 gloomy old hearth knew the charm of a home- 
 circle. All started incredulous when the clock 
 struck one. Just as Sophy was passing to the 
 door, out from behind the window-curtain glared 
 a vindictive, spiteful eye. Fairthorn made a 
 mow at her, which 'tis a pity Waife did not see 
 - — it would have been a study for Cahban. She 
 uttered a little scream. 
 
 " ^^^lat's the matter?" cried the host. 
 
 " Xothing," said she, quickly — far too gener- 
 ous to betray the hostile oddities of the musi- 
 cian. " Sir Isaac was in my way — that was 
 all." 
 
 " Another evening we must have Fairthorn's 
 flute," said Darrell. '"What a pity he was not 
 here to-night I — he would have enjoyed such 
 reading — no one more." 
 
 Said Mrs. Morley, "He was here once or 
 twice during the evening; but he vanished I" 
 
 " Vanishing seems his forte," said George. 
 
 Darrell looked annoyed. It was his peculiar- 
 ity to resent any jest, however slight, against an 
 absent friend ; and at that moment his heart 
 was perhaps more warmed toward Dick Fair- 
 thorn than to any man living. If he had not 
 determined to be as amiable and mild toward 
 his guests as his nature would permit, probably 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 29.7 
 
 Georize mijrlit have had the flip of a sarcasm 
 which would have tingled for a month. But as 
 it was, Darrell contented himself with saying, 
 gravely, 
 
 " 2\o, George ; Fairthorn's foible is vanishing 
 — his forte is fidelity. If my fortune were to 
 vanish, Fairthorn would never disappear; and 
 that's more than I would say if I were a King, 
 and Fairthorn — a Bishop!" 
 
 After that extraordinary figure of speech 
 "Good-nights" were somewhat hastily ex- 
 changed; and Fairthorn was left behind the 
 curtain with feelings toward all his master's 
 guests as little, it is to be hoped, like those of a 
 Christian Bishop toward his fellow-creatures as 
 thej possibly could be. 
 
 CHAPTER YU. 
 
 "Domus et placens Uxor." 
 
 Fairthorn finds nothing placens in the Vxor, to whom 
 liomus is indebted for its destruction. 
 
 Another day ! Lionel is expected to arrive 
 an hour or two after noon. Darrell is in his 
 room — his will once more before him. He has 
 drawn up a rough copy of the codicil by which 
 Fawley is to pass away ; and the name of Dar- 
 rell be consigned to the care of grateful Learn- 
 ing, linked with prizes and fellowships — a pub- 
 lic property — lost forever to private representa- 
 tives of its sepulchred bearers. Preparations 
 for departure from the doomed dwelling-house 
 have begun. There are large boxes on the 
 floor ; and favorite volumes — chiefly in science 
 or classics — lie piled beside them for selection. 
 
 Wliat is really at the bottom of Guy Darrell's 
 heart ? Does he feel reconciled to his decision? 
 Is the virtue of his new self-sacrifice in itself a 
 consoling reward? Is that cordial urbanity, 
 that cheerful kindness, by which he has been 
 yet more endearing himself to his guests, sin- 
 cere or assumed ? As he throws aside his ])en, 
 and leans his cheek on his hand, the expression 
 of his countenance may perhaps best answer 
 those questions. It has more unmingled mel- 
 ancholy than was habitual to it before, even 
 when in his gloomiest moods ; but it is a mel- 
 ancholy much more soft and subdued ; it is the 
 melancholy of resignation — that of a man who 
 has ceased a long struggle — paid his ofl'ering to 
 the appeased Xemesis, in casting into the sea 
 the thing that had been to him the dearest. 
 
 But in resignation, when complete, there is 
 always a strange relief. Despite that melan- 
 choly, Darrell is less unhappy than he has been 
 for years. He feels as if a suspense had passed 
 — a load been lifted from his breast. After all, 
 he has secured, to the best of his judgment, the 
 happiness of the living, and in relinquishing 
 the object to which his own life has been vainly 
 devoted, and immolating the pride attached to 
 it, he has yet, to use his own words, paid his 
 "dues to the dead." Xo descendant from a 
 Jasper Losely and a Gabrielle Desmarets will 
 sit as mistress of the house in which Lovaltv 
 and Honor had garnered, with the wrecks of 
 fortune, the memories of knightly fame — nor 
 perpetuate the name of DaiTcll through chil- 
 dren whose blood has a source in the sink of 
 infamy and fraud. Xor was this consolation 
 that of a culpable pride ; it was bought by the 
 
 abdication of a pride that had opposed its preju- 
 dices to living worth — to living happiness. So- 
 phy would not be punished for sins not her ovrn 
 — Lionel not barred from a prize that earth 
 never might replace. What mattered to them 
 a mouldering, old. desolate Manor House — a few 
 hundreds of pitiful acres ? Their children would 
 not be less blooming if their holiday summer 
 noons were not shaded by those darksome trees 
 — nor less lively of wit, if their school themes 
 were signed in the name, not of Darrell, but 
 Haughton. 
 
 A slight nenous knock at the door. Darrell 
 has summoned Fairthorn; Fairthorn enters. 
 Dan-ell takes up a paper; it contains minute 
 instructions as to the demolition of the two 
 buildings. The materials of the new pile may 
 be disposed of, sold, caned away — any how, 
 any where. Those of the old house are" sacred 
 — not a brick to be carried from the precincts 
 around it. No; from foundation to roof, all to 
 be piously removed — to receive formal inter- 
 ment deep in the still bosom of the little lake, 
 and the lake to be filled up and tuifed over. 
 The pictures and antiquities selected for the 
 Darrell ^Museum are, of course, to be carefully 
 transported to London — warehoused safely till 
 the gift from owner to nation be legally ratified. 
 The pictures and articles of less value will be 
 sent to an auction. But when it came to the 
 old family portraits in the ^lanor House, the old 
 homely furniture, familiarized to sight and use 
 and love from infancy, Danell was at a loss; 
 his invention failed. That question was re- 
 served for farther consideration. 
 
 "And why," says Fairthorn, bluntly and 
 coarsely, urging at least reprieve, "why, if it 
 must be, not wait till you are no more ? Why 
 must the old house be buried before you are ?" 
 
 "Because," answered Darrell, "such an or- 
 der, left by will, would seem a reproach to my 
 heirs ; it would wound Lionel to the quick. 
 Done in my lifetime, and just after I have 
 given my blessing on his marriage, I can sug- 
 gest a thousand reasons for an old man's whim ; 
 and my manner alone will dispel all idea of a 
 covert afl:ront to his charming innocent bride." 
 
 " I wish she were hanged, with all my heart," 
 muttered Fairthorn, "coming here to do such 
 astonishing mischief! But, Sir, I can't obey 
 you ; 'tis no use talking. You must get some 
 one else. Parson Morley will do it — with pleas- 
 ure, too, no doubt; or "that hobbling old man 
 whom I suspect to be a conjuror. Who knows 
 but what he may get knocked on the head as 
 he is looking on with his wicked one eye ; and 
 then there will be an end of him, too, which 
 would be a great satisfaction!" 
 
 " Pshaw, my dear Dick ; there is no one else 
 I can ask but you. The Parson would argue ; 
 I've had enough of his arguings ; and the old 
 man is the last whom my own arguings could 
 deceive. Fiatjustitia." 
 
 " Don't, Sir, don't ; you are breaking my 
 heart I — 'tis a shame, Sir," sobbed the poor 
 faithful rebel. 
 
 " Well, Dick, then I must see it done myself; 
 and you shall go on first to Sorrento, and hire 
 some villa to suit us. I don't see why Lionel 
 should not be married next week; then the 
 house will be clear. And — yes — it was cow- 
 ardlv in me to shrink. Mine be the task. 
 
298 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 Shame on me to yield it to another. Go back 
 to thy flute, Dick. 
 
 " 'Neque tibias 
 Euterpe cohibet, nee Polyhymnia 
 Lesboum refugit tendere barbiton!'" 
 
 At that last remorseless shaft from the Hora- 
 tian quiver, " Venenatis gravida sagittis," Fair- 
 thorn could stand ground no longer ; there was 
 a shamble — a plunge — and once more the man 
 was vanished. 
 
 CHAPTER YIU. 
 
 The Flute-player shows how little Music hath power to 
 soothe the savage breast — of a Musician. 
 
 Fairthorn found himself on the very spot in 
 which, more than five years ago, Lionel, stung 
 by Fairthorn's own incontinent prickles, had 
 been discovered by Darrell. There he threw 
 himself on the ground, as the boy had done ; 
 there, like the boy, he brooded moodily, bitter- 
 ly — sore with the world and himself. To that 
 letter, written on the day that Darrell had so 
 shocked him, and on which letter he had count- 
 ed as a last forlorn-hope, no answer had been 
 given. In an hour or so Lionel would arrive ; 
 those hateful nuptials, dooming Fawley as the 
 nuptials of Taris and Helen had doomed Troy, 
 would be finally arranged. In another week 
 the work of demolition would commence. He 
 never meant to leave Darrell to superintend 
 that work. Xo ; grumble and refuse as he 
 might till the last moment, he knew well enough 
 that, when it came to the point, he, Richard 
 Fairthorn, must endure any torture that could 
 save Guy Darrell from a pang. A voice comes 
 singing low through the grove — the patter of 
 feet on the crisp leaves. He looks up ; Sir 
 Isaac is scrutinizing him gravely — behind Sir 
 Isaac, Darrell's own doe, led patiently by So- 
 phy — yes, lending its faithless neck to that fe- 
 male criminal's destroying hand. He could not 
 bear that sight, which added insult to injury. 
 He scrambled up — darted a kick at Sir Isaac — 
 snatched the doe from the girl's hand, and 
 looked her in the face {her — not Sophy, but the 
 doe) with a reproach that, if the brute had not 
 been lost to all sense of shame, would have cut 
 her to the heart ; then, turning to Sophy, he 
 said, " Xo, Miss! I reared this creature — fed 
 it with my own hands, Miss. I gave it up to 
 Guy Darrell, Miss; and you sha'n't steal this 
 from him whatever else you may do, Miss." 
 
 SopH\\ "Indeed, Mr. Fairthorn. it was for 
 Mr. Darrell's sake that I wished to make friends 
 with the doe — as you would with poor Sir Isaac, 
 if you would but try and like me — a little, only 
 a very little, Mr. Fairthorn." 
 
 Fairthorn. " Don't I" 
 
 Sophy. "Don't what ? I am so sorry to see I 
 have annoyed you somehow. You have not 
 been the same person to me the last two or 
 three days. Tell me what I have done wrong ; 
 scold me, but make it up." 
 
 Fairthorn. " Don't hold out your hand to 
 me ! Don't be smiling in ray face I I don't 
 choose it ! Get out of my sight ! You are 
 standing between me and the old house — rob- 
 bing me even of my last looks at the home which 
 you— " 
 
 Sophy. " Which I— what ?" 
 
 Fairthorn. "Don't, I say, don't — don't 
 tempt me. You had better not ask questions — 
 that's all. I shall tell you the truth ; I know I 
 shall ; my tongue is itching to tell it. Please to 
 walk on." 
 
 Despite the grotesque manner and astound- 
 ing rudeness of the flute-player, his distress of 
 mind was so evident — there was something so 
 genuine and earnest at the bottom of bis ludi- 
 crous anger — that Sophy began to feel a vague 
 presentiment of evil. That she was the myste- 
 rious cause of some great suifering to this strange 
 enemy, whom she had unconsciously provoked, 
 was clear ; and she said, therefore, with more 
 gravity than she had before evinced, 
 
 " Mr. Fairthorn, tell me how I have incurred 
 your displeasure. I entreat you to do so ; no 
 matter how painful the truth may be, it is due 
 to us both not to conceal it." 
 
 A ray of hope darted through Fairthorn's en- 
 raged and bewildered mind. He looked to the 
 right — he looked to the left ; no one near. Re- 
 leasing his hold on the doe, he made a side- 
 long dart toward Sophy, and said, " Hush ! do 
 you really care what becomes of-Mr. Darrell ?" 
 
 " To be sure I do." 
 
 " You would not wish him to die broken- 
 hearted in a foreign land — that old house level- 
 ed to the ground, and buried in the lake ? Eh, 
 Miss— eh ?" 
 
 "How can you ask me such questions ?" said 
 Sophy, faintly. " Do speak plainly, and at 
 once." 
 
 " Well, I will, Miss, I believe you are a good 
 young lady, after all — and don't wish really to 
 bring disgrace upon all who want to keep you 
 in the dark, and — " 
 
 "Disgrace!" interrupted Sophy; and her 
 pure spirit rose, and the soft blue eye flashed a 
 ray like a shooting-star. 
 
 "No, I am sure you would not like it; and 
 some time or other you could not help knowing, 
 and you would be very soriy for it. And that 
 boy, Lionel, who was as proud as Guy Darrell 
 himself when I saw him last (prouder, indeed) 
 — that he should be so ungrateful to his bene- 
 factor! And, indeed, the day may come when 
 he may turn round on }ou, or on the lame old 
 gentleman, and say he has been disgraced. 
 Should not wonder at all ! Young folks, when 
 thev are sweet-hearting, only talk about roses, 
 and angels, and such like ; but when husbands 
 and wives fall out, as they always do sooner or 
 later, they don't mince their words then, and 
 they just take the sharpest thing that they can 
 find at their tongue's end. So you may depend 
 on it, my dear Miss, that some day or other that 
 young Haughton will say ' that you lost him the 
 old Manor House and the old Darrell name,' and 
 have been his disgrace ; that's the verj- word, 
 Miss ; I've heard husbands and wives say it to 
 each other over and over again." 
 
 Sophy. "Oh, Mr. Fairthorn, Mr. Fairthorn! 
 these horrid words can not be meant for me. I 
 will go to Mr. Darrell — I will ask him how I 
 can be a dis — " Her lips could not force out 
 the word. 
 
 FAiRTHonN. "Ay; go to Mr. Darrell, if you 
 please. He will deny it all ; he will never speak 
 to me again. I don't care — I am reckless. But 
 it is not the less true that you make him an ex- 
 ile because you may make me a beggar." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 299 
 
 SoFHT {ivringing her liands). " Have you no 
 
 ni?rcy, Mr. Fiiirthorn ? Will you not explain ?" 
 
 Fairthoun. "Yes, ifyou will promise to keep 
 
 it secret at least for the next six mouths — any 
 
 thintj; for breathing time." 
 
 yoPHY (iiujHitieiUlt/). "I promise, I promise! 
 s])eak, sj)eak !" 
 
 Andtiien Fairtliorn did speak ! He did speak 
 of Jasper Losely — his character — his debase- 
 ment — even of his midnight visit to her host's 
 chamber. He did speak of the child fraudu- 
 lently sought to be thrust on Darrell — of Dar- 
 rell's just indignation and loathing. The man 
 was merciless , though he had not an idea of 
 the anguish he was mfiictiug, he was venting his 
 own anguish. All the mystery of her past life 
 became clear at once to the unhappy girl — all 
 that had been kept from her by protecting love. 
 All her vague conjectures now became a dread- 
 ful certainty ; — explained now why Lionel had 
 fl^d her — why he had written that letter, over 
 the contents of which she had pondered, with 
 lier finger on her lip, as if to iuish her own 
 sighs — all, all ! She marry Lionel now ! im- 
 possible ! She bring disgrace upon him, in re- 
 turn for such generous, magnanimous affection ! 
 She drive his benefactor, her graudsire's vindi- 
 cator, from his own hearth ! Slie — she — that 
 Sophy who, as a mere infant, had recoiled from 
 the thought of playful subterfuge and tamper- 
 ings with plain honest truth i bhe rose before 
 Fairthorn had done; indeed the tormentor, left 
 to himself, would not have ceased till nightfall. 
 "Fear not, Mr Fairthorn," she said, reso- 
 hitely, " Mr. Darrell will be no exile ; his house 
 v.ill not be destroyed. Lionel Ilaughton shall 
 not wed the child of disgrace ! Fear not, Sir ; 
 all is safe !" 
 
 She shed not a tear; nor was there writ on 
 her countenance that CHANGE, speaking of blight- 
 ed hope, which had passed over it at her young 
 lover's melancholy farewell. No, now she was 
 supported — now there was a virtue by the side 
 of a sorrow— now love was to shelter and save 
 the beloved from disgrace — from disgrace ! At 
 that thought disgrace fell harmless from herself 
 as the rain from the plumes of a bird. She 
 passed on, her cheek glowing, her form erect. 
 
 By the porch door she met Waife and the 
 Morleys. With a kind of wild impetuosity she 
 seized the old man"s arm, and drew it fondly, 
 chngingly within her. own. Henceforth they 
 two were to be, as in years gone by, all in all 
 to each other. George Morley eyed her coun- 
 tenance in thoughtful surprise. " Mrs. Morley, 
 bent as usual on saying something seasonably 
 kind, burst into a eulogium on her brilliant col- 
 or. So they passed on toward the garden side 
 of the house. Wheels — tlie tramp of hoofs, full 
 gallop; and George Morley, looking up, ex- 
 claimed, '"Ha! here comes Lionel! — and see, 
 Darrell is hastening out to -welcome him!" 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The letter on which Richard Fairthorn relied for the de- 
 feat of the conapiracy against Fawley Manor House. 
 Bad aspects for Houses. The House of Vipont is threat- 
 ened. A Physician attempts to medicine to a mind dis- 
 eased. A strange communication, which Lurries the 
 reader on to the next Chapter. 
 
 It has been said that Fairthorn had committed 
 to a certain letter his last desperate ho]^e that 
 something might yet save Fawley from demoli- 
 tion, and himself and his master from an exile's 
 home in that smiling nook of earth to which 
 Horace invited Septimius, as uniting the ad- 
 vantages of a mild climate, excellent mutton, 
 ca])ital wine; and affording to Septimius the 
 prospective privilege of sprinkling a tear over 
 the cinder of his poetical friend while the cinder 
 was yet warm ; inducements which had no charm 
 at all to Fairthorn, who was quite satisfied with 
 the Fawley Southdowns — held in just horror all 
 wishy-washy light wines — and had no desire to 
 see Darrell reduced to a cinder for the pleasure 
 of sprinkling that cinder with a tear. 
 
 The letter in question was addressed to Lady 
 Montfort. LTnscrupulously violating the sacred 
 confidence of his master, the treacherous wretch, 
 after accusing her in language little more con- 
 sistent with the respect due to the fair sex than 
 that which lie had addressed to Sophy, of all the 
 desolation that the ]jerfidious nuptials of Caro- 
 line Lyndsay had brought upon Guy Darrell, de- 
 clared that the least Lady Montfort could do to 
 repair the wrongs inflicted by Caroline Lyndsay, 
 was — not to pity his master! — that her pity was 
 killing him. He repeated, with some grotesque 
 comments of his own, but on the whole not in- 
 accurately, what Darrell had said to him on the 
 subject of her pity. He then informed her 
 of Darrell's consent to Lionel's marriage with 
 Sophy ; in which criminal esjiousals it was clear, 
 from Darrell's words, that Lady Montfort had 
 had some nefarious share. In the most lugu- 
 brious colors he brought before her the conse- 
 quences of that marriage — the extinguished 
 name, the demolished dwelling-place, the re- 
 nunciation of native soil itself. He called upon 
 her, by all that was sacred, to contrive some 
 means to undo the terrible mischief she had 
 originally occasioned, and had recently helped 
 to complete. His epistle ended by an attempt 
 to conciliate and coax. He revived the image 
 of that wild Caroline Lyndsay to whom he had 
 never refused a favor; whose earliest sums he 
 had assisted to cast up — to whose young idea he 
 had communicated the elementary principles of 
 the musical gamut — to whom he "had played on 
 his flute, winter eve and summer noon, by the 
 hour together ; that Caroline Lyndsay who, when 
 a mere child, had led Guy Darrell' where she 
 willed, as by a thread of silk. Ah, how Fair- 
 thorn had leaped for joy when, eighteen years 
 ago, he had thought that Caroline Lyndsay was 
 to be the sunsjiine and delight of the house to 
 which she had lived to bring the cloud and the 
 grief! And by all these memories, Fairthorn 
 conjured her either to break off the marriage she 
 had evidently helped to bring about, or, failing 
 that, to convince Guy Darrell that he was not 
 the object of her remorseful and affectionate com- 
 passion ! 
 
 Caroline was almost beside herself at the re- 
 ceipt of this letter. The picture of Guy Darrell 
 effacing his very life from his native land, and 
 destroying the last memorials of his birthright 
 and his home — the conviction of the influence 
 she still retained over his bleak and solitary ex- 
 istence — the experience she had already acquired 
 that the influence failed where she had so fond- 
 ly hoped it might begin to repair and to bless, 
 
300 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 all overpowered her with emotions of yearning 
 tenderness and unmitigated despair. What 
 could she do? She could not offer herself, 
 again to be rejected. She could not write again, 
 to force her penitence upon the man who, while 
 acknowledging his love to be unconquered, had 
 so resolutely refused to see, in the woman who 
 had once deceived his trust — the Caroline of 
 old ! Alas ! if he were but under the delusion 
 that her pity was the substitute, and not the com- 
 panion of love, how could she undeceive him ? 
 How say — how write — " Accept me, for I love 
 you." Caroline Montfort had no pride of rank, 
 but she had pi-ide of sex ; that pride had been 
 called forth, encouraged, strengthened, through- 
 out all the years of her wedded life. For Guy 
 Darrell's sake, and to him alone, that pride slie 
 had cast away — trampled upon ; such humility 
 was due to him. But when the humility had 
 been once in vain, could it be repeated — would 
 it not be debasement? In the first experiment 
 she had but to bow to his reproach — in a second 
 experiment she might have but to endure his 
 contempt. Yet how, with her sweet, earnest, 
 affectionate nature — how she longed for one 
 more interview — one more explanation! If 
 chance could but bring it about ; if she had but 
 a pretext — a fair reason apart from any interest 
 of her own, to be in his presence once more! 
 But in a few days he would have left England 
 forever — his heart yet more hardened in its re- 
 solves by the last sacrifice to what it had so stern- 
 ly recognized to be a due to others. Never to 
 see him more — never! to know how much in 
 that sacrifice he was suffering now — would per- 
 haps suffer more hereafter, in the reaction that 
 follows all strain upon purpose — and yet not a 
 word of comfort from hex- — her who felt born to 
 be his comforter ! 
 
 But this marriage, that cost him so much, 
 must that be ? Could she dare, even for his 
 sake, to stand between two such fair young lives 
 as those of Lionel and Sophy — confide to them 
 what Fairthorn had declared — appeal to their 
 generosity ? She shrunk from inflicting such 
 intolerable sorrow. Could it be her duty ? In 
 her inability to solve tliis last problem, she be- 
 thought herself of Albau Morley ; here, at least, 
 he might give advice — offer suggestion. She 
 sent to his house entreating him to call. Her 
 messenger was some hours before he found the 
 Colonel, and then brought back but a few hasty 
 lines — " Impossible to call that day. The Crisis 
 had come at last ! The Country, the House of 
 Vipont, the British Empire, were trembling in 
 the balance. The Colonel was engaged every 
 moment for the next twelve hours. He had the 
 present Earl of IMontfort, who was intractable 
 and stupid beyond conception, to see and talk 
 over; Carr Vipont was hard at work on the 
 materials for the new Cabinet — Alban was help- 
 ing Carr Vipont. If the House of Vipont failed 
 England at this moment, it would not be a Cri- 
 sis, but a CRASH ! The Colonel hoped to ar- 
 range an interview with Lady Montfort for a 
 minute or two the next da^^ But jjcrhaps she 
 would excuse him from a journey to Twicken- 
 ham, and drive into town to see him ; if not at 
 home, he would leave woi-d where he was to be 
 found." 
 
 By the beard of Jupiter Capitolinus, there 
 are often revolutions in the heart of a woman, 
 
 during which she is callous to a Crisis, and 
 has not even a fear for a CRASH ! 
 
 The next day came George's letter to Caro- 
 line, with the gentle message from Darrell ; and 
 
 when Dr. F , whose apprehensions for the 
 
 state of her health Colonel Morley had by no 
 means exaggerated, called in the afternoon to 
 see the efi'ect of his last prescription, he found 
 her in such utter prostration of nerves and 
 spirits, that he resolved to hazard a dose not 
 much known to great ladies, viz., three grains 
 of plain-speaking, M'ith a minim of frightening. 
 
 "My dear lady," said he, "yours is a case in 
 which physicians can be of very little use. There 
 is something on the mind which my prescrip- 
 tions fail to reach ; worry of some sort — decided- 
 ly worry. And unless you yourself can either 
 cure that, or will make head against it, worry, 
 my dear Lady IMontfort, will end, not in con- 
 sumption — you are too finely formed to let worry 
 eat holes in the lungs — no ; but in a confirmed 
 aneurism of the heart, and the first sudden 
 shock might then be immediately fatal. The 
 heart is a noble organ — bears a gi-eat deal — but 
 still its endurance has limits. Heart complaints 
 are more common than they were ; — over-educa- 
 tion and over-civilization, I suspect. Very young 
 people are not so subject to tliem ; they have 
 flurry, not worry — a very dift'erent thing. A 
 good chronic silent grief of some years' stand- 
 ing, that gets worried into acute inflammation 
 at the age when feeling is no longer fancy, 
 throws out a heart-disease wliich sometimes 
 kills without warning, or sometimes, if the grief 
 be removed, will rather prolong than shorten 
 life, by inducing a prudent avoidance of worry 
 in future. There is that worthy old gentleman 
 who was taken so ill at Fawley, and about whom 
 you were so anxious ; in his case there had 
 certainly been chronic grief; then came acute 
 worry, and the heart could not get through its 
 duties. Fifty j'ears ago doctors would have 
 cried ' apoplexy !' — nowadays we know that the 
 heart saves the head. Well, he was more easy 
 in his mind the last time I saw him, and, thanks 
 to his temperance, and his constitutional dislike 
 to self-indulgence in worry, he may jog on to 
 eighty, in spite of the stenoscope ! Excess in 
 the moral emotions gives heart-disease; abuse 
 of the physical powers, paralysis ; — both more 
 common than they were — the first for your gen- 
 tle sex, the second for our rough one. Both, 
 too, lie in wait for their victims at the entrance 
 into middle life. I have a very fine case of pa- 
 ralysis now ; a man built up by nature to live to 
 a hundred — never saw such a splendid forma- 
 tion — such bone and such muscle. I would 
 have given Van Amburgh the two best of his 
 lions, and my man would have done for all three 
 in five minutes. All the worse for him, my 
 dear lady — all the worse for him. His strength 
 leads him on to abuse the main fountains of life, 
 and out jumps avenging Paralysis and fells him 
 to eartli with a blow. 'Tis your Hercules that 
 Paralysis loves ; she despises the weak invalid, 
 who prudently shuns all excess. And so, rny 
 dear lady, that assassin called Aneurism lies in 
 wait for" the hearts that abuse their o\yn force 
 of emotion ; sparing hearts that, less vital, are 
 thrifty in waste and supply. But you are not 
 listening to me ! And yet 'my patient rii.ay not 
 be quite unknown to your ladyship ; for in hap- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 301 
 
 pening to mention, the other day, to the lady 
 who attends to and nurses him, that I could not 
 call this mornin;:;, as I had a visit to pay to 
 Lady Montfort at Twickenham, she became very 
 anxious about you and wrote this note vvliich 
 she begged me to give you. She seems very 
 much attached to my patient — not his wife nor 
 his sister. She interests me ; — capital nurse — 
 cleverish woman too. Oh ! here is the note." 
 
 Caroline, who had given but little heed to this 
 recital, listlessly received the note — scarcely 
 looked at the address — and was about to put it 
 aside, wlien the good doctor, who was intent 
 upon rousing her by any means, said, "No, my 
 dear lady, I promised that I would see you read 
 the note ; besides, I am the most cuiuous of 
 men, and dying to know a little more who and 
 what is the writer." 
 
 Caroline broke the seal and read as follows : 
 
 " If Lady Montfort remembers Arabella Fos- 
 sett, and will call at Clare Cottage, Vale of 
 Health, Hampstead, at her ladyship's earliest 
 leisure, and ask for Mrs. Crane, some informa- 
 tion, not perhaps important to Lady Montfort, 
 but very important to Mr. Darrell, will be given." 
 
 Lady INIontfort startled the doctor by the 
 alertness with whicli she sprang to her feet and 
 rang the bell. 
 
 " What is it ?" asked he. 
 
 " The carriage immediatel}', cried Lady 
 Montfort as the servant entered. 
 
 Ah ! you are going to see the poor lady, IMrs. 
 Crane, eh? Well, it is a charming drive, and 
 just what I should have recommended. Any 
 exertion will do you good. Allow me ; — why 
 your pulse is already fifty per cent, better. Fray, 
 what relation is Mrs. Crane to my patient ?" 
 
 "I really don't know; pray excuse me, my 
 dear Dr. F ." 
 
 " Certainly ; go while the day is fine. Wrap 
 up; — a close carriage, mind; — and I will look 
 iu to-morrow." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Wherein is insinuated the highest compliment to Wo- 
 man ever paid to her sex by the Author of this work. 
 
 L.4,DY Montfort has arrived at Clare Cottage. 
 She is shown by Bridget Greggs into a small 
 room upon the first floor ; folding-doors to some 
 other room, closely shut — evidences of sickness 
 in the house ; — phials on the chimney-piece — a 
 tray M'ith a brotli basin on the table — a sauce- 
 pan on the hob — the sofa one of those that serve 
 as a bed which sleep little visits for one who 
 may watch through the night over some helpless 
 suff'erer — a woman's shawl thrown carelessly 
 over its hard narrow bolster ; — all, in short, be- 
 traying that pathetic untidiness and discomfort 
 which says that a despot is in the house to 
 whose will order and form are subordinate; — 
 the imperious Tyranny of Disease establishing 
 itself in a life that, within those four walls, has 
 a value not to be measured by its worth to the 
 world beyond. The more feeble and helpless 
 the sufferer, the more sovereign the despotism 
 — the more submissive the servitude. 
 
 In a minute or two one of the folding-dooi's 
 silently opened, and as silently closed, admitting 
 into Lady Montfort's presence a grim woman in 
 iron gray. 
 
 Caroline could not, at the first glance, recog- 
 nize that Arabella Fossett of whose handsome, 
 if somewhat too strongly defined and sombre 
 countenance, she had retained a faithful remi- 
 niscence. But Arabella had still the same im- 
 posing manner whicli had often repressed the 
 gay spirits of her young pupil ; and as she now 
 •motioned the great lady to a seat, and placed 
 herself beside, an awed recollection of the school- 
 room bowed Cai-oline's lovely head in mute re- 
 spect. 
 
 Mrs. Crane. "You too are changed since I 
 saw you last — that was more than five years ago, 
 but you are not less beautiful. You can still be 
 loved ; you would not scare away the man whom 
 you might desire to save. Sorrow has its par- 
 tialities. Do you know that I have a cause to 
 be grateful to you, without any merit of your 
 own. In a very dark moment of my life — only 
 vindictive and evil passions crowding on me — 
 your face came across my sight. Goodness 
 seemed there so beautiful — and, in this face, 
 Evil looked so haggard ! Do not interrupt me. 
 I have but few minutes to spare you. Yes ; at 
 the sight of that face, gentle recollections rose 
 up. You had ever been kind to me ; and truth- 
 ful, Caroline Lyndsay — truthful. Other thoughts 
 came at the beam of that face, as other thoughts 
 come when a strain of unexpected music reminds 
 us of former days. I can not tell how, but from 
 that moment a something more like womanhood 
 than I had known for years entered into my 
 heart. Within that same hour I was sorely 
 tried — galled to the quick of my soul. Had I 
 not seen you before, I might have dreamed of 
 nothing but a stern and dire revenge. And a 
 purpose of revenge I did form. But it was not 
 to destroy — it was to save ! I resolved that the 
 man who laughed to scorn the idea of vows due 
 to me — vows to bind life to life — should yet sooner 
 or later be as firmly mine as if he had kept his 
 troth ; that my troth at least should be kept to 
 him, as if it had been uttered at the altar. Hush, 
 did you hear a moan ? — No ! He lies yonder, 
 Caroline Lyndsay — mine, indeed, till the grave 
 us do part. These hands have closed over him, ' 
 and he rests in their clasp, helpless as an infant." 
 Involuntarily Caroline recoiled. But looking 
 into that care-worn face, there was in it so wild 
 a mixture of melancholy tenderness, with a re- 
 solved and fierce expression of triumph, that, 
 more impressed by the tenderness than by the 
 triumph, the woman sympathized with the wo- 
 man; and CaroHne again drew near, nearer 
 than before, and in her deep soft eyes pity alone 
 was seen. Into those eyes Arabella looked as 
 if spell-bound, and the darker and sterner ex- 
 pression in her own face gradually relaxed and 
 fled, and only the melancholy tenderness was 
 left behind. She resumed: 
 
 "I said to Guy Darrell that I would learn, if 
 possible, whether the poor child whom I ill-used 
 in my most wicked days, and whom you, it seems, 
 have so benignly sheltered, was the daughter of 
 Matilda — or, as he believed, of a yet more hate- 
 ful mother. Long ago I had conceived a sus- 
 picion that there was some ground to doubt poor 
 Jasper's assertion, for I had chanced to see two 
 letters addressed to him — one from that Gabri- 
 elle Desmarets, whose influence over his life had 
 been so baleful — in which she spoke of some 
 guilty plunder with which she was coming to 
 
302 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 London, and in\-ited him again to join his for- 
 tunes with her own. Oh, but the cold, blood- 
 less villainy of the tone 1 — the ease with which 
 crimes for a gibbet were treated as topics for 
 wit I" Arabella stoj^ped — the same shudder 
 came over her as when she had concluded the 
 epistles abstracted from the dainty pocket-book. 
 "But in the letter were also allusions to Sophy, 
 to another attempt on Darrell to be made by 
 Gabrielle herself Nothing very clear; but a 
 doubt did suggest itself — ' Is she writing to him 
 about his own child ?' The other letter was from 
 the French nurse with whom Sophy had been 
 placed as an infant. It related to inquiries in 
 person, and a visit to her own house, which Mr. 
 Darrell had recently made ; that letter also 
 seemed to imply some deception, though but by 
 a few dubious words. At that time the chief 
 etfect of the suspicion these letters caused was 
 but to make me more bent on repairing to Sophy 
 my cruelties to her childhood. What if I had 
 been cruel to an infant who, after all, was not 
 the daughter of that false, false ilatiIJa Darrell ! 
 I kept in my memory the French nurse's ad- 
 dress. I thought that when in France I might 
 seek and question her. But I lived only for one 
 absorbing end. Sophy was not then in danger ; 
 and even my suspicions as to her birth died 
 away. Pass on : — Guy Darrell 1 Ah, Lady 
 Montfort I his life has been imbittered like mine ; 
 but he was man, and could bear it better. He 
 has known, himself, the misery of broken faith, 
 of betrayed atfection, which he could pity so 
 little when its blight fell on me ; but you have 
 excuse for desertion — you yourself were de- 
 ceived : and I pardon him, for he pardoned Jas- 
 per, and we are fellow-sufferers. You weep I 
 Pardon my rudeness. I did not mean to pain 
 you. Try and listen calmly — I must hurry on. 
 On leaving Mr. Darrell I crossed to France. I 
 saw the nurse ; I have ascertained the truth ; 
 here are the proofs in this packet. I came back 
 — I saw Jasper Losely. He was on the eve of 
 seeking you. whom he had already so MTonged 
 — of claiming the child, or rather of extorting 
 money for the renunciation of a claim to one 
 whom you had adopted. I told him how vainly 
 he liad hitherto sought to fly from me. One by 
 one I recited the guilty schemes in which I had 
 bartied his purpose — all the dangers from whiLh 
 I had rescued his life. I commanded him to 
 forbear the project he had then commenced. I 
 told him I would frustrate that project as I had 
 frustrated others. Alas, alas I why is this tongue 
 so harsh ? — why does this face so belie the idea 
 of human kindness ? I did but enrage and mad- 
 den him ; he felt but the reckless impulse to de- 
 stroy the life that then stood between himself 
 and the objects to which he had pledged his 
 own self destruction. I thought I should die by 
 his hand. I did not quail. Ah ! the ghastly 
 change that came over his face — the one glance 
 of amaze and superstitious horror ; his arm 
 obeyed him not; his strength, liis limbs forsook 
 him ; lie fell at my feet — one side of him strick- 
 en dead I Hist! that is his voice — [jardon me ;" 
 and Arabella flitted from the room, leaving the 
 door ajar. 
 
 A feeble Voice, like the treble of an infirm 
 old man, came painfully to Caroline's ear. 
 
 " I want to turn ; help me. Why am I left 
 alone ? It is cruel to leave me so — cruel !" 
 
 In the softest tones to which that harsh voice 
 could be tuned, the grim woman apologized and 
 soothed. 
 
 "You gave me leave, Jasper dear. Y'ou said 
 it would be a relief to you to have her pardon 
 as well as theirs." 
 
 ' ' Whose pardon ?" asked the Voice, queru- 
 lously. 
 
 " Caroline Lyndsay's — Lady Montfort's." 
 
 " Nonsense I What did I ever do against 
 her ? Oh — ah I I remember now. Don't let 
 me have it over agam. Y'es — she pardons me, 
 I suppose ! Get me my broth, and don't be 
 long I" 
 
 Arabella came back, closing the door; and 
 while she busied herself with that precious 
 saucepan on the hob — to which the Marchion- 
 ess of Montfort had become a very secondary 
 object — she said, looking toward Caroline from 
 under her iron-gray ringlets — 
 
 "You heard — he misses me! He can't bear 
 me out of his sight now — me, me ! You 
 heard I" 
 
 Meekly Lady Montfort advanced, bringing in 
 her hand the tray with the broth basin. 
 
 " Yes, I heard I I must not keep you ; but let 
 me help while I stay." 
 
 So the broth was poured forth and prepared, 
 and with it Arabella disappeared. She return- 
 ed in a few minutes, beckoned to Caroline, and 
 said, in a low voice — 
 
 " Come in — say you forgive him I Oh, you 
 need not fear him ; a babe could not fear him 
 now !" 
 
 Caroline followed Arabella into the sick-room. 
 No untidiness there ; all so carefully, thought- 
 fully an-anged. A pleasant room, too — with 
 windows looking full on the sunniest side of the 
 Vale of Health ; the hearth so cheerily clear, 
 swept so clean — the very ashes out of sight; 
 flowers — costly exotics — on the table, on the 
 mantle-piece ; the couch drawn toward the win- 
 dow ; and on that couch, in the gay rich dress- 
 ing-gown of foi-mer days, warm coverlets heaped 
 on the feet, snow-white pillows proppingthehead, 
 lay what at first seemed a vague, undistinguish- 
 able mass — lay, what, as the step advanced, and 
 the eye became more accurately searching, grew 
 into Jasper Losely. 
 
 Y'es ! there, too weak indeed for a babe to 
 fear, lay all that was left of the Strong Man ! 
 No enemy but himself had brought him thus 
 low — spendthrift, and swindler, and robber of 
 his own priceless treasures— Health and Strength 
 — those grand rent-rolls of joy which Nature 
 had made his inheritance. As a tree that is 
 crumbling to dust under the gnarls of its bark, 
 seems, the moment ere it falls, proof against 
 time and the tempest ; — so, within all decayed, 
 stood that image of strength— so, air scarcely 
 stirring, it fell. " And the pitcher was broken 
 at the fountain ; and the wheel was broken at 
 the cistern. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preach- 
 er." 
 
 Jasper turned his dull eye toward Caroline, 
 as she came softly to his side, and looked at her 
 with a piteous gaze. The stroke that had shat- 
 tered the form had spared the face ; and illness 
 and compulsorv" abstinence from habitual stim- 
 ulants had taken from the aspect much of the 
 coarseness — whether of shape or color — that of 
 late years had disfigured its outline — and sup- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 303 
 
 plied the delicacy that ends with youth by the 
 delicacy that comes with the approach of death. 
 So that, in no small degree, the beauty which had 
 been to him so fatal a gift, was once more visi- 
 ble — the features growing again distinct, as wan- 
 ness succeeded to tiie hues of intemperance, and 
 emaciation to the bloated cheeks and swollen 
 muscle. The goddess whose boons adorn the 
 outward shell of the human spirit, came back 
 to her favorite's death-couch as she had come 
 to the cradle — not now as the Venus Erycina, 
 goddess of Smile and Jest, but as the warning 
 Venus Libitina, the goddess of Doom and the 
 Funeral. 
 
 " I'm a very poor creature," said Jasper, after 
 a pause. "I can't rise — I can't move without 
 help. Very strange I — supernatural I She al- 
 ways said that if I raised my hand against her, 
 it would fall palsied !" He turned his eye to- 
 ward Arabella with a glare of angry ten-or. 
 " She is a witch I" he said, and buried his face 
 in the pillow. Tears rolled down the grim wo- 
 man's cheek. 
 
 Lady Montfokt. " She is rather your good 
 ministering spirit. Do not be unkiiid to her. 
 Over her you have more power now than you had 
 when you were well and strong. She lives but 
 to ser\e you; command her gently." 
 
 Jasper was not proof against that sweet voice. 
 With difficulty he wrenched himself round, and 
 again looked long at Caroline Montfort, as if 
 the sight did him good ; then he made a sign 
 to Arabella, who flev.- to his side and raised 
 him. 
 
 "I have been a sad dog," he said, with a 
 mournful attempt at the old rollicking tone — 
 "a very sad dog — in short, a villain! But all 
 ladies are indulgent to villains — in fact, prefer 
 them. Never knew a lady who could endure ' a 
 good young man' — never ! So I am sure jon 
 ■will forgive me, miss — ma'am. Who is this 
 lady? when it comes to forgiveness, there are 
 so many of them ! Oh, I remember now — your 
 ladyship will forgive me — 'tis all down in black 
 and white what I've done — Bella has it. You 
 see this hand — I can write with this hand — this 
 is not paralyzed. This is not the hand I tried 
 to raise against her. But, basta, hasta ! where 
 was I ? ]\Iy poor head 1 — I know what it is to 
 have a head now ! — ache, ache .' — boom, boom 
 — weight, weight — heavy as a church bell— hol- 
 low as a church bell — noisy as a church bell ! 
 Brandy ! give me brandy, you witch \ — I mean 
 Bella, good Bella, give me "brandy 1" 
 
 "Not yet, Jasper dear. You are to have it 
 every third hour; it is not time yet, dearest; 
 you must attend to the doctor, and try to get 
 well and recover your strength. You remember 
 I told you how kind Lady Montfort had been 
 to your father, and you wished to see and thank 
 her." 
 
 " ]VIy father — my poor, poor father ! You've 
 been kind to him ! Bless you, bless you ! And 
 you will see him ? I want his pardon before I 
 die. Don't forget, and — and — " 
 
 "Poor Sophy!" said Mrs. Crane. 
 
 "Ah yes! But she's well off now, you tell 
 me. I can't think I have injured her. And 
 really girls and women are intended to be a lit- 
 tle useful to one. Basta, Basta.'" 
 
 " ]\Ir. Darrell— " 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes ! I forgive him, or he forgives 
 
 me ; settle it as you like. But my father's par- 
 don, Ladv ^lontfort, vou will get me that .'" 
 
 " I will", I will." 
 
 He looked at her again, and smiled. Ara- 
 bella gently let his head fall back upon the 
 pillow. 
 
 "Throw a handkerchief over my face," he 
 said, feebly, "and leave me; but be in call; I 
 feel sleepy." His eyes closed ; he seemed asleep 
 even before they stole from the room. 
 
 "You will bring his father to him?" said 
 Arabella, when she and Lady Montfort were 
 again alone. "In this packet is Jasper's con- 
 fession of the robbery for which that poor old 
 man suffered. I never knew of that before. 
 But you see how mild he is now! — how his 
 heart is changed; it is indeed changed more 
 than he shows; only you have seen him at the 
 worst — his mind wanders a little to-day ; it does 
 sometimes. I have a favor to ask of you. I 
 once heard a preacher, not many months ago ; 
 he affected me as no preacher ever did before. 
 I was told that he was Colonel Morley's nephew. 
 Will you ask Colonel Morley to persuade him 
 to come to Jasper ?" 
 
 ' ' My cousin, George Morley ! He shall come, 
 I promise you ; so shall your poor patient's for- 
 giving father. Is there more I can do?" 
 
 "Xo. Explain to Mr. Darrell the reason 
 why I have so long delayed sending to him the 
 communication which he will find in the jjacket 
 I have given to you, and which you will first 
 open, reading the contents yourself — a part of 
 them, at least, in Jasper's attestation of his 
 stratagem to break off your marriage with Mr. 
 Darrell, may yet be of some value to you — you 
 had better also show the papers to Colonel Mor- 
 ley — he may complete the task — I had meant, 
 on returning to England, or before seeing ^Ir. 
 Darrell, to make the inquiries which you will 
 see are still necessary. But then came'this ter- 
 rible affliction! I have been able to tiiink of 
 nothing else but Jasper — terrible to quit the 
 house which contains him for an hour — only 
 when Dr. F. told me that he was attending you, 
 that you were ill and suffering, I resolved to 
 add to this packet Jasper's own confession. Ah, 
 and he gave it so readily, and went yesterday 
 through the fatigue of writing with such good 
 heart. I tell you that there is a change within 
 him; there is — there is ! Well, well — I resolved 
 to give you the packet to transmit to Mr. Dar- 
 rell ; for somehow or other I connected your 
 illness with your visit to him at Fawley !" 
 
 "My visit to Mi. Darrell!" 
 
 "Jasper saw j'ou as your carriage drove from 
 the park gate, not very many days since. Ah, 
 you change color! You have wronged that 
 man; repair the wrong; you have the power!" 
 
 "Alas! no," murmured Caroline, "I have 
 not the power." 
 
 "Pooh — he loves you still. You are not one 
 of those whom men "forget." 
 
 Caroline was silent, but involuntarily she low- 
 ered her vail. In an instant the acute sense of 
 the grim woman detected the truth. 
 
 "Ah! Pride — pride in both," she said. "I 
 understand — I dare not blame Am here. But 
 you — you were the injurer; you have no right 
 to pride ; you will see him again !" 
 
 "iSTo — never — never!" faltered Caroline, with 
 accents scarcely audible under her vail. 
 
304 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 Ai-abella was silent for a moment, and Lady 
 Montfort rose hastily to depart. 
 
 "You will see him again, I tell you;" and 
 Arabella then, following her to the door — 
 
 " Stay; do you think he will die?" 
 
 "Good Heavens! Mr. Darrell?" 
 
 "No, no — Jasper Losely !" 
 
 " I hope not. What does Dr. F. say ?" 
 
 "He will not tell me. But it is not the pa- 
 ralysis alone ; he might recover from that — so 
 young still. There are other symptoms ; that 
 dreadful habit of stimulants. He sinks if he 
 has them not — they hasten death if he has. 
 But — but — but — He is mine, and mine only, 
 
 TO THE GKAVB NOW !" 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 '' The Crisis — Public and Private. 
 
 Lady Montfort's carriage stopjjed at Col- 
 onel Morley's door just as Carr Vipont was 
 coming out. Carr, catching sight of her, bus- 
 tled up to the carriage Avindow. 
 
 "My dear Lady Montfort! — not seen you for 
 an age ! What times we live in ! How sud- 
 denly The Crisis has come upon us ! Sad loss 
 in poor dear Montfort ; no wonder you mourn 
 for him! Had his failings, true — who is not 
 mortal ? — but always voted right ; always to be 
 relied on in times of Crisis ! But this crotch- 
 ety fellow, who has so unluckily, for all but 
 himself, walked into that property, is the loosest 
 fish ! And what is a House divided against it- 
 self! Never was the Constitution in such peril ! 
 — I say it deliberately ! — and here is the Head 
 of the Viponts humming and haaing, and ask- 
 ing whether Guy Darrell will join the Cabinet. 
 And if Guy Darrell will not, we have no more 
 chance of the Montfort interest than if we were 
 Peep-o'-Day Boys. But excuse me — I must be 
 oft"; every moment is precious in times of Cri- 
 sis. Think, if we can't form a Cabinet by to- 
 morrow night — only think what may happen ; 
 the other fellows will come in, and then — the 
 Deluge !" 
 
 Carr is gone to find mops and Dame Parting- 
 tons to stave oft' the Deluge. Colonel Morley 
 has obeyed Lady Montfort's summons, and has 
 entered the carriage. Before she can speak, 
 however, he has rushed into the subject of which 
 he himself is full. " Only think — I knew it 
 would be so when the moment came ; all de- 
 pends upon Guy Darrell ! Montfort, who seems 
 always in a fright lest a newspaper should fall 
 on his head and crush him, says that if Darrell, 
 whom he chooses to favor just because the news- 
 papers do, declines to join, the newspapers will 
 say the Crisis is a job! Fancy! — a job — the 
 Crisis ! Lord Mowbray de I'Arco and Sir Jo- 
 siah Snodge, who are both necessary to a united 
 government, but who unluckily detest each oth- 
 er, refuse to sit in the same Cabinet, unless 
 Darrell sit between — to save them, I suppose, 
 from the fate of the cats of Kilkenny. Sir John 
 Cautly, our crack county member, declares that 
 if Darrell does not come in, 'tis because the 
 Crisis is going too far! Harry Bold, our most 
 popular speaker, says, if Darrell stay out, 'tis a 
 sign that the Crisis is a retrograde movement ! 
 In short, without Darrell, the Crisis will be a 
 
 failure, and the House of Vipont smashed — 
 Lady Montfort — smashed ! I sent a telegram 
 (oh, that I should live to see such a word intro- 
 duced into the English language ! — but, as Carr 
 says, what times these are !) to Fawley this 
 morning, entreating Guy to come up to town at 
 once. He answers by a line from Horace, which 
 means, ' that he will see me shot first.' I must 
 go down to him ; only waiting to know the re- 
 sult of certain negotiations as to measures. I 
 have but one hope. There is a measure which 
 Darrell always privately advocated — which he 
 thoroughly understands — which, placed in his 
 hands, would be triumjjhantly carried ; one of 
 those measures. Lady Montfort, which, if de- 
 fective, shipwreck a government; if framed as 
 Guy Darrell could frame it, immortalize the 
 minister who concocts and carries them. This 
 is all that Darrell needs to complete his fame 
 and career. This is at length an occasion to 
 secure a durable name in the history of his 
 country; let him reject it, and I shall tell him 
 frankly that his life has been but a brilliant 
 failure. Since he has not a seat in Parliament, 
 and usage requires the actual possession of that 
 qualification for a seat in the Cabinet, we must 
 lose his voice in the Commons. But we can 
 arrange that; for if Darrell will but join the 
 government and go to the Lords, Sir Josiah 
 Snodge, who has a great deal of voice and a 
 great deal of jealousy, will join too — head the 
 Vipont interests in the Commons — and speak 
 to the country — speak every night — and all 
 night too, if required. Yes ! Darrell must take 
 the peerage — devote himself for a year or two 
 to this great measure — to the consolidation of 
 his fame — to the redemption of the House of 
 Vipont — and to the Salvation of the Empire; 
 and then, if he please, 'solve senescentem' — 
 that is, he may retire from harness, and browse 
 upon laurels for the rest of his days !" 
 
 Colonel Morley delivered himself of this long 
 address without interruption from a listener in- 
 terested in every word that related to Guy Dar- 
 rell, and in every hope that could reunite hira 
 to the healthful activities of life. 
 
 It was now Lady Montfort's turn to speak; 
 though, after subjects so momentous as the 
 Crisis and its speculative consequences, private 
 aft"airs, relating to a poor little girl like Sophy — 
 nay, the mere private aff'airs of Darrell himself, 
 seemed a pitiful bathos. Lady Montfort, how- 
 ever, after a few words of womanly comment 
 upon the only part of the Colonel's discourse 
 which touched her heart, hastened on to de- 
 scribe her interview with Arabella, and the 
 melancholy condition of Darrell's once formi- 
 dable son-in-law. For that last the Colonel 
 evinced no more compassionate feeling than 
 any true Englishman, at the time I am writing, 
 would demonstrate for a murderous Sepoy tied 
 to the mouth of a cannon. 
 
 "A very good riddance!" said the Colonel, 
 dryly. "Great relief to Darrell, and to every 
 one else whom that monster tormented and 
 preyed on ; and with his life will vanish the 
 only remaining obstacle in righting poor Willy's 
 good name. I hope to live to collect, from all 
 parts of the country, Willy's old friends, and 
 give them a supper, at which I suppose I must 
 not get drunk, though I should rather like it 
 than not! But I interrupt you ; go on." 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT ? 
 
 305 
 
 Lady Montfort proceeded to state the sub- 
 stance of the papers she had perused in refer- 
 ence to the mystery which had been the cause 
 of so much disquietude and bitterness. 
 
 The Colonel stretched out his hand eagerly 
 for the documents thus quoted. He hurried his 
 eye rapidly over the contents of the first paper 
 he lit on, and then said, pulling out his watch, 
 " Well, I hare half an hour yet to spare in dis- 
 cussing these matters with you — may I order 
 your coachman to drive round the Regent's 
 Park ? — better than keeping it thus at my door 
 - — with four old maids for opposite neighbors." 
 The order was given, and the Colonel again re- 
 turned to the papers. Suddenly he looked up 
 • — looked full into Lady Montfort's face, with a 
 thoughtful, searching gaze, which made her 
 drop her own eyes; and she saw that he had 
 been reading Jasper's confession, relating to his 
 device for breaking off her engagement to Dar- 
 rell, which in her hurry and excitement she had 
 neglected to abstract from the other documents. 
 " Oh, not that paper — you are not to read that,'' 
 she cried, quickly covering the writing with her 
 hand. 
 
 "Too late, my dear cousin. I have read it. 
 All is now clear. Lionel was right ; and I was 
 right, too, in my convictions though Darrell put 
 so coolly aside my questions when I was last at 
 Fawley. I am justified now in all the pains I 
 took to secure Lionel's marriage — in the cun- 
 ning cruelty of my letter to George ! Know, 
 Lady 2\Iontfort, that if Lionel had sacrificed his 
 happiness to respect for Guy's ancestor- worship, 
 Guy Darrell would have held himself bound in 
 honor never to marry again. He told me so — 
 told me he should be a cheat if he took any step 
 to rob one from whom he had exacted such an 
 off"ering — of the name, and the heritage for 
 which the offering had been made. And I then 
 resolved that County Guy should not thus ir- 
 revocably shut the door on his own happiness ! 
 Lady Montfort, you know that this man loves 
 you — as, verily, I believe, never man in our 
 cold century loved woman — through desertion 
 — through change — amidst grief — amidst resent- 
 ment — despite pride ; dead to all other love — 
 shrinking from all other ties — on, constant on 
 — carrying in the depth of his soul to the verge 
 of age, secret and locked up, the hopeless pas- 
 sion of his manhood. Do you not see that it is 
 through you, and you alone, that Guy Darrell 
 has for seventeen years been lost to the country 
 he was intended "to serve and to adorn ? Do 
 you not feel that if he now reject this last op- 
 portunity to redeem years so wasted, and achieve 
 a fame that may indeed link his Ancestral Name 
 to the honors of Posterity, you, and you alone, 
 are the cause?" 
 
 "Alas — alas — but what can I do?" 
 
 " Do ! — ay, true. The poor fellow is old now ; 
 you can not care for him I — you still young, and 
 so unluckily beautiful! — you, for whom young 
 princes might vie. True; you can have no 
 feeling for Guy Darrell, except pity!" 
 
 "Fitij! I hate the word!" cried Lady Mont- 
 fort, with as much petulance as if she had still 
 been the wayward lively Caroline of old. 
 
 Again the Man of the World directed toward 
 her face his shrewd eyes, and dropped out, 
 " See him I" 
 
 "But I ha"\'e seen him. You remember I 
 U 
 
 went to plead for Lionel and Sophy — in 
 vain !" 
 
 "Not in vain. George Avrites me word that 
 he has informed you of DarrelFs consent to 
 their marriage. And I am much mistaken if 
 his greatest consolation in the pang that con- 
 sent must have cost him is not the thought that 
 it relieves you from the sorrow and remorse his 
 refusal had occasioned to you. Ah! there is 
 but one person who can restore Dan-ell to the 
 world — and that is yourself!" 
 
 Lady Montfort shook her head drearily. 
 '"If I had but an excuse — with dignity— with 
 self-respect — to — to — " 
 
 "An excuse! You have an absolute neces- 
 sity to communicate with DaiTell. You have 
 to give to him these documents — to explain how 
 you came by them. Sophy is with him ; you 
 are bound to see her on a subject of such vital 
 importance to herself. Scruples of prudervM 
 You, Caroline Lyndsay, the friend of his daugh- 
 ter — you whose childhood was reared in his 
 very house — you whose mother owed to him 
 such obligations — you to scruple in being the 
 first to acquaint him with information afl^ecting 
 him so nearly ! And why, forsooth ? Because, 
 ages ago, your hand was, it seems, engaged to 
 him, and you were deceived by false appear- 
 ances, like a silly young girl as you were." 
 
 Again Lady Moiotfort shook her head dreari- 
 ly — drearily. 
 
 " Well," said the Colonel, changing his tone, 
 " I will grant that those former ties can't be re- 
 newed now. The man now is as old as the hills, 
 and you had no right to expect that he would 
 have suffered so much at being veiy naturally 
 jilted for a handsome young Marquis." 
 
 "Cease, Sir, cease !" cried Caroline, angrily. 
 The Colonel coolly persisted. 
 
 " I see now that such nuptials are out of the 
 question. But has the world come to such a 
 pass that one can never at any age have a friend 
 in a lady unless she marry him? Scruple to 
 accompany me — me, your cousin — me, your 
 nearest sur^-iving relation — in order to take 
 back the young lady you have virtually adopt- 
 ed! — scruple to trust yourself for half 'an hour 
 to that tumble-down old Fawley! Are you 
 afraid that the gossips will say yon, the Mar- 
 chioness of Montfort, are running after a gloomv 
 old widower, and scheming to be mistress of a 
 mansion more like a ghost-trap than a residence 
 for civilized beings ? Or are you afraid that Guy 
 Darrell will be fool and fop enough to think you 
 are come to force on him your hand? Pooh, 
 pooh ! Such scruples would be in place if j-ou 
 were a portionless, forward girl ; or if he Mere 
 a conceited young puppy, or even a suspicious 
 old roue. But Guy Darrell — a man of his sta- 
 tion, his character, his years ! And }ou, cousin 
 Caroline, what are you? Surely, lifted above 
 all such pitiful crotchets by a rank among the 
 loftiest gentlewomen of England; — ample for- 
 tune, a beauty that in itself is rank and wealth : 
 and, above all, a character that has passed with 
 venerated purity through that ordeal in which 
 every eye seeks a spot, every ear invites a'scan- 
 dal. But as you will. All I say is, that Dar- 
 rell's future may be in your hands ; that, aftc r 
 to-morrow, the occasion to give at least noble 
 occupation and lasting renown to a mind that is 
 devouring itself and stifling its genius, may be 
 
306 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 irrevocably lost ; aud that I do believe, if you 
 said to-morrow to Guy Darrell, ' You i-efused to 
 hear rlie when I pleaded for wliat you thought a 
 disgrace to your name, and yet even that you 
 at last conceded to the voice of affection as if of 
 duty — now hear me when I plead by the side 
 of your oldest friend on behalf of your honor, 
 and in the name of your forefathers' — if tou say 
 THAT, he is won to his country. You will have 
 repaired a wrong ; and, pray, will you have com- 
 promised your dignity ?" 
 
 Caroline had recoiled into the corner of the 
 carriage, her mantle close drawn round her 
 breast, her vail lowered ; but no sheltering garb 
 or vail could conceal her agitation. 
 
 The Colonel pulled the check-string. "No- 
 thing so natural ; you are the widow of the 
 Head of the House of Vipont. Y'ou are, or 
 ought to be, deeply interested in its fate. An 
 awful Ckisis, long expected, has occurred. The 
 House trembles. A connection of that House 
 can render it an invaluable service ; that con- 
 nection is the man at whose hearth your child- 
 hood was reared ; and you go with me — me, 
 who am known to be moving heaven and earth 
 for every vote that the House can secure, to 
 canvass this wavering connection for his sup- 
 port and assistance. Nothing, I say, so natu- 
 ral ; and yet you scruple to serve the House of 
 Vipont — to save your country ! Y'ou may well 
 be agitated. I leave you to your own reflec- 
 tions. ]My time runs short ; I will get out here. 
 Trust me with these documents. I will see to 
 the rest of this long painful subject. I will send 
 a special report to you this evening, and you 
 will reply by a single line to the prayer I have 
 ventured to address to you." 
 
 CHAPTER XU., AND LAST. 
 
 In which the Author endeavors, to the best of his abili- 
 ty, to give a final reply to the question, "What will 
 lie do with it?" 
 
 Scene — The banks of the lake at Fawley. 
 George is lending his arm to Waife ; Sirs. Mor- 
 ley, seated on her camp-stool, at the opposite 
 side of the water, is putting the last touch to 
 her sketch of the Manor House ; Sir Isaac, re- 
 clined, is gravely contemplating the swans ; the 
 doe, bending over him, occasionally nibbles his 
 ear; Fairthorn has uncomfortably edged liim- 
 self into an angle of the building, between two 
 buttresses, and is watching, with malignant eye, 
 two young forms, at a distance, as they move 
 slowly yonder, side by side, yet apart, now lost, 
 now emerging, through the gaps between mel- 
 ancholy leafless trees. Dai-rell, having just 
 quitted Waife and George, to whose slow pace 
 he can ill time his impatient steps, wonders why 
 Lionel, whom, on arriving, he had, ^ith brief 
 cordial words, referred to So])hy for his fate, has 
 taken more than an hour to ask a simple ques- 
 tion, to which the reply may be pretty mcII 
 knowii beforehand. He advances toward those 
 melancholy trees. Suddenly one young form 
 leaves the other — comes with rapid stride 
 through the withered fern. Pale as death Li- 
 onel seizes Guy Darrell's hand with convulsive 
 grasp, and says, ' ' I must leave you, Sir. God 
 
 bless you ! All is over. I was the blindest fool 
 — she refuses me !" 
 
 "Refuses you! — impossible! For what rea- 
 son?" 
 
 " She can not love me well enough to marry," 
 answered Lionel, with a quivering lip, and an 
 attempt at that irony in which all extreme an- 
 guish, at least in our haughty sex, delights to 
 seek refuge or disguise. " Likes me as a friend, 
 a brother, and so forth, but nothing more. All 
 a mistake. Sir — all, except your manelous kind- 
 ness to me — to her — for which Heaven ever bless 
 you !" 
 
 "Yes, all a mistake of yom* own, foolish boy," 
 said Darrell, tenderly ; and, turning sharp, he 
 saw Sophy hastening by, quickly and firmly, 
 with her eyes looking sti-aightward — on into 
 space. He threw himself in her path. 
 
 " Tell this dull kinsman of mine that ' faint 
 heart never won fair lady.' You do not mean 
 serious!}', deliberately, to reject a heart that will 
 never be faint with a meaner fear than that of 
 losing you?" 
 
 Poor Sophy ! She kept her blue eyes still 
 on the cold gray space, and answered by some 
 scarce audible words — words which in every age 
 girls intending to say No seem to learn as birds 
 learn their song — no one knows who taught 
 them, but they are ever to the same tune. 
 " Sensible of the honor" — " Grateful" — " Some 
 one more worthy" — etc., etc. 
 
 Darrell checked this embarrassed jargon. 
 "My question, young lady, is solemn; it in- 
 volves the destiny of two lives. Do voti mean 
 to say that you do not love Lionel Ilaughton 
 well enough to give him your hand, and return 
 the true faith which is pledged with his own?" 
 
 "Yes," said Lionel, who had gained the side 
 of his kinsman: "yes, that is it. Oh Sophy — 
 Ay or No ?" 
 
 "No!" fell from her pale, firm lips — and in 
 a moment more she was at AYaife's side, and 
 had drawn him away from George. "Grand- 
 father, grandfather! — home, home; let us go 
 home at once, or I shall die !" 
 
 Darrell has kept his keen sight upon her 
 movements — upon her countenance. He sees 
 her gesture — her look — as she now clings to 
 her grandfather. The blue eyes are not now 
 coldly fixed on level air, but raised upward, as 
 for strength from above. The young face is 
 sublime with its woe, and with its resolve. 
 
 "Noble child!" muttered Darrell. "I think 
 I see into her heart. If so, poor Lionel indeed ! 
 My pride has j-ielded, hers never will !" 
 
 Lionel, meanwhile, kept beating his foot on 
 the ground, and checking indignantly the tears 
 that sought to gather to his eyes. Darrell threw 
 his arm round tlie young man's shoulder, and 
 led him gently, slowly away, by the barbed 
 thorn-tree — on by the moss-grown crags. 
 
 Waife, meanwhile, is bending his ear to So- 
 phy's lip. The detestable Fairthorn emerges 
 from between the buttresses, aud shambles up to 
 George, thirsting to hear his hopes confirmed, 
 and turning his face back to smile congratula- 
 tion on the gloomy old house that he thinks he 
 has saved from the lake. 
 
 Sophy has at last convinced Waife that his 
 senses do not deceive him, nor hers wander. 
 She has said, "Oh, grandfather, let us ever hence- 
 forth be all in all to each other. You are not 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 307 
 
 ashamed of me — I am so proud of you. But 
 there are others akin to me, grandfather, whom 
 we will not mention ; and vou would be ashamed 
 of me if I brought disgrace on one who would 
 confide to me his name, his honor ; and should 
 I be as proud of you, if you asked me to do 
 it ?" 
 
 At these words Waife understands all, and 
 he has not an argument in reply ; and he suffers 
 Sophy to lead him toward the house. Yes, they 
 will go hence — yes, there shall be no schemes 
 of marriage I They had nearly reached the 
 door when the door itself opened violently, and 
 a man rushing forth caught Sophy in his arms, 
 and kissed her forehead, her cheek, with a heart- 
 iness that it is well Lionel did not witness I 
 Speechless and breathless with resentment, So- 
 phy struggled, and in vain, when Waife, seizing 
 the man by the collar, swung him away with a 
 '•How dare you, Sir?" that was echoed back 
 from the hillocks — stmimoned Sir Isaac at full 
 gallop from the lake — scared Fairthorn back to 
 his buttresses — roused Mrs. Morley from her 
 sketch — and, smiting the ears of Lionel and 
 Darrell, hurried them, mechanically as it were, 
 to the spot from which that thunder-roll had 
 pealed. 
 
 '• How dare I ?" said the man, resettling the 
 flow of his disordSred coat — "How dare I kiss 
 my own niece ? — my own sister's orphan child ? 
 Venerable Bandit, I have a much better right 
 than you have. Oh my dear injured Sophy, to 
 think that I was ashamed of your poor cotton 
 print — to think that to your pretty face I have 
 been owing fame and fortune — and you, you 
 wandering over the world — child of the sister 
 of whose beauty I was so proud — of her for 
 whom, alas in vain ! I painted Watteaus and 
 Greuzes upon screens and fans !" Again he 
 clasped her to his breast ; and "Waife this time 
 stood mute, and Sophy passive — for the man's 
 tears were raining upon her face, and washed 
 away eveiy blush of shame as to the kiss they 
 hallowed. 
 
 "But where is my old friend William Lose- 
 ly? — where is Willy?" said another voice, as a 
 tall thin personage stepped out from the hall, 
 and looked poor Waife unconsciously in the 
 face. 
 
 "Alban Morley!" faltered Waife; you are 
 bat little changed!" 
 
 The Colonel looked again, and in the elderly, 
 lame, one-eyed, sober-looking man, recognized 
 the wild, jovial Willy, who had tamed the most 
 nnruly fillies, taken the most frantic leaps, car- 
 oled forth the blithest song — madcap, good fel- 
 low, frolicsome, childlike darling of gay and 
 grave, young and old ! 
 
 '"Eheu, fiigaces, Postnine, Postume, 
 Labuntur anni,' " 
 
 said the Colonel, insensibly imbibing one of 
 those Horatian particles that were ever floating 
 in that classic atmosphere — to Darrell medic- 
 inal, to Fairthorn morbific. '• Years slide away, 
 Willy, mutely as birds skim through air; but 
 when friend meets with friend lifter absence, 
 each sees the print of their crow's-feet on the 
 face of the other. But we are not too old yet, 
 Willy, for many a meet — at the fireside ! No- 
 thing ebe in our studs, we can still mount our 
 hobbies ; and thorough-bred hobbies contrive to 
 be in at the death. But yon are waiting to 
 
 learn by what title and name this stranger lavs 
 claim to so peerless a niece. Know then — Ah 
 here comes Danell. Guy Darrell. in this voun^ 
 lady you will welcome the grandchild of Sidney 
 Branthwaite, our old Eton school friend, a gen- 
 tleman of as good blood as any in the land!" 
 
 "Xone better," cried Fairthorn, who has 
 sidled himself into the group; " there's a note 
 on the Branthwaite genealogy, Sir, in vour fa- 
 ther's great work upon ' Monumental Brasses.' " 
 
 " Permit me to conclude, Mr. Fairthorn," re- 
 sumed the Colonel ; '• Monumental Brasses are 
 painful subjects. Yes DaiTell, yes Lionel ; this 
 fair creature, whom Lady Mon'tfort might well 
 desire to adopt, is the daughter of" Arthur 
 Branthwaite, by man-iage with the sister of 
 Frank Vance, v.hose name I shrewdly suspect 
 nations will prize, and whose works princes will 
 hoard, when many a long genealogy, all blazoned 
 in azure and or, will have left not a scrap for 
 the moths." 
 
 "Ah !" murmured Lionel, " was it not I, So- 
 phy, who taught you to love your father's gen- 
 ius I Do you not remember how, as we bent 
 over his volume, it seemed to translate to us 
 our own feelings ? — to draw us nearer together? 
 He was speaking to us from his grave." 
 
 Sophy made no answer ; her face was hidden 
 on the breast of the old man, to whom she still 
 clung closer and closer. 
 
 " Is it so ? Is it certain ? Is there no doubt 
 that she is the child of these honored parents?" 
 asked Waife, tremulously. 
 
 '■ Xone," answered Alban ; " we bring with 
 us proofs that will clear up all my story." 
 
 The old man bowed his head over Sophv's 
 fair locks for a moment ; then raised it, serene 
 and dignified ; " You are mine for a moment 
 yet, Sophy," said he. 
 
 " Yours as ever — more fondly, gratefully than 
 ever," cried Sophy. 
 
 " There is but one man to whom I can will- 
 ingly yield you. Son of Charles Haughton, take 
 my treasure." 
 
 "I consent to that," cried Vance, "though 
 I am put aside like a Remorseless Baron. And, 
 Lionello mio, if Frank Vance is a miser, so 
 much the better for his niece." 
 
 " But," faltered Lionel. 
 
 Oh, falter not. Gaze into those eves ; read 
 that blush now ! She looks coy, not "reluctant. 
 She bends before him — adorned as for love, by 
 all her native graces. Air seems brightened by 
 her bloom. Xo more the Outlaw-Child of Ig- 
 nominy and Fraud, but the Starry Daughter of 
 Poetry a>t> Art I Lo, where they glide away 
 under the leafless, melancholy trees. Leafless 
 and melancholy I Xo! Verdure and blossom 
 and the smile of spring are upon even* bough. 
 
 "I suppose," said Alban, "it will not now 
 break Lionel's heart to learn that not an hour 
 before I left London I heard from a friend at 
 the Horse Guards that it has been resolved to 
 
 substitute the regiment for Lionel's ; and 
 
 it will be for some time yet, I suspect, that he 
 must submit to be ingloriously happy. Come 
 this way, George ; a word in your ear." And 
 Alban, drawing his nephew aside, told him of 
 Jasper's state, and of Arabella's request. " Xot 
 a word to-day on these mournful topics to poor 
 Willy. To-day let nothing add to his pain to 
 have lost a grandchild, or dim his consolation 
 
308 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 in the happiness and security his Sophy gains i 
 in that loss. But to-morrow you will go and 
 see this stricken-down sinner, and prepare the 
 father for the worst. I made a point of seeing 
 Dr. F. last night. He gives Jasper but a few 
 weeks. He compares him to a mountain, not 
 merely shattered by an earthquake, but burned 
 out by its own inward fires." 
 
 "A few weeks only," sighed Greorge. " Well, 
 Time, that seems every thing to man, has not 
 even an existence in the sight of God. To that 
 old man I owe the power of speech to argue, to 
 exhort, and to comfort ; he was training me to 
 kneel by the death-bed of his son!''' 
 
 " You believe," asked the Man of the World, 
 " in the efficacy of a death-bed repentance, 
 when a sinner has sinned till the power of sin- 
 ning be gone?" 
 
 "I believe," replied the Preacher, "that in 
 health there is nothing so unsafe as trust in a 
 death-bed repentance ; I believe that on the 
 death-bed it can not bs unsafe to repent!" 
 
 Alban looked thoughtful, and George turned 
 to rejoin Waife, to whom Vance was narrating 
 the discovery of Sophy's parentage; while Fair- 
 thorn, as he listened, drew his flute from his 
 pocket, and began screwing it, impatient to vent 
 in delicate music what he never could have set 
 into words for his blundering, untunable tongue. 
 The Colonel joins Darrell, and hastens to un- 
 fold more fully the story which Vance is re- 
 citing to Waife. 
 
 Brief as it can, be the explanation due to the 
 reader. 
 
 Vance's sister had died in child-birth. The 
 poor young poet, unfitted to cope with penury, 
 his sensitive nature combined with a frame that 
 could feebly resist the strain of exhausting emo- 
 tions, disappointed in fame, despairing of for- 
 tune, dependent for bread on his wife's boyish 
 brother, and harassed by petty debts in a for- 
 eign land, had been fast pining away, even be- 
 fore an affliction to which all the rest seemed 
 as naught. With that atBiction he broke down 
 at once, and died a few days after his wife, 
 leaving an infant not a week old. A French 
 female singer, of some repute in the theatre?, 
 and making a provincial tour, was lodging in 
 the same house as the young couple. She had 
 that compassionate heart which is more com- 
 mon than prudence or very strict principle with 
 the tribes who desert the prosaic true world for 
 the light, sparkling, false one. She had assist- 
 ed the young couple, in their later days, witli 
 purse and kind offices ; had been present at the 
 birth of the infant — the death of the mother ; 
 and had promised Arthur Branthwaite that she 
 would take care of his child, until she could 
 safely convey it to his wife's relations ; while 
 he wept to own that they, poor as himself, must 
 regard such a charge as a burden. 
 
 The singer wrote to apprise Mrs. Vance of 
 the death of her daughter and son-in-law, and 
 the birth of the infant whom she undertook 
 shortly to send to England. But the babe, 
 whom, meanwhile, she took to herself, got hold 
 of her affections ; with that yearning for chil- 
 dren which makes so remarkable and almost 
 uniform a characteristic of French women (if 
 themselves childless) in the wandering Bohe- 
 mian class that separates them from the ordi- 
 nary household affections never dead in the 
 
 heart of women till womanhood itself be dead, 
 the singer clung to the orphan little one to 
 whom she was for the moment rendering the 
 cares of a mother. She could not bear to part 
 with it ; she resolved to adopt it as her own. 
 The knowledge of Mrs. Vance's circumstances 
 — the idea that the orphan, to herself a blessing, 
 would be an unwelcome incumbrance to its own 
 relations — removed every scruple from a mind 
 unaccustomed to suffer reflection to stand in the 
 way of an impulse. She wrote word to Mrs. 
 Vance that the child was dead. She trusted 
 that her letter would suffice, without other evi- 
 dence, to relations so poor, and who could have 
 no suspicion of any interest to deceive them. 
 Her trust was well founded. Mrs. Vance and 
 the boy Frank, whose full confidence and grat- 
 itude had been already secured to their corre- 
 spondent for her kind offices to the young par- 
 ents, accepted, without a demur or a question, 
 the news that the infant was no more. The 
 singer moved on to the next town at which she 
 was professionally engaged. The infant, hith- 
 erto brought up by hand, became ailing. The 
 medical adriser called in recommended the nat- 
 ural food, and found, in a village close by, the 
 nurse to whom, a little time before, Jasper Lose- 
 ly had consigned his own daughter. The latter 
 died ; the nurse then removed to Paris, to reside 
 with the singer, who had obtained a lucrative 
 appointment at one of the metropolitan thea- 
 tres. In less than two years the singer herself 
 fell a victim to a prevailing epidemic. She had 
 lived without thought of the morrow ; her debts 
 exceeded her means ; her effects were sold. 
 The nurse, who had meanwhile become a wid- 
 ow, came for advice and refuge to her sister, 
 was in the service of Gabrielle Desmarets. Ga- 
 brielle being naturally appealed to, saw the in- 
 fant, heard the story, looked into the statement 
 which, by way of confession, the singer had 
 dra^^"n up, and signed, in a notary's presence, 
 before she died ; looked into the letters from 
 Mrs. Vance, and the school-boy scrawls from 
 Frank, both to the singer and to the child's par- 
 ents, which the actress had carefully presened ; 
 convinced herself of the poverty and obscurity 
 of the infant's natural guardians and next of 
 kin ; and said to Jasper, who was just dissipat- 
 ing the fortune handed over to him as survivor 
 of his wife and child, "There is what, if well 
 managed, may retain your hold on a rich father- 
 in-law, when all else has failed. You have but 
 to say that this infant is his grandchild ; the 
 nurse we can easily bribe, or persuade to con- 
 firm the tale. I, whom he already knows as that 
 respectable baroness, your Matilda's friend, can 
 give to the story some probable touches. The 
 lone, childless man must rejoice to think that a 
 tie is left to him. The infant is exquisitely 
 pretty ; her face will plead for her. His heart 
 will favor the idea too much to make him very 
 rigorous in his investigations. Take the infant. 
 Doubtless in your own country you can find 
 some one to rear it at little or no expense, un- 
 til the time come for appeal to your father-in- 
 law, when no other claim on his purse remains." 
 Jasper assented with the insouciant docility bj 
 which he always acknowledged Gabrielle's as- 
 tuter intellect. He saw the nurse; it was clear 
 that she had nothing to gain by taking the child 
 to English relations so poor. They might re- 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 309 
 
 fuse to believe her, and certainly could not re- 
 ward. To rid herself of the infant, and obtain 
 the means to return to her native village with a 
 few hundred francs in her purse, there was no 
 promise she was not willing to make, no story 
 she was too honest to tell, no paper she was too 
 timid to sign. Jasper was going to London on 
 some adventure of his own. He took the infant 
 — chanced on Arabella ; — the reader knows the 
 rest. The indifference ever manifested by Jas- 
 per to a child not his own — the hardness with 
 which he had contemplated and planned his fa- 
 ther's separation from one whom he had im- 
 posed by false pretexts on the old man's love, 
 and whom he only regarded as an alien encum- 
 brance upon the scanty means of her deluded 
 protector — the fitful and desultory mode in 
 which (when, contrary to the reasonings which 
 Gabrielle had based upon a very large experi- 
 ence of the credulities of human nature in gen- 
 eral, but in utter ignorance of the nature pecu- 
 liar to Darrell) his first attempt at imposition 
 had been so scornfully resisted by his indignant 
 father-in-law — he had played fast and loose 
 with a means of extortion which, though loth to 
 abandon, he knew would not bear any strict in- 
 vestigation; — all this is now clear to the reader. 
 And the reader will also comprehend why, part- 
 ly from fear that his father might betraj- him, 
 partly from a compassionate unwillingness to 
 deprive the old man of a belief in which Will- 
 iam Losely said he had found such solace, Jas- 
 per, in his last inteiwiew ^\•ith his father, shrunk 
 from saying, '"but she is not your grandchild!" 
 The idea of recurring to the true relations of 
 the child naturally never entered into Jasper's 
 brain. He considered them to be as poor as 
 himself. They buy from him the child of par- 
 ents whom they had evidently, by their letters, 
 taxed themselves to the utmost, and in vain, to 
 save from absolute want! So wild seemed that 
 notion that he had long since forgotten relations 
 so useless existed. Fortunately the Nurse had 
 preserved the written statement of the singer — 
 the letters by ]\Irs. Vance and Frank — the cer- 
 tificate of the infant's birth and baptism — some 
 poor relics of Sophy's ill-fated parents — manu- 
 scripts of Arthur's poems — baby-caps with ini- 
 tials and armorial crests, wrought before her 
 confinement by the young wife— all of which 
 had been consigned by the singer to the nurse, 
 and which the nurse willingly 'disposed of to 
 Mrs. Crane, with her own forinal deposition of 
 the facts, confirmed by her sister, Gabrielle's 
 old confidential attendant, and who, more fa- 
 vored than her mistress, was living peaceablv in 
 the rural scenes of her earlier innocence, upon 
 the interest of the gains she had saved in no in- 
 nocent sen'ice — confirmed yet more by refer- 
 ences to many whose testimonies could trace, 
 step by step, the child's record from its birth to 
 its transfer to Jasper, and by the brief but dis- 
 tinct avowal, in tremulous lines, writ by Jasper 
 himself. As a skein crossed and tangled, when 
 the last knot is loosened, slips suddenly free, so 
 this long-bewildering mystery now became clear 
 as a commonplace! What years of suflfering 
 Darrell might have been saved had he himself 
 seen and examined the nurse — had his inqniry 
 been less bounded by the fear of his pride — had 
 the great lawyer not had himself for a client I 
 Darrell silently returned to Alban Morley the ' 
 
 papers over which he had cast his eye as they 
 walked slowly to and fro the sloping banks of 
 the lake. 
 
 " It is well," said he, glancing fondly, as Fair- 
 thorn had glanced before him, toward the old 
 House, now freed from doom, and permitted to 
 last its time ; " it is well," he repeated, looking 
 away toward that part of the landscape where 
 he could just catch a glimpse of Sophy's light 
 form beyond the barbed thorn-tree; "it "is well," 
 be repeated thrice, with a sigh. "Poor human 
 nature ! Alban, can you conceive it. I, who 
 once so dreaded that that poor child should 
 prove to be of my blood, now, in knowing that 
 she is not, feel a void, a loss ! To Lionel I am 
 so distant a kinsman I — to his wife, to his chil- 
 dren, what can I be ? A rich old man ; the 
 sooner he is in his grave the better. A few- 
 tears, and then the will ! But, as your nephew- 
 says, 'This life is but a school ;' the new-comer 
 in the last form thinks the head-boy just leaving 
 so old ! And to us, looking back, it seems but 
 the same yesterday whether we were the last 
 comer or the head-boy." 
 
 " I thought," said Alban, plaintively, " that, 
 for a short time at least, I had done with ' pain- 
 ful subjects.' You revel in them ! County Guy, 
 you have not left school yet : leave it with cred- 
 it ; M-in the best prize." And Alban plunged at 
 once into The Crisis. He grew eloquent ; the 
 Party, the Country, the Great IMeasure to be 
 intrusted to Darrell, if he would but undertake 
 it as a member of the Cabinet ; the Peerage, 
 the House of Vipont, and immortal glory ! — el- 
 oquent as Ulysses haranguing the son of Pelens 
 in Troilus and Cressida. 
 
 Darrell listened coldly ; only while Alban 
 dwelt on " the Measure" in which, when it was 
 yet too unripe for practical statesmen, he had 
 attached his faith as a thinker, the orator's eye 
 flashed with young fire. A gi-eat truth is eter- 
 nally clear to a great heart that has once nour- 
 ished its germ and foreseen its fruits. But 
 when Alban quitted that part of his theme all 
 the rest seemed wearisome to his listener. 
 They had now wound their walk to the opposite 
 side of the lake, and ]'aused near the thick 
 beech-trees, hallowed and saddened by such se- 
 cret associations to the mournful owner. 
 
 " No, my dear Alban," said Darrell, " I can not 
 summon up sufficient youth and freshness of 
 spirit to re-enter the turbulent arena I have left. 
 Ah ! look yonder where Lionel and Sophy move \ 
 Give me, I do not say Lionel's years, but Lionel's 
 wealth of hope, and I might still have a wish 
 for fame and a voice for England ; but it is a 
 subtle truth that where a man misses a home, a 
 link between his country and himself is gone. 
 Vulgar ambition may exist — the selfish desire 
 of power; they were never very strong in me, 
 and now less strong than the desire of rest; 
 but that beautiful, genial, glorious union of all 
 the aff"ections of social citizen, which begins at 
 the hearth and widens round the land, is not 
 for the hermit's cell." 
 
 Alban was about to give up the argument in 
 in-itable despair, when, happening to turn his 
 eye toward the farther depth of the beech- 
 grove, he caught a glimpse — no matter what of; 
 but quickening his step in the direction to which 
 his glance had wandered, he seated himself on 
 the gnarled roots of a tree that seemed the 
 
310 
 
 WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 monarch of the wood, wide-spreading as that 
 under which Tityrus reclined of old ; and there, 
 out of sight of the groups on the opposite hanks 
 of the lake — there, as if he had sought the 
 gloomiest and most secret spot for what he had 
 yet to say, he let fall, in the most distinct yet 
 languid tones of his thorough- bred, cultured 
 enunciation, " I have a message to you from 
 Lady Montfort. Eestless man, do come near- 
 er, and stand still. I am tired to death." Dar- 
 rell approached, and, leaning against the trunk 
 of the giant tree, said, with folded arms and 
 compressed lips, 
 
 " A message from Lady ^lontfort !" 
 
 " Yes. I should have told you, by-the-hy, 
 that it was she who, being a woman, of course 
 succeeded where I, being a man, despite in- 
 credible pains and trouble, signally failed, dis- 
 covered Arabella Fossett, alias Crane, and ob- 
 tained from her the documents which free your 
 life forever from a haunting and torturing fear. 
 I urged her to accompany me hither, and place 
 the documents herself in }our hand. She re- 
 fused ; j'ou were not worth so much trouble, my 
 dear Gu3\ I requested her at least to sufl'er me 
 to show to you a paper containing Jasper Lose- 
 ly's confession of a conspiracy to poison her 
 mind against you some years ago— a conspiracy 
 so villainously ingenious that it would have com- 
 pletely exonerated any delicate and proud young 
 girl from the charge of fickleness in yielding to 
 an impulse of pique and despair. But Lady 
 Montfort did not wish to be exonerated; your 
 good opinion has ceased to be of the slightest 
 value to her. But to come to the point. She 
 bade me tell you that if yoa persist in shelter- 
 ing yourself in a hermit's cell from the fear of 
 meeting her — if she be so dangerous to your 
 peace — you may dismiss such absurd apprehen- 
 sion. She is going abroad ; and, between you 
 and me, my dear fellow, I have not a doubt 
 that she %vill marry again before six months are 
 out. I spoke of your sufferings ; she told me 
 she had not the smallest compassion for them." 
 
 "Alban Morley, you presumed to talk thus 
 of me?" cried Darrell, livid with rage. 
 
 " Strike, but hear me. It is true you would 
 not own, when I was last at Fawley, that she 
 was the cause of your secluded life, of your 
 blighted career : but I knew better. However, 
 let me go on before you strangle me. Lady 
 Alontfort's former feelings of friendship for you 
 are e^"idently quite changed; and she charged 
 me to add that she really hoped that you would 
 exert your good sense and pride (of which Heav- 
 en knows you have plenty) to eradicate an ab- 
 surd and romantic sentiment, so displeasing to 
 her, and so — " 
 
 "It is false ! it is false ! What have I done 
 to you, Colonel Morley, that you should slander 
 me thus ? / send you messages of taunt and 
 insult, Mr. Darrell! I — /.' — you can not be- 
 lieve it — you can not I" 
 
 Caroline Montfort stood between the two, as 
 if she had dropped from heaven. 
 
 A smile, half in triumph, half in irony, curved 
 the lip of the fine gentleman. It faded instant- 
 ly as his eye turned from the face of the earn- 
 est woman to that of the earnest man. Alban 
 Morley involuntarily bowed his head, murmur- 
 ed some words, unheard, and passed from the 
 place, unheeded. 
 
 Not by concert nor premeditation was Caro- 
 line Montfort on that spot. She had consent- 
 ed to accompany her cousin to Fawley, but be- 
 fore reaching the park-gates her courage failed 
 her; she would remain within the carriage; 
 the Colonel, wanted in London as soon as pos- 
 sible, whatever the result of his political mis- 
 sion to Darrell, could not remain long at Faw- 
 ley ; she would return with him. Vance's jjres- 
 ence and impatient desire to embrace his niece 
 did not allow the Colonel an occasion for argu- 
 ment and parley. Chafed at this fresh experi- 
 ence of the capricious uncertainty of woman, he 
 had walked on with Vance to the ilanor House. 
 Left alone, Caroline could not endure the still- 
 ness and inaction which increased the tumult 
 of her thoughts ; she would at least have one 
 more look — it might be the last — at the scenes 
 in which her childhood had sported — her youth 
 known its first happy dreams. But a few yards 
 across those circumscribed demesnes, on through 
 those shadowy, serried groves, and she should 
 steal, unperceived, in view of the house, the be- 
 loved lake — perhaps even once more catch a 
 passing glimpse of the owner. She resolved, 
 she glided on, came ; she gained the beech- 
 grove, when, by the abrupt wind of the banks, 
 Darrell and Alban came suddenly on the very 
 spot. The flutter of her robe, as she turned to 
 retreat, caught Alban's eye ; the reader com- 
 prehends with what wily intent, conceived on 
 the moment, that unscrupulous intriijant shaped 
 the words that chained her footstep, and then 
 stung her on to self-disclosure. Trembling and 
 blushing, she now stood before the startled man 
 — he, startled out of every other sentiment and 
 feeling than that of inefl;able, exquisite delight 
 to be once more in her presence ; she, after her 
 first passionate outburst, hastening on, in con- 
 fused, broken words, to explain that she was 
 there but by accident — by chance; confusion 
 growing deeper and deeper — how explain the 
 motive that had charmed her steps to the spot ? 
 
 Suddenly from the opposite bank came the 
 music of the magic flute, and her voice as sud- 
 denly stopped and failed her. 
 
 " Again — again," said Darrell, dreamily. 
 " The same music! the same air I and this the 
 same place on which we two stood together when 
 I first dared to say, ' I love !' Look, we are un- 
 der the very tree ! Look, there is the date I 
 caiwed on the bark when you were gone, but 
 had left Hope behind. Ah! Caroline, why can 
 I not now resign myself to age ? Why is youth, 
 while I speak, rushing back into my heart, into 
 my soul ? Wliy can not I say, ' Gratefully I ac- 
 cept your tender friendship ; let the past be for- 
 gotten ; through what rests to me of the future 
 while on earth, be to me as a child ?' I can not 
 — I can not I Go !" 
 
 She drew nearer to him, gently, timidly. 
 "Even that, Darrell — even that; something in 
 your life — let me be something still!" 
 
 "Ay," he said with melancholy bitterness, 
 "you deceive me no longer now! You own 
 that, when here we stood last, and exchanged 
 our troth, you in the blossom, and I in the prime, 
 of life — you own that it was no woman's love, 
 deaf to all calumny, proof to all craft that could 
 wrong the absent ; no woman's love, warm as 
 the heart, undying as the soul, that you pledged 
 me then.'^- — ^ 
 
WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT? 
 
 311 
 
 "Darrell, it was not — though then I thought 
 it was." 
 
 "Ay, ay," he continued with a smile, as if 
 of triiimpii in his own pangs, "so that truth is 
 confessed at last ! And when, once more free, 
 you wrote to me the letter I returned, rent in 
 fragments, to your hand — or when, forgiving 
 my rude outrage and fierce reproach, you spoke 
 to me so gently yonder, a few weeks since, in 
 these lonely shades, then what were your sen- 
 timents, your motives? Were they not those 
 of a long-suppressed and kind remorse? — of a 
 charity akin to that which binds rich to poor, 
 bows happiness to suffering? — some memories 
 of gratitude — nay, perhaps of childlike affec- 
 tion? — all amiable, all generous, all steeped in 
 that sweetness of nature to which I unconscious- 
 ly rendered justice in the anguish I endured in 
 losing you ; but do not tell me that even then 
 you were under the influence of woman's 
 love." 
 
 " Darrell, I was not." 
 
 "You own it, and you suffer me to see you 
 again I Trifler and cruel one, is it but to en- 
 joy the sense of yom' undiminished, unalterable 
 power?" 
 
 " Alas, Darrell I alas ! why am I here ? — ^vhy 
 so yearning, yet so afraid to come ? Why did 
 my heart fail when these trees rose in sight 
 against the sky ? — why, why — why was it drawn 
 hither by the spell I could not resist? Alas, 
 Darrell, alas I I am a woman noiv — and — and 
 this is — " She lowered her vail and turned 
 away ; her lips could not utter the word, because 
 the word was not pity, not remorse, not remem- 
 brance, not even affection ; and the woman 
 loved now too well to subject to the hazard of 
 rejection — Love ! 
 
 " Stay, oh stay !" cried Darrell. "Oh that I 
 could dare to ask you to complete the sentence I 
 I know — I know by the mysterious sympathy of 
 my own soul, that you could never deceive me 
 more ! Is it — is it — " His lips falter too ; but 
 her hand is clasped in his ; her head is reclined 
 upon his breast ; the vail is withdrawn from the 
 sweet downcast face ; and softly on her ear steal 
 the murmured words, " Again and now, till the 
 grave — Oh, by this hallowing kiss, again — the 
 Caroline of old I" 
 
 Fuller and fuller, spreading, wave after wave, 
 throughout the air, till it seem interfused and 
 commingled with the bi-eath which the listeners 
 breathe, the flute's mellow gush streams along. 
 The sun slopes in peace toward the west ; not a 
 cloud in those skies, clearer seen through yon 
 boughs stripped of leaves, and rendering more 
 vivid the evergreen of the arbute and laurel. 
 
 I^ionel and Sophy are now seated on yon 
 moss-gro-mi trunk ; on either side the old gray- 
 haired man, as if agreeing for a while even to 
 forget each other, that they may make Mm feel 
 how fondly he is remembered. Sophy is resting 
 both her hands on the old man's shoulder, look- 
 ing into his face," and murmuring in his ear with 
 voice like the coo of a happy dove. Ah ! fear 
 not, Sophy ; he is happy too — he, who never 
 thinks of himself. Look — the playful smile 
 round his arch lips ; look — now he is showing 
 oft' Sir Isaac to Vance ; with austere solemnity 
 
 the dog goes through his tricks ; and Vance, 
 with hand stroking his chin, is moi'alizing on all 
 that might have befallen had he grudged his 
 three pounds to that famous ixvestment ! 
 
 Behind that group, shadowed by the Thorn- 
 tree, stands the Preachee, thoughtful and 
 grave, foreseeing the grief that must come to 
 the old man with the morrow, when he will 
 learn that a guilty son nears his end, and wiU 
 hasten to comfort Jasper's last days with pardon. 
 But the Preacher looks not down to the death- 
 couch alone ; on and high over death looks the 
 Preacher I By what words heavenly mercy may 
 lend to his lips shall he steal away, yet in time, 
 to the soul of the dying, and justifv murmurs 
 of hope to the close of a life so dark with the 
 shades of its past ? And to him, to the Preacher, 
 they who survive — the two mourners — will come 
 in their freshness of soitow ! He the old man ? 
 Nay to him there will be comfort. His spirit 
 Heaven's kindness had tempered to trials ; and, 
 alas ! for that son, what could fiither hope more 
 than a death free from shame, and a chance 
 yet vouchsafed for repentance? But she, the 
 grim, iron-gray woman ? The Preacher's inter- 
 est, I know, will sqo centre on her : — And balm 
 may yet fall on tliy wounds, thou poor, grim, 
 iron-gray, loving woman ! 
 
 Lo !- that traitor, the Flute-player, over whom 
 falls the deep grateful shade from the eaves of 
 the roof-tree reprieved ; though unconscious as 
 yet of that hapjiy change in the lot of the mas- 
 ter, which, ere long, may complete (and haply 
 for sons sprung in truth from the blood of the 
 Darrell) yon skeleton pile, and consummate, for 
 ends nobler far, the plan of a grand life imper- 
 fect ;-r-though as yet the musician nor knows 
 nor conjectures the joy that his infamous treason 
 to Sophy so little deserves ; yet, as if by those 
 finer perceptions of sense, impressed, ere they 
 happen, by changes of pleasure and of pain, 
 which Art so mysteriously gives to the minds 
 from which music is bom, his airs, of them- 
 selves, float in joy : Like a bird at the coming 
 of spring, it is gladness that makes him melo- 
 dious. 
 
 And Alban Morley, seemingly intent upon 
 the sketch which his amiable niece-in-law sub- 
 mits to his critical taste ere she ventures to show 
 it to Vance, is looking from under his brows 
 toward the grove, out from which, towering over 
 all its dark brethren, soars the old trysting 
 beech-tree, and to himself he is saying, " Ten 
 to one that the old House of Vipont now weather 
 the Crisis ; and a thousand to one that I find 
 at last my arm-chair at the hearth of my school- 
 friend, Guy Darrein" 
 
 And the lake is as smooth as glass ; and the 
 swans, hearkening the music, rest still, with 
 white breasts against the grass of the margin; 
 and the doe, where she stands, her fore-feet 
 in the water, lifts her head wistfully, with nos- 
 trils distended, and wondering soft eyes that are 
 missing the master. Xow full on the beech- 
 grove shines the westering sun; out from the 
 gloomy beech-grove into the golden sunlight — 
 They come, they come — Man and the Helpmate, 
 two lives rebetrothed — ts^-o souls reunited. Be 
 it evermore! Amen. 
 
 THE END. 
 
THACKERAY'S WORKS. 
 
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