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

is 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 merrymaking of the Frosts, Slowes, and Prymmes.

      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 choose a doll. You may have one now, without fear of distracting you from what I hate to think you ever stooped to perform.”

      As Lionel, his crest erect and nostril dilated, and holding Sophy firmly by the hand, took his 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. “A very distinguished-looking boy,” said she. “What a fine face! Who did you say he was, Mr. Vance?”

      VANCE.—“His name is Haughton,—Lionel Haughton.”

      LADY SELINA.—“Haughton! Haughton! Any relation to poor dear Captain Haughton,—Charlie Haughton, as he was generally called?”

      Vance, knowing little more of his young friend’s parentage than that his mother let lodgings, at which, once domiciliated himself, he had made the boy’s acquaintance, and that she enjoyed the pension of a captain’s widow, replied carelessly,—

      “His father was a captain, but I don’t know whether he was a Charlie.”

      MR. CRAMPE (the wit).—“Charlies are extinct! I have the last in a fossil,—box and all.”

      General laugh. Wit shut up again.

      LADY SELINA.—“He has a great look of Charlie Haughton. Do you know if he is connected with that extraordinary man, Mr. Darrell?”

      VANCE.—“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 great world forgive ignorance of names and genealogies in those not born within its orbit, replied, “Oh, to be sure. It is not exactly in the way of your delightful art to know Mr. Darrell, one of the first men in Parliament, a connection of mine.”

      LADY FROST (nippingly).—“You mean Guy Darrell, the lawyer.”

      LADY SELINA.—“Lawyer—true; now I think of it, he was a lawyer. 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 dissolved when he was at the height of his reputation, and he refused to be re-elected.”

      One SIR GREGORY STOLLHEAD (a member of 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; lawyers 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, Mr. 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 anything for others, though he has ceased to act with us. Our party is not forgetful of talent.”

      LADY FROST (with icy crispness).—“I should think not: it has so little of that kind to remember.”

      SIR GREGORY.—“Talent is not wanted in the House of Commons now; don’t go down, in fact. Business assembly.”

      LADY SELINA (suppressing a yawn).—“Beautiful day! We had better think of going back to Richmond.”

      General assent, and slow retreat.

      CHAPTER XV

      The historian records the attachment to public business which distinguishes the British legislator.—Touching instance of the regret which ever in patriotic bosoms attends the neglect of a public duty.

      From the dusty height of a rumble-tumble affixed to Lady Selina Vipont’s barouche, and by the animated side of Sir Gregory Stollhead, Vance caught sight of Lionel and Sophy at a corner of the spacious green near the Palace. He sighed; he envied them. He thought of the boat, the water, the honeysuckle arbour at the little inn,—pleasures he had denied himself,—pleasures all in his own way. They seemed still more alluring by contrast with the prospect before him; formal dinner at the Star and Garter, with titled Prymmes, Slowes, 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 honeysuckle arbours!”

      Sir Gregory Stollhead interrupted Vance’s revery 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 frightfully 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.”

      VANCE (rousing himself).—“Ah—on what?”

      SIR GREGORY (regretfully).—“Sewers.”

      CHAPTER XVI

      Signs of an impending revolution, which, like all revolutions, 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.

      Lionel could not find in the toy-shops 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 several 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 temptingly 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 before 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 were 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 manliness, 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 off the task of reading the one he held, till satisfied hunger and cool-breathing shadows, and rest from the dusty road, had lent their soothing aid to his undeveloped philosophy.

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

      MY DEAR BOY,—How could you! Do it slyly!! Unknown to your own mother!! I could not believe it of you!!!! Take advantage of my confidence in showing you the letters of your father’s