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

the same sympathies?—with the same sentiments? Will the souls, hurrying on in diverse paths, unite once more, as if the interval had been a dream? Rarely, rarely! Have you not, after even a year, even a month’s absence, returned to the same place, found the same groups reassembled, 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 cannot restore the loss struck from the minute.” Are you happy in the spot on which you tarry 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! when we think of the lips which murmured, “Soon meet again,” and remember how in heart, soul, and thought, we stood forever divided the one from the other, when, once more face to face, we each inly exclaimed, “Met again!”

      The air that we breathe makes the medium through which sound is conveyed; be the instrument unchanged, be the force which is applied to it the same, still the air that thou seest not, the air to thy ear gives the music.

      Ring a bell underneath an exhausted receiver, thou wilt scarce hear the sound; give the bell 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 deep,—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 sky, or below thee in ocean. Art thou sure that the bell, so faint-heard, is not struck underneath an exhausted receiver?

      CHAPTER XIX

      The wandering inclinations of nomad tribes not to be accounted for on the principles of action peculiar to civilized 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 vanishes into the pockets of a nomad, neither lawful art nor occult science 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 of a British Railway.

      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 towards him, and shook his head.

      “No use knocking, gentlemen. Will you kindly step in?—this way.”

      “Do you mean that your lodgers are out?” asked Vance.

      “Gone!” said the Cobbler, thrusting his awl with great vehemence through the leather destined to the repair of a ploughman’s boot.

      “Gone—for good!” cried Lionel; “you cannot mean it. I call by appointment.”

      “Sorry, 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.

      SIR,—I most respectfully thank you for your condescending kindness to me and my grandchild; and your friend, for his timely and generous aid. You will pardon me that the necessity which knows no law obliges me to leave this place some hours before the time of your proposed visit. My grandchild says you intended to ask her sometimes to write to you. Excuse me, sir—on reflection, you will perceive how different your ways of life are from those which she must tread with me. You see before you a man who—but I forget; you see him no more, and probably never will.

Your most humble and most obliged, obedient servant, W. W.

      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?”

      VANCE.—“Not I—bah! Come away, Lionel.”

      “Did not Sophy even leave any message for me?” asked the boy, sorrowfully.

      “To be sure she did; I forgot-no, not exactly 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 Butterflies’ Ball and the Grasshoppers’ Feast.”

      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 Herschel for? You see, sir,” addressing Vance, “things odd and strange all come along o’ Herschel.”

      “What!—Sir John?”

      “No, the star he poked out. He’s a awful star for females! hates ‘em like poison! I suspect he’s been worriting hisself into her nativity, for I got out from her the year, month, and day she was born, hour unbeknown, but, calkeiating by noon, Herschel was dead agin her in the Third and Ninth House,—Voyages, Travels, Letters, News, Church Matters, and such like. 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 sick like. 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 has 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 Herschel; for you see, sir” (laying hold of Vance’s button, as he saw that gentleman turning to escape),—“you see Herschel, though he be a sinister chap eno’, specially in affairs connected with t’ other sex, disposes the native to dive into the mysteries of natur’. I’m a Herschel man, out and outer; born in March, and—”

      “As mad as its hares,” muttered Vance, wrenching his button from the Cobbler’s grasp, and impatiently striding off.