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

enclosed this separately in a kind of court, with an open screen-work or cloister; and it was his intention to appropriate it entirely to mediaeval antiquities, of which he has a wonderful collection. He had a notion of illustrating every earlier reign in which his ancestors flourished,—different apartments in correspondence with different dates. It would have been a chronicle of national manners.”

      “But, if it be not an impertinent question, where 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, considering that he never moved in a straightforward direction, undulated into the open air in front of the house, described a rhomboid towards 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 follow him, entered within the ribs of the stony skeleton. Lionel followed in a sort of supernatural awe, and beheld, with more substantial alarm, Mr. Fairthorn winding up an inclined plank which lie embraced with both arms, and by which 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 whisperingly; “but one gets used to everything! If you feel afraid, don’t venture!”

      Lionel, animated by that doubt of his courage, sprang up the plank, balancing himself schoolboy fashion, with outstretched arms, and gained the side of his guide.

      “Don’t touch me!” exclaimed Mr. Fairthorn, shrinking, “or we shall both be over. Now observe and imitate.” Dropping himself, then, carefully and gradually, till he dropped on the timber 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 wiped his spectacles.

      Lionel was not long before he stood in the same place. “Here we are,” said Fairthorn.

      “I don’t see the collection,” answered Lionel, first peering down athwart the joists upon the rugged ground overspread with stones and rubbish, then glancing up through similar interstices 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 Mr. Darrell keeps the key!—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, clapped his eye to the crevice of some planks nailed rudely across a yawning aperture. Lionel found another crevice for himself, and saw, piled up in admired disorder, pictures, 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 house), glazed in dull rough glass, with ventilators.

      “These are the heavy things, and least costly things, that no one could well rob. The pictures here are merely curious as early specimens, intended for the old house, all spoiling and rotting; Mr. Darrell wishes them to do so, I believe! What he wishes must be done! my dear young sir: a prodigious mind; it is of granite!”

      “I cannot understand it,” said Lionel, aghast. “The last man I should have thought capriciously whimsical.”

      “Whimsical! Bless my soul! don’t say such a word, don’t, pray! or the roof will fall down upon us! Come away. You have seen all you can see. You must go first now; mind that loose stone there!”

      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 in 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 bare will green leaves return, so long as the sap can remount to the branch from the root;

      but the branch which has ceased to take life from the root—hang it high, hang it low—is a prey to the wind and the woodman.

      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, running through 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 us 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 suppose, why it is left uncompleted. 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. Darrell intended to add to it. As to cost, you don’t know him. He would never have undertaken what he could not afford to complete; and what he once undertook, no thoughts of the cost would have scared him from finishing. Prodigious mind,—granite! And so rich!” added Fairthorn, 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 counting land?”

      “I cannot 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 lawyer make half a million at the bar?”

      “If any man could, Mr. Darrell would. When he sets his mind on a thing, the thing is done; no help for it. But his fortune was not all made at the bar, though a great part of it was. An old East Indian 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 relation, 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. Darrell was not dependent 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 establishment 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 fillet of veal at school on Sundays. I thought it good then.”

      “It makes a nice mince,” said Mr. Fairthorn, with a sensual movement of his lips. “One must think of dinner when one lives in the country: so little else to think of! Not that Mr. Darrell does, but then he is granite!”

      “Still,” said Lionel, smiling, “I do not get my answer. Why was the house uncompleted? 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 sadness,—“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 benefactor