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

and felicitous elocution, the effects that voice, look, and delivery can give to words, which made Mr. Darrell himself the fine speaker he is. But I can only recollect the antiquary 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 Mr. Darrell, the present one, an only 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. Darrell’s portrait over the chimney-piece in his own reading-room; and he had it in his own library in Carlton Gardens. Our Mr. Darrell’s mother was very pretty, even as I remember her: she died when he was about ten years old. And she too was a relation of yours,—a Haughton 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 orphan. I believe old Mr. Darrell (not that he was old then) married her because the Haughtons could or would do nothing for her, and because 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 Darrell, 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 Haughtons, my grandfather Haughton, I suppose, would do nothing for his own kinswoman?”

      “It was not your grandfather Robert Haughton, 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 Haughton estates sadly clipped. But when Robert succeeded, 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 increased 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 princely estate for a third. But Robert Haughton, though not on the turf, had a grand way of living; 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 coloured, but remained silent.

      Fairthorn, who was as unconscious in his zest of narrator that he was giving pain as an entomologist in his zest for collecting when he pins a live moth in 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, he was always called Charlie) looked up to him as to an elder brother. Many’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. Darrell.”

      “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. Darrell 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 removed the fear of foreclosure; and what with increasing the rental here and there, and replacing old mortgages by new at less interest, he contrived to extract from the property an income 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 implored 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 both had once reared generations. Charlie promised, I know, and I’ve no doubt, my dear young sir, quite sincerely; but all men are not granite! He took to gambling, incurred debts of honour, sold the farms one by one, resorted to usurers, and one night, after playing six hours at piquet, 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 news of the fashionable world. Then Charlie Haughton sold out of the Guards, spent what he got for his commission, went into the Line; and finally, in a country town, in which I don’t think he was quartered, but having gone there on some sporting speculation, was unwillingly detained, married—”

      “My mother!” said Lionel, haughtily; “and the best of women she is. What then?”

      “Nothing, my dear young sir,—nothing, except that Mr. Darrell never forgave it. He has his prejudices: this marriage shocked one of them.”

      “Prejudice against my poor mother! I always supposed so! I wonder why? The most simple-hearted, inoffensive, affectionate woman.”

      “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 prejudice against my mother. I don’t think that he has even seen her. Unaccountable caprice! Shocked him, too,—what a word! Tell me—I beg—I insist.”

      “But you know,” said Fairthorn, half piteously, half snappishly, “that Mrs. Haughton was the daughter of a linendraper, and her father’s money got Charlie out of the county jail; and Mr. Darrell said, ‘Sold even your name!’ My father heard him say it in the hall at Fawley. Mr. Darrell was there during a long vacation, 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 manner 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 daughter that galled him; it was the thought that his father was bought for the altar out of the county jail! It was those cutting words, “Sold even your name.” His face, before very crimson, became livid; his head sank on his breast. He walked towards the old gloomy house by Fairthorn’s side, as one who, for the first time in life, feels on his heart the leaden weight of an hereditary shame.

      CHAPTER VI

      Showing how sinful it is in a man who does not care for his honour 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 farthest end of the paddock. He longed to be alone. The rain descended, not heavily, but in penetrating drizzle; he did not feel it, or rather he felt glad that there was no gaudy mocking sunlight. He sat down forlorn in the hollows 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 premature man,—a manly boy, but still a habitant of the twilight, dreamy, shadow-land