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What Will He Do With It, Book 2.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> What Will He Do With It, Book 2.



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BOOK II.


CHAPTER I.

Primitive character of the country in certain districts of Great
Britain.--Connection between the features of surrounding scenery and
the mental and moral inclinations of man, after the fashion of all
sound ethnological historians.--A charioteer, to whom an experience
of British 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.

In 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 Fawley Manor House; it was five miles.
He ordered a fly, and was soon wheeled briskly along a rough parish road,
through a country strongly contrasting the gay river 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 cornfields; wide spaces
of unenclosed common opened, solitary and primitive, on the road,
bordered by large woods, chiefly of beech, closing the horizon with
ridges of undulating green. In such an England, Knights Templars might
have wended their way to scattered 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, induced the
nurture of revery, gravely soft and lulling. There, Ambition might give
rest to the wheel of Ixion, Avarice to the sieve of the Danaids; 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 suddenly 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 windmill, 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 Fawley, 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 to Fawley old Manor House. It
must be, I take it, four or five years 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?" "S'pose so.
I never seed him as I knows on; see'd two o' his hosses 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 gate, receding from the road,
and deeply shadowed by venerable trees,--no lodge. The driver,
dismounting, opened the gate.

"Is this the place?"

The driver nodded assent, remounted, and drove on rapidly through what
night by courtesy he called a park. The enclosure was indeed little
beyond that of a good-sized paddock; its boundaries were visible on every
side: but swelling 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 note 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 shaggy 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 eye before the gaze turned towards 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
Elizabeth. Few houses in England so old, indeed, as Fawley Manor House.
A vast weight of roof, with high gables; windows on the upper story
projecting far over the lower part; a covered porch with a coat of half-
obliterated arms deep panelled 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 scaffolding.
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
floorless chambers, for winds to whistle through and rats to tenant.
Weeds and long grass were growing over blocks of stone that lay at hand.
A wallflower had forced itself into root on the sill of a giant oriel.
The effect 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 moulder; a palace constructed for the reception of
crowding guests, the pomp 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 baffled
presumption of its spectral neighbour.

The driver had rung the bell, and now turning 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 stopped 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 afterwards: 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, 'That old Pope is always in trouble: what's he bin
doin' now?' Says he, 'Spreading! He's a-got into Parlyment, and he's
now got a colledge, and we pays for it. I does n't know how to stop him.'
Says I, 'Put the Pope into Chancery, along with wife's grandfather, and
he'll never spread agin.'"

The driver had thus just disposed of the Papacy, when an elderly servant
out of livery opened the door. Lionel sprang 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
expected. Meanwhile the servant 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 servant'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 advanced a chair. "If you will wait here a moment, sir, I will seek
for my master."




CHAPTER II.

Guy Darrell--and Stilled Life.

The room in which Lionel now found himself 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 manners 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 dependants, this
apartment had been screened off by perforated 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 arabesque pilasters, while the other three sides
were in small simple panels, with a deep fantastic frieze in plaster,
depicting a deer-chase in relief and running be tween woodwork and
ceiling. The ceiling itself was relieved by long pendants without any
apparent meaning, and by the crest of the Darrells,--a heron, wreathed
round with the family motto, "Ardua petit Ardea." 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 there had clearly been none on the
part of his predecessor, to suit the furniture to the room. The
furniture, indeed, 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
marvellously 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 mantelpiece reached to the
ceiling, in panelled compartments, with heraldic shields, and supported
by rude stone Caryatides. On the walls were several pictures,--family
portraits, 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 Ralph Haughton Darrell, in a dress that spoke him
of the holiday date of Charles II.,--all knots, lace, and ribbons;
evidently the beau of the race; and he had blue eyes, a blonde peruke, a
careless profligate smile, and looked altogether as devil-me-care,
rakehelly, handsome, good-for-nought, as ever swore at a drawer, beat a
watchman, charmed a lady, terrified a husband, and hummed a song as he
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
doorway so shadowed, and as it were cased round his figure, 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 the young
visitor gazed, much startled and somewhat awed. Not such as inferior
limners had painted in the portraits there, though it had something in
common with those family lineaments, but such as might have looked
tranquil power out of the canvas of Titian.

The man stepped forward, and the illusion passed. "I thank you," he
said, holding out his hand, "for taking me at my word, and answering me
thus in person." He paused a moment, surveying Lionel's countenance with
a keen but not unkindly 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 clasp--not repelling, not responding--and was then very gently
withdrawn.

"Did you come from London?"

"No, sir; I found your letter yesterday at Hampton Court. I had been
staying some days in that neighbourhood. I came on this morning: I was
afraid too unceremoniously; your kind welcome reassures me there."

The words were well chosen and frankly said. Probably they pleased the
host, for the expression of his countenance was, on the whole,
propitious; 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."

"Pray, sir," said Lionel, "do not change your hours on my account."

Mr. Darrell's brow slightly contracted. Lionel'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 deranged 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 1688, brought into fashion. Mr. Darrell passed down this
alley (no bowls there now), and observing that Lionel looked curiously
towards the summer-house, of which 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 shrugging his shoulders.
"Here a former race heard music, sang glees, and smoked from clay pipes.
That age soon passed, unsuited to English energies, which are not to be
united with Holland phlegm! But the view from the window-look out there.
I wonder 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 looked so blue and so large and so
limpid, woods and curving banks reflected deep on its peaceful bosom.

"How Vance would enjoy this!" cried Lionel. "It would come into a
picture even better than the Thames."

"Vance? who is Vance?"

"The artist,--a great friend of mine. Surely, sir, you have heard of him
or seen his pictures!"

"Himself and his pictures are since my time. Days tread down days for
the recluse, and be forgets that celebrities rise with their suns, to
wane with their moons,

"'Truditur dies die,
Novaeque pergunt interire lunae'"

"All suns do not set; all moons do not wane!" cried Lionel, with blunt
enthusiasm. "When Horace speaks elsewhere of the Julian star, he
compares it to a moon--'inter ignes 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 recollections of Horace," said Mr.
Darrell, frigidly, and without continuing the allusion to celebrities;
"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 descended 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 fragrance. There, resting his face
on his hand, Darrell gazed along the water in abstracted silence. Lionel
felt that he was forgotten; but he was not hurt. By this time a strong
and admiring interest for his cousin had sprung up within his breast: he
would have found it difficult to explain why. But whosoever at that
moment could have seen Guy Darrell's musing countenance, or whosoever,
a few minutes before, could have heard the very sound of his voice,
sweetly, clearly full; each slow enunciation unaffectedly, mellowly
distinct,--making musical the homeliest; roughest word, would have
understood and shared the interest which Lionel could not explain. There
are living human faces, which, independently of mere physical 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 wonders 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 towards the bank on which Darrell reclined. He had evidently
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 changed for something less sibilant in that
famous song with which they depart this life.

Darrell looked up. "They come to be fed," said he, "smooth emblems of
the great social union. Affection is the offspring of utility. I 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."

MR. DARRELL.--"Rival!--useful to my swans?"

LIONEL (tenderly).--"Or to you, sir."

He felt as if he had said too much, and without waiting for permission,
ran indoors to find some one whom he could ask for the bread.

"Sonless, childless, hopeless, objectless!" said Darrell, murmuringly to
himself, and sank again into revery.

By the time Lionel returned with the bread, another petted friend had
joined the master. A tame doe had caught sight of him from her covert
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 hurried step,
she took flight, trotted off a few paces, then turned, looking.

"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 resumed his careless, unmeditative
manner, "you were not aware that I have a brother hermit,--a companion be
sides the swans and the doe. Dick Fairthorn is a year or two younger
than myself, the son of my father's bailiff. He was the cleverest boy at
his grammar-school. Unluckily he took to the flute, and unfitted himself
for the present century. He condescends, however, to act as my
secretary,--a fair classical scholar, plays chess, is useful to me,--I am
useful to him. We have an affection 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-servant 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 staircase 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 up three-fourths of the space, and was
crested with dingy plumes, that gave it the cheerful look of a hearse;
and there the attendant 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 remembered that he had brought with him no evening dress,--nay,
evening dress, properly so called, he possessed not at all in any corner
of the world. It had never yet entered into his modes of existence.
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
piteously; "only a change of linen, and this," glancing at the summer
jacket. The servant was evidently a most gentleman-like man: his native
sphere that of groom of the chambers. "I will mention it to Mr. Darrell;
and if you will favour 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 Mr. Darrell myself."

"There is the hot water, sir; that is the bell. I have the honour to be
placed at your commands." The door closed, and Lionel unlocked his
knapsack; other trousers, other waistcoat had he,--those worn at the
fair, and once white. Alas! 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 appear at dinner, attired as he had been before, in
his light pedestrian jacket, morning waistcoat flowered with sprigs, and
a fawn-coloured 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.

"Durum! sed fit levius Patientia
Quicquid corrigere est nefas."

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 first 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 itinerant
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 offend you if I take advantage of my years and our
relationship to remark that a young man should be careful not to let
himself down below the standard of his own rank. If a king could bear to
hear that he was only a ceremonial, a private gentleman may remember that
there is but a ceremonial between himself and--his hatter!"

Lionel felt the colour mount his brow; but Darrell pressing the
distasteful theme no further, and seemingly forgetting its purport,
turned his remarks carelessly towards 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, Mr. 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
offence. I have not the 'ceremonial' necessary to mark me as a
gentleman,--either here or at home."

"So! Bold frankness and ready wit command ceremonials," returned
Darrell, and for the first time his lip wore a smile. "Let me present to
you Mr. Fairthorn," as the door, opening, 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 suddenly alarmed, towards a dim recess protected by a long table,
sank behind a curtain fold, and seemed to vanish as a crab does amidst
the shingles.

"Three minutes yet to dinner, and two before the lettercarrier 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. Darrell
walked to the place, and 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 understand
that your 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-humour.

"You mean, perhaps, that you like reading, if you may choose your own
books."

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