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What Will He Do With It, Book 7.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> What Will He Do With It, Book 7.




Darrell bowed. Lionel began to shudder.

"And if I might presume to think it would amuse you, Mr. Darrell, oh, I
should be so happy to see you!--so happy!"

"Would you?" said Darrell, briefly. "Then I should be a churl if I did
not come. Lionel will escort me. Of course you expect him too?"

"Yes, indeed. Though he has so many fine places to go to-and it can't be
exactly what he is used to-yet he is such a dear good boy that he gives
up all to gratify his mother."

Lionel, in agonies, turned an unfilial back, and looked steadily out of
the window; but Darrell, far too august to take offence where none was
meant, only smiled at the implied reference to Lionel's superior demand
in the fashionable world, and replied, without even a touch of his
accustomed irony: "And to gratify his mother is a pleasure I thank you
for inviting me to share with him."

More and more at her ease, and charmed with having obeyed her hospitable
impulse, Mrs. Haughton, following Darrell to the landing-place, added:

"And if you like to play a quiet rubber--"

"I never touch cards--I abhor the very name of them, ma'am," interrupted
Darrell, somewhat less gracious in his tones.

He mounted his horse; and Lionel, breaking from Mrs. Haughton, who was
assuring him that Mr. Darrell was not at all what she expected, but
really quite the gentleman--nay, a much grander gentleman than even
Colonel Morley--regained his kinsman's side, looking abashed and
discomfited. Darrell, with the kindness which his fine quick intellect
enabled him so felicitously to apply, hastened to relieve the young
guardsman's mind.

"I like your mother much--very much," said he, in his most melodious
accents. "Good boy! I see now why you gave up Lady Dulcett. Go and
take a canter by yourself, or with younger friends, and be sure you call
on me so that we may be both at Mrs. Haughton's by ten o'clock. I can go
later to the concert if I feel inclined."

He waved his hand, wheeled his horse, and trotted off towards the fair
suburban lanes that still proffer to the denizens of London glimpses of
rural fields, and shadows from quiet hedgerows. He wished to be alone;
the sight of Mrs. Haughton had revived recollections of bygone days--
memory linking memory in painful chain-gay talk with his younger
schoolfellow--that wild Charlie, now in his grave--his own laborious
youth, resolute aspirings, secret sorrows--and the strong man felt the
want of the solitary self-commune, without which self-conquest is
unattainable.




CHAPTER IV.

MRS. HAUGHTON AT HOME MISCELLANEOUSLY. LITTLE PARTIES ARE USEFUL IN
BRINGING PEOPLE TOGETHER. ONE NEVER KNOWS WHOM ONE MAY MEET.

Great kingdoms grew out of small beginnings. Mrs. Haughton's social
circle was described from a humble centre. On coming into possession of
her easy income and her house in Gloucester Place, she was naturally
seized with the desire of an appropriate "visiting acquaintance." The
accomplishment of that desire had been deferred awhile by the excitement
of Lionel's departure for Paris, and the IMMENSE TEMPTATION to which the
attentions of the spurious Mr. Courtenay Smith had exposed her widowed
solitude: but no sooner had she recovered from the shame and anger with
which she had discarded that showy impostor, happily in time, than the
desire became the more keen; because the good lady felt that with a mind
so active and restless as hers, a visiting acquaintance might be her best
preservative from that sense of loneliness which disposes widows to lend
the incautious ear to adventurous wooers. After her experience of her
own weakness in listening to a sharper, and with a shudder at her escape,
Mrs. Haughton made a firm resolve never to give her beloved son a father-
in-law. No, she would distract her thoughts--she would have a VISITING
ACQUAINTANCE. She commenced by singling out such families as at various
times had been her genteelest lodgers--now lodging elsewhere. She
informed them by polite notes of her accession of consequence and
fortune, which she was sure they would be happy to hear; and these notes,
left with the card of "Mrs. Haughton, Gloucester Place," necessarily
produced respondent notes and correspondent cards. Gloucester Place then
prepared itself for a party. The ci-devant lodgers urbanely attended the
summons. In their turn they gave parties. Mrs. Haughton was invited.
From each such party she bore back a new draught into her "social
circle." Thus, long before the end of five years, Mrs. Haughton had
attained her object. She had a "VISITING ACQUAINTANCE!" It is true that
she was not particular; so that there was a new somebody at whose house a
card could be left, or a morning call achieved--who could help to fill
her rooms, or whose rooms she could contribute to fill in turn. She was
contented. She was no tuft-hunter. She did not care for titles. She
had no visions of a column in the Morning Post. She wanted, kind lady,
only a vent for the exuberance of her social instincts; and being proud,
she rather liked acquaintances who looked up to, instead of looking down
on her. Thus Gloucester Place was invaded by tribes not congenial to its
natural civilised atmosphere. Hengists and Horsas, from remote Anglo-
Saxon districts, crossed the intervening channel, and insulted the
British nationality of that salubrious district. To most of such
immigrators, Mrs. Haughton, of Gloucester Place, was a personage of the
highest distinction. A few others of prouder status in the world, though
they owned to themselves that there was a sad mixture at Mrs. Haughton's
house, still, once seduced there, came again--being persons who, however
independent in fortune or gentle by blood, had but a small "visiting
acquaintance" in town; fresh from economical colonisation on the
Continent or from distant provinces in these three kingdoms. Mrs.
Haughton's rooms were well lighted. There was music for some, whist for
others; tea, ices, cakes, and a crowd for all.

At ten o'clock-the rooms already nearly filled, and Mrs. Haughton, as she
stood at the door, anticipating with joy that happy hour when the
staircase would become inaccessible--the head attendant, sent with the
ices from the neighbouring confectioner, announced in a loud voice: "Mr.
Haughton--Mr. Darrell."

At that latter name a sensation thrilled the assembly--the name so much
in every one's mouth at that period, nor least in the mouths of the great
middle class, on whom--though the polite may call them "a sad mixture,"
cabinets depend--could not fail to be familiar to the ears of Mrs.
Haughton's "visiting acquaintance." The interval between his
announcement and his ascent from the hall to the drawing-room was busily
filled up by murmured questions to the smiling hostess: "Darrell! what!
the Darrell! Guy Darrell! greatest man of the day! A connection of
yours? Bless me, you don't say so?" Mrs. Haughton began to feel
nervous. Was Lionel right? Could the man who had only been a lawyer at
the back of Holborn really be, now, such a very, very great man--greatest
man of the day? Nonsense!

"Ma'am," said one pale, puff-cheeked, flat-nosed gentleman, in a very
large white waistcoat, who was waiting by her side till a vacancy in one
of the two whist-tables should occur. "Ma'am, I'm an enthusiastic
admirer of Mr. Darrell. You say he is a connection of yours? Present me
to him."

Mrs. Haughton nodded flutteringly, for, as the gentleman closed his
request, and tapped a large gold snuff-box, Darrell stood before her--
Lionel close at his side, looking positively sheepish. The great man
said a few civil words, and was gliding into the room to make way for the
press behind him, when he of the white waistcoat, touching Mrs.
Haughton's arm, and staring Darrell full in the face, said, very loud:
"In these anxious times, public men dispense with ceremony. I crave an
introduction to Mr. Darrell." Thus pressed, poor Mrs. Haughton, without
looking up, muttered out: "Mr. Adolphus Poole--Mr. Darrell," and turned
to welcome fresh comers.

"Mr. Darrell," said Mr. Poole, bowing to the ground, "this is an honour."

Darrell gave the speaker one glance of his keen eye, and thought to
himself: "If I were still at the bar I should be sorry to hold a brief
for that fellow." However, he returned the bow formally, and, bowing
again at the close of a highly complimentary address with which Mr. Poole
followed up his opening sentence, expressed himself "much flattered," and
thought he had escaped; but wherever he went through the crowd, Mr. Poole
contrived to follow him, and claim his notice by remarks on the affairs
of the day--the weather--the funds--the crops. At length Darrell
perceived, sitting aloof in a corner, an excellent man whom indeed it
surprised him to see in a London drawing-room, but who, many years ago,
when Darrell was canvassing the enlightened constituency of Ouzelford,
had been on a visit to the chairman of his committee--an influential
trader--and having connections in the town--and, being a very high
character, had done him good service in the canvass. Darrell rarely
forgot a face, and never a service. At any time he would have been glad
to see the worthy man once more, but at that time he was grateful indeed.

"Excuse me," he said bluntly to Mr. Poole, "but I see an old friend." He
moved on, and thick as the crowd had become, it made way, with respect as
to royalty for the distinguished orator. The buzz of admiration as he
passed--louder than in drawing-rooms more refined--would have had
sweeter music than Grisi's most artful quaver to a vainer man--nay, once
on a time to him. But--sugar plums come too late! He gained the corner,
and roused the solitary sitter.

"My dear Mr. Hartopp, do you not remember me--Guy Darrell?"

"Mr. Darrell!" cried the ex-mayor of Gatesboro', rising, "who could
think that you would remember me?"

"What! not remember those ten stubborn voters, on whom, all and singly,
I had lavished my powers of argu ment in vain? You came, and with the
brief words, 'John--Ned--Dick--oblige me-vote for Darrell!' the men were
convinced--the votes won. That's what I call eloquence"--(sotto voce-
"Confound that fellow! still after me! "Aside to Hartopp)--"Oh! may I ask
who is that Mr. What's-his-name--there--in the white waistcoat?"

"Poole," answered Hartopp. "Who is he, sir? A speculative man. He is
connected with a new Company--I am told it answers. Williams (that's my
foreman--a very long head he has too) has taken shares in the Company,
and wanted me to do the same, but 'tis not in my way. And Mr. Poole may
be a very honest man, but he does not impress me with that idea. I have
grown careless; I know I am liable to be taken in--I was so once--and
therefore I avoid 'Companies' upon principle--especially when they
promise thirty per cent., and work copper mines--Mr. Poole has a copper
mine."

"And deals in brass--you may see it in his face! But you are not in town
for good, Mr. Hartopp? If I remember right, you were settled at
Gatesboro' when we last met."

"And so I am still--or rather in the neighbourhood. I am gradually
retiring from business, and grown more and more fond of farming. But I
have a family, and we live in enlightened times, when children require a
finer education than their parents had. Mrs. Hartopp thought my daughter
Anna Maria was in need of some 'finishing lessons'--very fond of the harp
is Anna Maria--and so we have taken a house in London for six weeks.
That's Mrs. Hartopp yonder, with the bird on her head--bird of paradise,
I believe; Williams says birds of that kind never rest. That bird is an
exception--it has rested on Mrs. Hartopp's head for hours together, every
evening since we have been in town."

"Significant of your connubial felicity, Mr. Hartopp."

"May it be so of Anna Maria' s. She is to be married when her education
is finished--married, by the by, to a son of your old friend Jessop, of
Ouzelford; and between you and me, Mr. Darrell, that is the reason why I
consented to come to town. Do not suppose that I would have a daughter
finished unless there was a husband at hand who undertook to be
responsible for the results."

"You retain your wisdom, Mr. Hartopp; and I feel sure that not even your
fair partner could have brought you up to London unless you had decided
on the expediency of coming. Do you remember that I told you the day you
so admirably settled a dispute in our committee-room, 'it was well you
were not born a king, for you would have been an irresistible tyrant'?"

"Hush! hush!" whispered Hartopp, in great alarm, "if Mrs. H. should hear
you! What an observer you are, sir. I thought I was a judge of
character--but I was once deceived. I dare say you never were."

"You mistake," answered Darrell, wincing, "you deceived! How?"

"Oh, a long story, sir. It was an elderly man--the most agreeable,
interesting companion--a vagabond nevertheless--and such a pretty
bewitching little girl with him, his grandchild. I thought he might have
been a wild harumscarum chap in his day, but that he had a true sense of
honour"--(Darrell, wholly uninterested in this narrative, suppressed a
yawn, and wondered when it would end).

"Only think, sir, just as I was saying to myself, 'I know character--I
never was taken in,' down comes a smart fellow--the man's own son--and
tells me--or rather he suffers a lady who comes with him to tell me--that
this charming old gentleman of high sense of honour was a returned
convict--been transported for robbing his employer."

Pale, breathless, Darrell listened, not unheeding now. "What was the
name of--of--"

"The convict? He called himself Chapman, but the son's name was Losely--
Jasper."

"Ah!" faltered Darrell, recoiling. "And you spoke of a little girl?"

"Jasper Losely's daughter; he came after her with a magistrate's warrant.
The old miscreant had carried her off,--to teach her his own swindling
ways, I suppose."

"Luckily she was then in my charge. I gave her back to her father, and
the very respectable-looking lady he brought with him. Some relation, I
presume."

"What was her name, do you remember?"

"Crane."

"Crane!--Crane!" muttered Darrell, as if trying in vain to tax his
memory with that name. "So he said the child was his daughter--are you
sure?"

"Oh, of course he said so, and the lady too. But can you be acquainted
with their, sir?"

"I?--no! Strangers to me, except by repute. Liars--infamous liars! But
have the accomplices quarrelled--I mean the son and father--that the
father should be exposed and denounced by the son?"

"I conclude so. I never saw them again. But you believe the father
really was, then, a felon, a convict--no excuse for him--no extenuating
circumstances? There was something in that man, Mr. Darrell, that made
one love him--positively love him; and when I had to tell him that I had
given up the child he trusted to my charge, and saw his grief, I felt a
criminal myself."

Darrell said nothing, but the character of his face was entirely altered
--stern, hard, relentless--the face of an inexorable judge. Hartopp,
lifting his eyes suddenly to that countenance, recoiled in awe.

"You think I was a criminal!" he said, piteously.

"I think we are both talking too much, Mr. Hartopp, of a gang of
miserable swindlers, and I advise you to dismiss the whole remembrance of
intercourse with any of them from your honest breast, and never to repeat
to other ears the tale you have poured into mine. Men of honour should
crush down the very thought that approaches them to knaves."

Thus saying, Darrell moved off with abrupt rudeness, and passing quickly
back through the crowd, scarcely noticed Mrs. Haughton by a retreating
nod, nor heeded Lionel at all, but hurried down the stairs. He was
impatiently searching for his cloak in the back parlour, when a voice
behind said: "Let me assist you, sir--do:" and turning round with
petulant quickness, he beheld again Mr. Adolphus Poole. It requires an
habitual intercourse with equals to give perfect and invariable control
of temper to a man of irritable nerves and frank character; and though,
where Daxrell really liked, he had much sweet forbearance, and where he
was indifferent much stately courtesy, yet, when he was offended, he
could be extremely uncivil. "Sir," he cried almost stamping his foot,
"your importunities annoy me I request you to cease them."

"Oh, I ask your pardon," said Mr. Poole, with an angry growl. "I have no
need to force myself on any man. But I beg you to believe that if I
presumed to seek your acquaintance, it was to do you a service sir--yes,
a private service, sir." He lowered his voice into a whisper, and laid
his finger on his nose: "There's one Jasper Losely, sir--eh? Oh, sir,
I'm no mischief-maker. I respect family secrets. Perhaps I might be of
use, perhaps not."

"Certainly not to me, sir," said Darrell, flinging the cloak he had now
found across his shoulders, and striding from the house. When he entered
his carriage, the footman stood waiting for orders. Darrell was long in
giving them. "Anywhere for half an hour--to St. Paul's, then home."
But on returning from this objectless plunge into the City, Darrell
pulled the check-string: "To Belgrave Square--Lady Dulcett's."

The concert was half over; but Flora Vyvyan had still guarded, as she had
promised, a seat beside herself for Darrell, by lending it for the
present to one of her obedient vassals. Her face brightened as she saw
Darrell enter and approach. The vassal surrendered the chair. Darrell
appeared to be in the highest spirits; and I firmly believe that he was
striving to the utmost in his power--what? to make himself agreeable to
Flora Vyvyan? No; to make Flora Vyvyan agreeable to himself. The man
did not presume that a fair young lady could be in love with him; perhaps
he believed that, at his years, to be impossible. But he asked what
seemed much easier, and was much harder--he asked to be himself in love.




CHAPTER V.

IT IS ASSERTED BY THOSE LEARNED MEN WHO HAVE DEVOTED THEIR LIVES TO
THE STUDY OF THE MANNERS AND HABIT OF INSECT SOCIETY, THAT WHEN A
SPIDER HAS LOST ITS LAST WEB, HAVING EXHAUSTED ALL THE GLUTINOUS
MATTER WHEREWITH TO SPIN ANOTHER, IT STILL. PROTRACTS ITS INNOCENT
EXISTENCE, BY OBTRUDING ITS NIPPERS ON SOME LESS WARLIKE BUT MORE
RESPECTABLE SPIDER, POSSESSED OF A CONVENIENT HOME AND AN AIRY
LARDER. OBSERVANT MORALISTS HAVE NOTICED THE SAME PECULIARITY IN
THE MANEATER, OR POCKET-CANNIBAL.

Eleven o'clock, A.M., Samuel Adolphus Poole, Esq., is in his parlour,
--the house one of those new dwellings which yearly spring up north of
the Regent's Park,--dwellings that, attesting the eccentricity of the
national character, task the fancy of the architect and the gravity of
the beholder--each tenement so tortured into contrast with the other,
that, on one little rood of ground, all ages seemed blended, and all
races encamped. No. 1 is an Egyptian tomb!--Pharaohs may repose there!
No. 2 is a Swiss chalet--William Tell may be shooting in its garden! Lo!
the severity of Doric columns--Sparta is before you! Behold that Gothic
porch--you are rapt to the Norman days! Ha! those Elizabethan mullions--
Sidney and Raleigh, rise again! Ho! the trellises of China--come forth,
Confucius, and Commissioner Yeh! Passing a few paces, we are in the land
of the Zegri and Abencerrage:

'Land of the dark-eyed maid and dusky Moor.'

Mr. Poole's house is called Alhambra Villa! Moorish verandahs--plate-
glass windows, with cusped heads and mahogany sashes--a garden behind,
a smaller one in front--stairs ascending to the doorway under a Saracenic
portico, between two pedestalled lions that resemble poodles--the whole
new and lustrous--in semblance stone, in substance stucco-cracks in the
stucco denoting "settlements." But the house being let for ninety-nine
years--relet again on a running lease of seven, fourteen, and twenty-one-
the builder is not answerable for duration, nor the original lessee for
repairs. Take it altogether, than Alhambra Villa masonry could devise no
better type of modern taste and metropolitan speculation.

Mr. Poole, since we saw him between four and five years ago, has entered
the matrimonial state. He has married a lady of some money, and become a
reformed man. He has eschewed the turf, relinquished Belcher neckcloths
and Newmarket coats-dropped his old-bachelor acquaintances. When a man
marries and reforms, especially when marriage and reform are accompanied
with increased income, and settled respectably in Alhambra Villa--
relations, before estranged, tender kindly overtures: the world, before
austere, becomes indulgent. It was so with Poole--no longer Dolly.
Grant that in earlier life he had fallen into bad ways, and, among
equivocal associates, had been led on by that taste for sporting which is
a manly though a perilous characteristic of the true-born Englishman; he
who loves horses is liable to come in contact with blacklegs; the racer
is a noble animal; but it is his misfortune that the better his breeding
the worse his company:--Grant that, in the stables, Adolphus Samuel Poole
had picked up some wild oats--he had sown them now. Bygones were
bygones. He had made a very prudent marriage. Mrs. Poole was a sensible
woman--had rendered him domestic, and would keep him straight! His uncle
Samuel, a most worthy man, had found him that sensible woman, and, having
found her, had paid his nephew's debts, and adding a round sum to the
lady's fortune, had seen that the whole was so tightly settled on wife
and children that Poole had the tender satisfaction of knowing that,
happen what might to himself, those dear ones were safe; nay, that if, in
the reverses of fortune, he should be compelled by persecuting creditors
to fly his native shores, law could not impair the competence it had
settled upon Mrs. Poole, nor destroy her blessed privilege to share that
competence with a beloved spouse. Insolvency itself, thus protected by a
marriage settlement, realises the sublime security of VIRTUE immortalised
by the Roman muse:

--"Repulse nescia sordidae,
Intaminatis fulget honoribus;
Nec sumit ant ponit secures
Arbitrio popularis aurae."

Mr. Poole was an active man in the parish vestry--he was a sound
politician--he subscribed to public charities--he attended public
dinners he had votes in half a dozen public institutions--he talked of
the public interests, and called himself a public man. He chose his
associates amongst gentlemen in business--speculative, it is true, but
steady. A joint-stock company was set up; he obtained an official
station at its board, coupled with a salary--not large, indeed, but still
a salary.

"The money," said Adolphus Samuel Poole, "is not my object; but I like to
have something to do." I cannot say how he did something, but no doubt
somebody was done.

Mr. Poole was in his parlour, reading letters and sorting papers, before
he departed to his office in the West End. Mrs. Poole entered, leading
an infant who had not yet learned to walk alone, and denoting, by an
interesting enlargement of shape, a kindly design to bless that infant,
at no distant period, with a brother or sister, as the case might be.

"Come and kiss Pa, Johnny," said she to the infant. "Mrs. Poole, I am
busy," growled Pa.

"Pa's busy--working hard for little Johnny. Johnny will be better for it
some day," said Mrs. Poole, tossing the infant half up to the ceiling, in
compensation for the loss of the paternal kiss.

"Mrs. Poole, what do you want?"

"May I hire Jones's brougham for two hours to-day, to pay visits? There
are a great many cards we ought to leave; is there any place where I
should leave a card for you, lovey--any person of consequence you were
introduced to at Mrs. Haughton's last night? That great man they were
all talking about, to whom you seemed to take such a fancy, Samuel,
duck--"

"Do get out! that man insulted me, I tell you."

"Insulted you! No; you never told me."

"I did tell you last night coming home."

"Dear me, I thought you meant that Mr. Hartopp."

"Well, he almost insulted me, too. Mrs. Poole, you are stupid and
disagreeable. Is that all you have to say?"

"Pa's cross, Johnny dear! poor Pa!--people have vexed Pa, Johnny--
naughty people. We must go or we shall vex him too."

Such heavenly sweetness on the part of a forbearing wife would have
softened Tamburlane. Poole's sullen brow relaxed. If women knew how to
treat men, not a husband, unhenpecked, would be found from Indos to the
Pole.

And Poole, for all his surly demeanour, was as completely governed by
that angel as a bear by his keeper.

"Well, Mrs. Poole, excuse me. I own I am out of sorts to-day--give me
little Johnny--there (kissing the infant; who in return makes a dig at
Pa's left eye, and begins to cry on finding that he has not succeeded in
digging it out)--take the brougham. Hush, Johnny--hush--and you may
leave a card for me at Mr. Peckham's, Harley Street. My eye smarts
horribly; that baby will gouge me one of these days."

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