could Lionel Haughton be proud now? And Darrell
was cognizant of his paternal disgrace, had taunted
his father in yonder old hall—for what?—the
marriage from which Lionel sprang! The hands
grew tighter and tighter before that burning face.
He did not weep, as he had done in Vance’s
presence at a thought much less galling. Not
that tears would have misbecome him. Shallow
judges of human nature are they who think that tears
in themselves ever misbecome boy or even man.
Well did the sternest of Roman writers place the
arch distinction of humanity aloft from all meaner
of Heaven’s creatures, in the prerogative of
tears! Sooner mayst thou trust thy purse to a
professional pickpocket than give loyal friendship
to the man who boasts of eyes to which the heart never
mounts in dew! Only, when man weeps he should
be alone,—not because tears are weak, but
because they should be sacred. Tears are akin
to prayers. Pharisees parade prayer! impostors
parade tears. O Pegasus, Pegasus,—softly,
softly,—thou hast hurried me off amidst
the clouds: drop me gently down—there,
by the side of the motionless boy in the shadowy glen.
CHAPTER VII.
Lionel Haughton, having
hitherto much improved his chance of
fortune, decides the
question, “What will he do with it?”
“I have been seeking you everywhere,”
said a well-known voice; and a hand rested lightly
on Lionel’s shoulder. The boy looked up,
startled, but yet heavily, and saw Guy Darrell, the
last man on earth he could have desired to see.
“Will you come in for a few minutes? you are
wanted.”
“What for? I would rather stay here.
Who can want me?”
Darrell, struck by the words and the sullen tone in
which they were uttered, surveyed Lionel’s face
for an instant, and replied in a voice involuntarily
more kind than usual,—
“Some one very commonplace, but since the Picts
went out of fashion, very necessary to mortals the
most sublime. I ought to apologize for his coming.
You threatened to leave me yesterday because of a
defect in your wardrobe. Mr. Fairthorn wrote
to my tailor to hasten hither and repair it.
He is here. I commend him to your custom!
Don’t despise him because he makes for a man
of my remote generation. Tailors are keen observers
and do not grow out of date so quickly as politicians.”
The words were said with a playful good-humour very
uncommon to Mr. Darrell. The intention was obviously
kind and kinsmanlike. Lionel sprang to his feet;
his lip curled, his eye flashed, and his crest rose.
