But before this time Lionel’s proud heart, in
which ungrateful anger could not long find room, had
smitten him for so ill a return to well-meant and
not indelicate kindness. And, his wounded egotism
appeased by its very outburst, he had called to mind
Fairthorn’s allusions to Darrell’s secret
griefs,—griefs that must have been indeed
stormy so to have revulsed the currents of a life.
And, despite those griefs, the great man had spoken
playfully to him,—playfully in order to
make light of obligations. So when Guy Darrell
now extended that hand, and stooped to that apology,
Lionel was fairly overcome. Tears, before refused,
now found irresistible way. The hand he could
not take, but, yielding to his yearning impulse, he
threw his arms fairly round his host’s neck,
leaned his young cheek upon that granite breast, and
sobbed out incoherent words of passionate repentance,
honest, venerating affection. Darrell’s
face changed, looking for a moment wondrous soft;
and then, as by an effort of supreme self-control,
it became severely placid. He did not return
that embrace, but certainly he in no way repelled
it; nor did he trust himself to speak till the boy
had exhausted the force of his first feelings, and
had turned to dry his tears.
Then he said, with a soothing sweetness: “Lionel
Haughton, you have the heart of a gentleman that can
never listen to a frank apology for unintentional
wrong but what it springs forth to take the blame to
itself and return apology tenfold. Enough!
A mistake no doubt, on both sides. More time
must elapse before either can truly say that he does
not like the other. Meanwhile,” added
Darrell, with almost a laugh,—and that
concluding query showed that even on trifles the man
was bent upon either forcing or stealing his own will
upon others,—“meanwhile must I send
away the tailor?” I need not repeat Lionel’s
answer.
CHAPTER IX.
Darrell—mystery
in his past life—What has he done with it?
Some days passed, each day varying little from the
other. It was the habit of Darrell if he went
late to rest to rise early. He never allowed
himself more than five hours sleep. A man greater
than Guy Darrell—Sir Walter Raleigh—carved
from the solid day no larger a slice for Morpheus.
And it was this habit perhaps, yet more than temperance
in diet, which preserved to Darrell his remarkable
youthfulness of aspect and frame, so that at fifty-two
he looked, and really was, younger than many a strong
man of thirty-five. For, certain it is, that
on entering middle life, he who would keep his brain
clear, his step elastic, his muscles from fleshiness,
his nerves from tremor,—in a word, retain
his youth in spite of the register,—should
beware of long slumbers. Nothing ages like laziness.
The hours before breakfast Darrell devoted first to
exercise, whatever the weather; next to his calm scientific
pursuits. At ten o’clock punctually he
