“Lord, my dear young sir,” said Fairthorn,
“be his most bitter open enemy, and fall down
in the mire, the first hand to help you would be Guy
Darrell’s; but be his professed friend, and betray
him to the worth of a straw, and never try to see
his face again if you are wise,—the most
forgiving and the least forgiving of human beings.
But—”
The study door noiselessly opened, and Darrell’s
voice called out, “Fairthorn, let me speak with
you.”
Every street has two
sides, the shady side and the sunny. When two
men shake hands and
part, mark which of the two takes the sunny
side: he will be
the younger man of the two.
The next morning, neither Darrell nor Fairthorn appeared
at breakfast; but as soon as Lionel had concluded
that meal, Mr. Mills informed him, with customary
politeness, that Mr. Darrell wished to speak with him
in the study. Study, across the threshold of
which Lionel had never yet set footstep! He
entered it now with a sentiment of mingled curiosity
and awe. Nothing in it remarkable, save the
portrait of the host’s father over the mantelpiece.
Books strewed tables, chairs, and floors in the disorder
loved by habitual students. Near the window was
a glass bowl containing gold-fish, and close by, in
its cage, a singing-bird. Darrell might exist
without companionship in the human species, but not
without something which he protected and cherished,—a
bird, even a fish.
Darrell looked really ill: his keen eye was almost
dim, and the lines in his face seemed deeper.
But he spoke with his usual calm, passionless melody
of voice.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to Lionel’s
really anxious inquiry; “I am ill. Idle
persons like me give way to illness. When I was
a busy man, I never did; and then illness gave way
to me. My general plans are thus, if not actually
altered, at least hurried to their consummation sooner
than I expected. Before you came here, I told
you to come soon, or you might not find me.
I meant to go abroad this summer; I shall now start
at once. I need the change of scene and air.
You will return to London to-day.”
“To-day! You are not angry with me?”
“Angry! boy and cousin—no!”
resumed Darrell, in a tone of unusual tenderness.
“Angry-fie! But since the parting must
be, ’t is well to abridge the pain of long farewell.
You must wish, too, to see your mother, and thank
her for rearing you up so that you may step from poverty
into ease with a head erect. You will give to
Mrs. Haughton this letter: for yourself, your
inclinations seem to tend towards the army. But
before you decide on that career, I should like you
to see something more of the world. Call to-morrow
on Colonel Morley, in Curzon Street: this is
his address. He will receive by to-day’s
post a note from me, requesting him to advise you.
Follow his counsels in what belongs to the world.
