“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.”
“Or rather, if I may choose my own time to read
them, and that would not be on bright summer days.”
“Without sacrificing bright summer days, one
finds one has made little progress when the long winter
nights come.”
“Yes, sir. But must the sacrifice be paid
in books? I fancy I learned as much in the play-ground
as I did n the schoolroom, and for the last few months,
in much my own master, reading hard in the forenoon,
it is true, for many hours at a stretch, and yet again
for a few hours at evening, but rambling also through
the streets, or listening to a few friends whom I
have contrived to make,—I think, if I can
boast of any progress at all, the books have the smaller
share in it.”
“You would, then, prefer an active life to a
studious one?”
“Oh, yes—yes.”
“Dinner is served,” said the decorous
Mr. Mills, throwing open the door.
In our happy country every man’s
house is his castle. But however stoutly
he fortify it, Care enters, as surely as she did in
Horace’s time, through the porticos of
a Roman’s villa. Nor, whether ceilings
be fretted with gold and ivory, or whether only coloured
with whitewash, does it matter to Care any more
than it does to a house-fly. But every
tree, be it cedar or blackthorn, can harbour its
singing-bird; and few are the homes in which, from
nooks least suspected, there starts not a music.
Is it quite true that, “non avium citharaeque
cantus somnum reducent”? Would not even
Damocles himself have forgotten the sword, if
the lute-player had chanced on the notes that
lull?
The dinner was simple enough, but well dressed and
well served. One footman, in plain livery, assisted
Mr. Mills. Darrell ate sparingly, and drank
only water, which was placed by his side iced, with
a single glass of wine at the close of the repast,
which he drank on bending his head to Lionel, with
a certain knightly grace, and the prefatory words of
“Welcome here to a Haughton.” Mr.
Fairthorn was less abstemious; tasted of every dish,
after examining it long through a pair of tortoise-shell
spectacles, and drank leisurely through a bottle of
port, holding up every glass to the light. Darrell
talked with his usual cold but not uncourteous indifference.
A remark of Lionel on the portraits in the room turned
the conversation chiefly upon pictures, and the host
showed himself thoroughly accomplished in the attributes
of the various schools and masters. Lionel,
who was very fond of the art, and indeed painted well
for a youthful amateur, listened with great delight.
