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_ BOOK I CHAPTER XVI
Signs of an impending revolution, which, like all revolutions, seems
to come of a sudden, though its causes have long been at work; and
to go off in a tantrum, though its effects must run on to the end of
a history.
Lionel could not find in the toy-shops of the village a doll good enough
to satisfy his liberal inclinations, but he bought one which amply
contented the humbler aspirations of Sophy. He then strolled to the
post-office. There were several letters for Vance; one for himself in
his mother's handwriting. He delayed opening it for the moment. The day
was far advanced Sophy must be hungry. In vain she declared she was not.
They passed by a fruiterer's stall. The strawberries and cherries
were temptingly fresh; the sun still very powerful. At the back of the
fruiterer's was a small garden, or rather orchard, smiling cool through
the open door; little tables laid out there. The good woman who kept
the shop was accustomed to the wants and tastes of humble metropolitan
visitors. But the garden was luckily now empty: it was before the usual
hour for tea-parties; so the young folks had the pleasantest table under
an apple-tree, and the choice of the freshest fruit. Milk and cakes were
added to the fare. It was a banquet, in Sophy's eyes, worthy that happy
day. And when Lionel had finished his share of the feast, eating fast,
as spirited, impatient boys formed to push on in life and spoil their
digestion are apt to do; and while Sophy was still lingering over the
last of the strawberries, he threw himself back on his chair and drew
forth his letter. Lionel was extremely fond of his mother, but her
letters were not often those which a boy is over-eager to read. It
is not all mothers who understand what boys are,--their quick
susceptibilities, their precocious manliness, all their mystical ways
and oddities. A letter from Mrs. Haughton generally somewhat fretted and
irritated Lionel's high-strung nerves, and he had instinctively put
off the task of reading the one he held, till satisfied hunger and
cool-breathing shadows, and rest from the dusty road, had lent their
soothing aid to his undeveloped philosophy.
He broke the seal slowly; another letter was enclosed within. At
the first few words his countenance changed; he uttered a slight
exclamation, read on eagerly; then, before concluding his mother's
epistle, hastily tore open that which it had contained, ran his eye over
its contents, and, dropping both letters on the turf below, rested his
face on his hand in agitated thought. Thus ran his mother's letter:
MY DEAR BOY,--How could you! Do it slyly!! Unknown to your own mother!!
I could not believe it of you Take advantage of my confidence
in showing you the letters of your father's cousin, to write to
himself--clandestinely!--you, who I thought had such an open character,
and who ought to appreciate mine. Every one who knows me says I am a
woman in ten thousand,--not for beauty and talent (though I have had my
admirers for them too), but for GOODNESS I As a wife and mother, I may
say I have been exemplary. I had sore trials with the dear captain--and
IMMENSE temptations. But he said on his death-bed, "Jessica, you are
an angel." And I have had offers since,--IMMENSE offers,--but I devoted
myself to my child, as you know. And what I have put up with, letting
the first floor, nobody can tell; and only a widow's pension,--going
before a magistrate to get it paid! And to think my own child, for whom
I have borne so much, should behave so cruelly to me! Clandestine! that
is that which stabs me. Mrs. Inman found me crying, and said, "What is
the matter?--you who are such an angel, crying like a baby!" And I could
not help saying, "'T is the serpent's tooth, Mrs. L" What you wrote
to your benefactor (and I had hoped patron) I don't care to guess;
something very rude and imprudent it must be, judging by the few lines
he addressed to me. I don't mind copying them for you to read. All my
acts are aboveboard, as often and often Captain H. used to say, "Your
heart is in a glass case, Jessica;" and so it is! but my son keeps his
under lock and key.
"Madam [this is what he writes to me], your son has thought fit to
infringe the condition upon which I agreed to assist you on his behalf.
I enclose a reply to himself, which I beg you will give to his own hands
without breaking the seal. Since it did not seem to you indiscreet to
communicate to a boy of his years letters written solely to yourself,
you cannot blame me if I take your implied estimate of his capacity to
judge for himself of the nature of a correspondence, and of the views
and temper of, madam, your very obedient servant." And that's all to me.
I send his letter to you,--seal unbroken. I conclude he has done with
you forever, and your CAREER is lost! But if it be so, oh, my poor, poor
child I at that thought I have not the heart to scold you further. If it
be so, come home to me, and I 'll work and slave for you, and you shall
keep up your head and be a gentleman still, as you are, every inch of
you. Don't mind what I've said at the beginning, dear: don't you
know I'm hasty; and I was hurt. But you could not mean to be sly and
underhand: 'twas only your high spirit, and it was my fault; I should
not have shown you the letters. I hope you are well, and have quite lost
that nasty cough, and that Mr. Vance treats you with proper respect. I
think him rather too pushing and familiar, though a pleasant young man
on the whole. But, after all, he is only a painter Bless you, my child,
and don't have secrets again from your poor mother.
JESSICA HAUGHTON.
The enclosed letter was as follows:--
LIONEL HAUGHTON,--Some men might be displeased at receiving such a
letter as you have addressed to me; I am not. At your years, and
under the same circumstances, I might have written a letter much in
the same spirit. Relieve your mind: as yet you owe me no
obligations; you have only received back a debt due to you. My
father was poor; your grandfather, Robert Haughton, assisted him in
the cost of my education. I have assisted your father's son; we are
quits. Before, however, we decide on having done with each other
for the future, I suggest to you to pay me a short visit. Probably
I shall not like you, nor you me. But we are both gentlemen, and
need not show dislike too coarsely. If you decide on coming, come
at once, or possibly you may not find me here. If you refuse, I
shall have a poor opinion of your sense and temper, and in a week I
shall have forgotten your existence. I ought to add that your
father and I were once warm friends, and that by descent I am the
head not only of my own race, which ends with me, but of the
Haughton family, of which, though your line assumed the name, it was
but a younger branch. Nowadays young men are probably not brought
up to care for these things: I was. Yours,
GUY HAUGHTON DARRELL.
MANOR HOUSE, FAWLEY.
Sophy picked up the fallen letters, placed them on Lionel's lap, and
looked into his face wistfully. He smiled, resumed his mother's epistle,
and read the concluding passages, which he had before omitted. Their
sudden turn from reproof to tenderness melted him. He began to feel that
his mother had a right to blame him for an act of concealment. Still she
never would have consented to his writing such a letter; and had that
letter been attended with so ill a result? Again he read Mr. Darrell's
blunt but not offensive lines. His pride was soothed: why should he not
now love his father's friend? He rose briskly, paid for the fruit, and
went his way back to the boat with Sophy. As his oars cut the wave he
talked gayly, but he ceased to interrogate Sophy on her past. Energetic,
sanguine, ambitious, his own future entered now into his thoughts.
Still, when the sun sank as the inn came partially into view from the
winding of the banks and the fringe of the willows, his mind again
settled on the patient, quiet little girl, who had not ventured to ask
him one question in return for all he had put so unceremoniously to her.
Indeed, she was silently musing over words he had inconsiderately let
fall,--"What I hate to think you had ever stooped to perform." Little
could Lionel guess the unquiet thoughts which those words might
hereafter call forth from the brooding deepening meditations of lonely
childhood! At length said the boy abruptly, as he had said once before,
"I wish, Sophy, you were my sister." He added in a saddened tone, "I
never had a sister: I have so longed for one! However, surely we shall
meet again. You go to-morrow so must I."
Sophy's tears flowed softly, noiselessly.
"Cheer up, lady-bird, I wish you liked me half as much as I like you!"
"I do like you: oh, so much!" cried Soppy, passionately. "Well, then,
you can write, you say?"
"A little."
"You shall write to me now and then, and I to you. I'll talk to your
grandfather about it. Ah, there he is, surely!" The boat now ran into
the shelving creek, and by the honeysuckle arbour stood Gentleman Waife,
leaning on his stick.
"You are late," said the actor, as they landed, and Sophy sprang into
his arms. "I began to be uneasy, and came here to inquire after you. You
have not caught cold, child?"
SOPHY.--"Oh, no."
LIONEL.--"She is the best of children. Pray, come into the inn, Mr.
Waife; no toddy, but some refreshment."
WAIFE.--"I thank you,--no, sir; I wish to get home at once. I walk
slowly; it will be dark soon."
Lionel tried in vain to detain him. There was a certain change in Mr.
Waife's manner to him: it was much more distant; it was even pettish,
if not surly. Lionel could not account for it; thought it mere whim
at first: but as he walked part of the way back with them towards the
village, this asperity continued, nay increased. Lionel was hurt; he
arrested his steps.
"I see you wish to have your grandchild to yourself now. May I call
early to-morrow? Sophy will tell you that I hope we may not altogether
lose sight of each other. I will give you my address when I call."
"What time to-morrow, sir?"
"About nine."
Waife bowed his head and walked on, but Sophy looked back towards her
boy friend, sorrowfully, gratefully; twilight in the skies that had been
so sunny,--twilight in her face that had been so glad! She looked back
once, twice, thrice, as Lionel halted on the road and kissed his hand.
The third time Waife said with unwonted crossness,--
"Enough of that, Sophy; looking after young men is not proper! What does
he mean about 'seeing each other, and giving me his address'?"
"He wished me to write to him sometimes and he would write to me."
Waife's brow contracted; but if, in the excess of grandfatherly
caution, he could have supposed that the bright-hearted boy of seventeen
meditated ulterior ill to that fairy child in such a scheme for
correspondence, he must have been in his dotage, and he had not hitherto
evinced any signs of that.
Farewell, pretty Sophy! the evening star shines upon yon elm-tree that
hides thee from view. Fading-fading grows the summer landscape; faded
already from the landscape thy gentle image! So ends a holiday in life.
Hallow it, Sophy; hallow it, Lionel! Life's holidays are not too many! _
Read next: Book 1: Chapter 17
Read previous: Book 1: Chapter 15
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