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!
CHAPTER XVII
By this chapter it appeareth that he who sets out on a career can scarcely expect to walk in perfect comfort, if he exchanges his own thick-soled shoes for dress-boots which were made for another man’s measure, and that the said boots may not the less pinch for being brilliantly varnished.—It also showeth, for the instruction of Men and States, the connection between democratic opinion and wounded self-love; so that, if some Liberal statesman desire to rouse against an aristocracy the class just below it, he has only to persuade a fine lady to be exceedingly civil “to that sort of people.”
Vance, returning late at night, found his friend still up in the little parlour, the windows open, pacing the floor with restless strides, stopping now and then to look at the moon upon the river.
“Such a day as I have had! and twelve shillings for the fly, ‘pikes not included,” said Vance, much out of humour—
“‘I fly from plate, I fly from pomp,
I fly from falsehood’s specious grin;’ I forget the third line. I know the last is—”
‘To find my welcome at an inn.’
You are silent: I annoyed you by going—could not help it—pity me, and lock up your pride.”
“No, my dear Vance, I was hurt for a moment, but that’s long since over!”
“Still you seem to have something on your mind,” said Vance, who had now finished reading his letters, lighted his cigar, and was leaning against the window as the boy continued to walk to and fro.
“That is true: I have. I should like your advice. Read that letter. Ought I to go? Would it look mercenary, grasping? You know what I mean.”
Vance approached the candles and took the letter. He glanced first at the signature. “Darrell,” he exclaimed. “Oh, it is so, then!” He read with great attention, put down the letter, and shook Lionel by the hand. “I congratulate you: all is settled as it should be. Go? of course: you would be an ill-mannered lout if you did not. Is it far from hence must you return to town first?”
LIONEL.—“No, I find I can get across the country,—two hours by the railway. There is a station at the town which bears the post-mark of the letter. I shall make for that, if you advise it.”
“You knew I should advise it, or you would not have tortured your intellect by those researches into Bradshaw.”
“Shrewdly said,” answered Lionel, laughing; “but I wished for your sanction of my crude impressions.”
“You never told me your cousin’s name was Darrell: not that I should have been much wiser if you had; but, thunder and lightning, Lionel! do you know that your cousin Darrell is a famous man?”
LIONEL.—“Famous!—Nonsense. I suppose he was a good lawyer, for I have heard my mother say, with a sort of contempt, that he had made a great fortune at the bar.”
VANCE.—“But he was in Parliament.”
LIONEL.—“Was he? I did not know.”
VANCE.—“And this is senatorial fame! You never heard your schoolfellows talk of Mr. Darrell?—they would not have known his name if you had boasted of it?”
LIONEL.—“Certainly not.”
VANCE.—“Would your schoolfellows have known the names of Wilkie, of Landseer, of Turner, Maclise? I speak of painters.”
LIONEL.—“I should think so, indeed.”
VANCE (soliloquizing).—“And yet Her Serene Sublimity-ship, Lady Selina Vipont, says to me with divine compassion, ‘Not in the way of your delightful art to know such men as Mr. Darrell!’ Oh, as if I did not see through it, too, when she said, a propos of my jean cap and velveteen jacket, ‘What matters how you dress? Every one knows who you are!’ Would she have said that to the earl of Dunder, or even to Sir Gregory Stollhead? No. I am the painter Frank Vance,—nothing more nor less; and if I stood on my head in a check shirt and a sky-coloured apron, Lady Selina Vipont would kindly murmur, ‘Only Frank Vance the painter: what does it signify?’ Aha!—and they think to put me to use, puppets and lay figures! it is I who put them to use! Hark ye, Lionel, you are nearer akin to these fine folks than I knew of. Promise me one thing: you may become of their set, by right of your famous Mr. Darrell; if ever you hear an artist, musician, scribbler, no matter what, ridiculed as a tuft-hunter,—seeking the great, and so forth,—before you join in the laugh, ask some great man’s son, with a pedigree that dates from the Ark, ‘Are you not a toad-eater too? Do you want political influence; do you stand contested elections; do you curry and fawn upon greasy Sam the butcher and grimy Tom the blacksmith for a vote? Why? useful to your career, necessary to your ambition? Aha! is it meaner to curry and fawn upon white-handed women and elegant coxcombs? Tut, tut! useful to a career, necessary to ambition!’” Vance paused, out of breath. The spoiled darling of the circles,—he, to talk such republican rubbish! Certainly he must have taken his two guineas’ worth out of those light wines. Nothing so treacherous! they inflame the brain like fire, while melting on the palate like ice. All inhabitants of lightwine countries are quarrelsome and democratic.
LIONEL (astounded).—“No one, I am sure, could have meant to call you a tuft-hunter; of course, every one knows that a great painter—”
VANCE.—“Dates from Michael Angelo, if not from Zeuxis! Common individuals trace their
