drunk! If that comes from dining with fine people at the Star and Garter, you would be a happier man and as good a painter if your toddy were never sipped save in honeysuckle arbours.
“But,” said Lionel, bewildered, and striving to turn his friend’s thoughts, “what has all this to do with Mr. Darrell?”
VANCE.—“Mr. Darrell might have been one of the first men in the kingdom. Lady Selina Vipout says so, and she is related, I believe, to every member in the Cabinet. Mr. Darrell can push you in life, and make your fortune, without any great trouble on your own part. Bless your stars, and rejoice that you are not a painter!”
Lionel flung his arm round the artist’s broad breast. “Vance, you are cruel!” It was his turn to console the painter, as the painter had three nights before a propos of the same Mr. Darrell consoled him. Vance gradually sobered down, and the young men walked forth in the moonlight. And the eternal stars had the same kind looks for Vance as they had vouchsafed to Lionel.
“When do you start?” asked the painter, as they mounted the stairs to bed.
“To-morrow evening. I miss the early train, for I must call first and take leave of Sophy. I hope I may see her again in after life.”
“And I hope, for your sake, that if so, she may not be in the same coloured print, with Lady Selina Vipont’s eyeglass upon her!”
“What!” said Lionel, laughing; “is Lady Selina Vipont so formidably rude?”
“Rude! nobody is rude in that delightful set. Lady Selina Vipont is excruciatingly—civil.”
CHAPTER XVIII
Being devoted exclusively to a reflection, not inapposite to the events in this history nor to those in any other which chronicles the life of men.
There is one warning lesson in life which few of us have not received, and no book that I can call to memory has noted down with an adequate emphasis. It is this: “Beware of parting!” The true sadness is not in the pain of the parting, it is in the When and the How you are to meet again with the face about to vanish from your view! From the passionate farewell to the woman who has your heart in her keeping, to the cordial good-by exchanged with pleasant companions at a watering-place, a country-house, or the close of a festive day’s blithe and careless excursion,—a cord, stronger or weaker, is snapped asunder in every parting, and Time’s busy fingers are not practised in re-splicing broken ties. Meet again you may; will it be in the same way?—with the same sympathies?—with the same sentiments? Will the souls, hurrying on in diverse paths, unite once more, as if the interval had been a dream? Rarely, rarely! Have you not, after even a year, even a month’s absence, returned to the same place, found the same groups reassembled, and yet sighed to yourself, “But where is the charm that once breathed from the spot, and once smiled from the faces?” A poet has said, “Eternity itself cannot restore the loss struck from the minute.” Are you happy in the spot on which you tarry with the persons whose voices are now melodious to your ear? beware of parting; or, if part you must, say not in insolent defiance to Time and Destiny, “What matters!—we shall soon meet again.”
Alas, and alas! when we think of the lips which murmured, “Soon meet again,” and remember how in heart, soul, and thought, we stood forever divided the one from the other, when, once more face to face, we each inly exclaimed, “Met again!”
The air that we breathe makes the medium through which sound is conveyed; be the instrument unchanged, be the force which is applied to it the same, still the air that thou seest not, the air to thy ear gives the music.
Ring a bell underneath an exhausted receiver, thou wilt scarce hear the sound; give the bell due vibration by free air in warm daylight, or sink it down to the heart of the ocean, where the air, all compressed, fills the vessel around it,’ and the chime, heard afar, starts thy soul, checks thy footstep, unto deep calls the deep,—a voice from the ocean is borne to thy soul.
Where then the change, when thou sayest, “Lo, the same metal,—why so faint-heard the ringing?” Ask the air that thou seest not, or above thee in sky, or below thee in ocean. Art thou sure that the bell, so faint-heard, is not struck underneath an exhausted receiver?
CHAPTER XIX
The wandering inclinations of nomad tribes not to be accounted for on the principles of action peculiar to civilized men, who are accustomed to live in good houses and able to pay the income tax.—
When the money that once belonged to a man civilized vanishes into the pockets of a nomad, neither lawful art nor occult science can, with certainty, discover what he will do with it.—Mr. Vance narrowly escapes well-merited punishment from the nails of the British Fair—Lionel Haughton, in the temerity of youth, braves the dangers of a British Railway.
The morning was dull and overcast, rain gathering in the air, when Vance and Lionel walked to Waife’s lodging. As Lionel placed his hand on the knocker of the private door, the Cobbler, at his place by the window in the stall beside, glanced towards him, and shook his head.
“No use knocking, gentlemen. Will you kindly step in?—this way.”
“Do you mean that your lodgers are out?” asked Vance.
“Gone!” said the Cobbler, thrusting his awl with great vehemence through the leather destined to the repair of a ploughman’s boot.
“Gone—for good!” cried Lionel; “you cannot mean it. I call by appointment.”
“Sorry, sir, for your trouble. Stop a bit; I have a letter here for you.” The Cobbler dived into a drawer, and from a medley of nails and thongs drew forth a letter addressed to L. Haughton, Esq.
“Is this from Waife? How on earth did he know my surname? you never mentioned it, Vance?”
“Not that I remember. But you said you found him at the inn, and they knew it there. It is on the brass-plate of your knapsack. No matter,—what does he say?” and Vance looked over his friend’s shoulder and read.
SIR,—I most respectfully thank you for your condescending kindness to me and my grandchild; and your friend, for his timely and generous aid. You will pardon me that the necessity which knows no law obliges me to leave this place some hours before the time of your proposed visit. My grandchild says you intended to ask her sometimes to write to you. Excuse me, sir—on reflection, you will perceive how different your ways of life are from those which she must tread with me. You see before you a man who—but I forget; you see him no more, and probably never will.
VANCE.—“Who never more may trouble you—trouble you! Where have they gone?”
COBBLER.—“Don’t know; would you like to take a peep in the crystal—perhaps you’ve the gift, unbeknown?”
VANCE.—“Not I—bah! Come away, Lionel.”
“Did not Sophy even leave any message for me?” asked the boy, sorrowfully.
“To be sure she did; I forgot-no, not exactly a message, but this—I was to be sure to give
