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.
"Surely, sir," said he, struck much with a very subtile observation upon
the causes why the Italian masters admit of copyists with greater
facility than the Flemish,--"surely, sir, you yourself must have
practised the art of painting?"
"Not I; but I instructed myself as a judge of pictures, because at one
time I was a collector."
Fairthorn, speaking for the first time: "The rarest collection,--such
Albert Durers! such Holbeins! and that head by Leonardo da Vinci!" He
stopped; looked extremely frightened; helped himself to the port, turning
his back upon his host, to hold, as usual, the glass to the light.
"Are they here, sir?" asked Lionel.
Darrell's face darkened, and he made no answer; but his head sank on his
breast, and he seemed suddenly absorbed in gloomy thought. Lionel felt
that he had touched a wrong chord, and glanced timidly towards Fairthorn;
but that gentleman cautiously held up his finger, and then rapidly put it
to his lip, and as rapidly drew it away. After that signal the boy did
not dare to break the silence, which now lasted uninterruptedly till
Darrell rose, and with the formal and superfluous question, "Any more
wine?" led the way back to the library. There he ensconced himself in an
easy-chair, and saying, "Will you find a book for yourself, Lionel?"
took a volume at random from the nearest shelf, and soon seemed absorbed
in its contents. The room, made irregular by baywindows, and shelves
that projected as in public libraries, abounded with nook and recess. To
one of these Fairthorn sidled himself, and became invisible. Lionel
looked round the shelves. No belles lettres of our immediate generation
were found there; none of those authors most in request in circulating
libraries and literary institutes. The shelves disclosed no poets, no
essayists, no novelists, more recent than the Johnsonian age. Neither in
the lawyer's library were to be found any law books; no, nor the
pamphlets and parliamentary volumes that should have spoken of the once
eager politician. But there were superb copies of the ancient classics.
French and Italian authors were not wanting, nor such of the English as
have withstood the test of time. The larger portions of the shelves
seemed, however, devoted to philosophical works. Here alone was novelty
admitted, the newest essays on science, or the best editions of old works
thereon. Lionel at length made his choice,--a volume of the "Faerie
Queene." Coffee was served; at a later hour tea. The clock struck ten.
Darrell laid down his book.
"Mr. Fairthorn, the flute!"
From the recess a mutter; and presently--the musician remaining still
hidden--there came forth the sweetest note,--so dulcet, so plaintive!
Lionel's ear was ravished. The music suited well with the enchanted page
through which his fancy had been wandering dreamlike,--the flute with the
"Faerie Queene." As the air flowed liquid on, Lionel's eyes filled with
tears. He did not observe that Darrell was intently watching him. When
the music stopped, he turned aside to wipe the tears from his eyes.
Somehow or other, what with the poem, what with the flute, his thoughts
had wandered far, far hence to the green banks and blue waves of the
Thames,--to Sophy's charming face, to her parting childish gift! And
where was she now? Whither passing away, after so brief a holiday, into
the shadows of forlorn life? Darrell's bell-like voice smote his ear.
"Spenser; you love him! Do you write poetry?" "No, sir: I only feel
it!"
"Do neither!" said the host, abruptly. Then, turning away, he lighted
his candle, murmured a quick good-night, and disappeared through a side-
door which led to his own rooms.
Lionel looked round for Fairthorn, who now emerged /ab anqulo/ from his
nook.
"Oh, Mr. Fairthorn, how you have enchanted me! I never believed the
flute could have been capable of such effects!"
Mr. Fairthorn's grotesque face lighted up. He took off his spectacles,
as if the better to contemplate the face of his eulogist. "So you were
pleased! really?" he said, chuckling a strange, grim chuckle, deep in his
inmost self.
"Pleased! it is a cold word! Who would not be more than pleased?"
"You should hear me in the open air."
"Let me do so-to-morrow."
"My dear young sir, with all my heart. Hist!"--gazing round as if
haunted,--"I like you. I wish him to like you. Answer all his questions
as if you did not care how he turned you inside out. Never ask him a
question, as if you sought to know what he did not himself confide. So
there is some thing, you think, in a flute, after all? There are people
who prefer the fiddle."
"Then they never heard your flute, Mr. Fairthorn." The musician again
emitted his discordant chuckle, and, nodding his head nervously and
cordially, shambled away without lighting a candle, and was engulfed in
the shadows of some mysterious corner.