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"That's it, Betsy!" Gilbert cried, his face flashing, "thank you, a thousand times!" "A thousand times," she repeated. "Once't is enough." Gilbert rode homewards, after a pleasant call at Fairthorn's, in a very joyous mood. Not daring to converse with his mother on the one subject which filled his heart, he showed her the calculations which positively assured his independence in a short time.
But, late in the evening of the second day, his horse, reeking hot and evidently hard- ridden, stopped at the porch of Fawley Manor-House; and Darrell flung himself from the saddle, and into Fairthorn's arms. "Back again back again and to leave no more!" said he, looking round; "Spes et Fortuna valete!" GUY DARRELL To COLONEL MORLEY.
Secluding himself as much as possible in his private room, or in his leafless woods, his reveries increase in gloom. Nothing unbends his moody brow like Fairthorn's flute or Fairthorn's familiar converse. It has been said before that Fairthorn knew his secrets. Fairthorn had idolised Caroline Lyndsay.
And, his wounded egotism appeased by its very outburst, he had called to mind Fairthorn's allusions to Darrell's secret griefs, griefs that must have been indeed stormy so to have revulsed the currents of a life. And, despite those griefs, the great man had spoken playfully to him, playfully in order to make light of obligations.
He sought to impress on her the consciousness that she was the guest of one who belonged to a race with whom spotless honour was the all in all; and who had gone through life with bitter sorrows, but reverencing that race, and vindicating that honour; Fairthorn's eye would tremble his eyes flash on her while he talked.
Gilbert, sitting on the porch, half-hidden behind a mass of blossoming trumpet-flower, was aroused from his Sabbath reverie by the sound of hoofs. Sally Fairthorn's voice followed, reaching even the ears of Mary Potter, who thereupon issued from the house to greet the unexpected guest.
"What's the matter?" cried the host. "Nothing," said she quickly far too generous to betray the hostile oddities of the musician. "Sir Isaac was in my way that was all." "Another evening we must have Fairthorn's flute," said Darrell. "What a pity he was not here to-night! he would have enjoyed such reading no one more." Said Mrs.
A ray of hope darted through Fairthorn's enraged and bewildered mind. He looked to the right he looked to the left; no one near. Releasing his hold on the doe, he made a sidelong dart towards Sophy, and said: "Hush; do you really care what becomes of Mr. Darrell?" "To be sure I do."
If he had not determined to be as amiable and mild towards his guests as his nature would permit, probably George might have had the flip of a sarcasm which would have tingled for a month. But as it was, Darrell contented himself with saying gravely: "No, George; Fairthorn's foible is vanishing; his forte is fidelity.
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.
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