Page:What will he do with it.djvu/771
WHA T WILL HE DO WITH IT? 761
The Colonel pulled the check-string. " Nothing so natural ; you are the widow of the Head of the House of Vipont. You are, or ought to be, deeply interest in its fate. An awful Crisis, long expected, has occurred. The House trembles. A connec- tion of that House can render it an invaluable service; that connection is the man at whose hearth your childhood was reared ; and you go with me — me, who am known to be moving heaven and earth for every vote that the House can secure, to canvass this wavering connection for his support and assist- ance. Nothing, I say, so natural ; and yet you scruple to serve the House of Vipont — to save your country ! You may well be agitated. I leave you to your own reflections. My time runs short; I will get out here. Trust me with these documents. I will see to the rest of this long painful subject. I will send a special report to you this evening, and you will reply by a single line to the prayer I have ventured to address to you.
��CHAPTER Xn., AND LAST.
In which the Author endeavors, to the best of his ability, to give a final re- ply to the question, "What will he do with it.-"'
Scene — The banks of the lake at Fawley, George is lending his arm to Waife ; Mrs. Morley, seated on her camp-stool, at the opposite side of the water, is putting the last touch to her sketch of the Manor House ; Sir Isaac, reclined, is gravely con- templating the swans ; the doe, bending over him, occasionally nibbles his ear ; Fairthorn has uncomfortably edged himself into an angle of the building, between two buttresses, and is watching, with malignant eye, two young forms, at a distance, as they move slowly yonder, side by side, yet apart, now lost, now emerging, through the gaps between melancholy leafless trees. Darrell, having just quitted Waife and George, to whose slow pace he can ill time his impatient steps, wonders why Lio- nel, whom, on arriving, he had, with brief cordial words, referred to Sophy for his fate, has taken more than an hour to ask a sim- ple question, to which the feply may be pretty well known before- hand. He advances toward those melancholy trees. Suddenly one young form leaves the other — comes with rapid stride through the withered fern. Pale as death Lionel seizes Guy Darrels hand with convulsive grasp, and says, " I must leave