CHAPTER XXXV. BAGENAL DALY'S RETURN
Lionel Darcy bore up manfully against his altered fortunes so long asothers were around him, and that the necessity for exertion existed; butonce more alone within that silent and deserted house, all his couragefailed him at once, and he threw himself upon a seat and gave way togrief. Never were the brighter prospects of opening life more cruellydashed, and yet his sorrow was for others. Every object about brought upthoughts of that dear mother and sister, to whom the refinements oflife were less luxuries than wants. How were they to engage in thestern conflict with daily poverty,--to see themselves bereft of allthe appliances which filled up the hours of each day? Could his mother,frail and delicate as she was, much longer sustain the effort by whichshe first met the stroke of fortune? Would not the reaction, whenever itcame, be too terrible to be borne? And Helen, too,--his sweet and lovelysister,--she whom he had loved to think of as the admired of a splendidCourt; on whose appearance in the world he had so often speculated,castle-building over the sensations her beauty and her gracefulnesswould excite,--what was to be her lot? Deep and heartfelt as his sorrowwas for them, it was only when he thought of his father that Lionel'sanguish burst its bounds, and he broke into a torrent of tears. Fromvery boyhood he had loved and admired him; but never had the highfeatures of his character so impressed Lionel Darcy as when the reverseof fortune called up that noble spirit whose courage displayed itselfin manly submission and the generous effort to support the hearts ofothers. How cruel did the decrees of fate seem to him, that such a manshould be visited so heavily, while vice and meanness prospered on everyside. He knew not that virtue has no nobler attribute than its power ofsustaining unmerited affliction, and that the destiny of the good man isnever more nobly carried out than when he points the example of patiencein suffering.
Immersed in such gloomy thoughts, he wandered on from room to room,feeding, as it were, the appetite for sorrow, by the sight of everyobject that could remind him of past happiness; nor were they few. Therewas the window-seat he loved to sit in as a boy, when all the charmof some high-wrought story could not keep his eyes from wandering atintervals over the green hills where the lambs were playing, or adownby that dark stream where circling eddies marked the leaping trout. Herewas Helen's favorite room, a little octagon boudoir, from every windowof which a different prospect opened; it seemed to breathe of her sweetpresence even yet; the open desk, from which she had taken some letter,lay there upon the table, the pen she had last touched, the chair shesat upon, all, even to the little nosegay of scarce-faded flowers,the last she had plucked, teemed with her memory. He walked on withbent-down head and tardy step, and entered the little room which,opening on the lawn, was used by the Knight to receive such of thetenantry as came to him for assistance or advice; many an hour hadhe sat there beside his father, and, while listening with the eagercuriosity of youth to the little stories of the poor man's life, histrials and his difficulties, imbibed lessons of charity and benevolencenever to be forgotten.
The great square volume in which the Knight used to record his notes ofthe neighboring poor, lay on the table; his chair was placed near it;all was in readiness for his coming who was to come there no more! AsLionel stood in silent sorrow, surveying these objects, the shadow of aman darkened the window. He turned suddenly, and saw the tall, scarecrowfigure of Flury the madman. A large placard decorated the front of hishat, on which the words "Down with the Darcys!" were written in capitalletters, and he carried in his hand a bundle of papers, like handbills,which he shook with a menacing air at Lionel.
"What is this, Flury?" said the youth, opening the window, and at thesame time snatching one of the papers from his hand.