This eBook was produced by Pat Castevens
and David Widger
PART XI.
CHAPTER I.
The next day, on the outside of the "Cambridge Telegraph," there was onepassenger who ought to have impressed his fellow-travellers with a veryrespectful idea of his lore in the dead languages; for not a singlesyllable, in a live one, did he vouchsafe to utter from the moment heascended that "bad eminence" to the moment in which he regained hismother earth. "Sleep," says honest Sancho, "covers a man better than acloak." I am ashamed of thee, honest Sancho, thou art a sad plagiarist;for Tibullus said pretty nearly the same thing before thee,—
"Te somnus fusco velavit amictu." (1)
But is not silence as good a cloak as sleep; does it not wrap a man roundwith as offusc and impervious a fold? Silence, what a world it covers,—what busy schemes, what bright hopes and dark fears, what ambition, orwhat despair! Do you ever see a man in any society sitting mute forhours, and not feel an uneasy curiosity to penetrate the wall he thusbuilds up between others and himself? Does he not interest you far morethan the brilliant talker at your left, the airy wit at your right whoseshafts fall in vain on the sullen barrier of the silent man! Silence,dark sister of Nox and Erebus, how, layer upon layer, shadow upon shadow,blackness upon blackness, thou stretchest thyself from hell to heaven,over thy two chosen haunts,—man's heart and the grave!
So, then, wrapped in my great-coat and my silence, I performed myjourney; and on the evening of the second day I reached the old-fashionedbrick house. How shrill on my ears sounded the bell! How strange andominous to my impatience seemed the light gleaming across the windows ofthe hall! How my heart beat as I watched the face of the servant whoopened the gate to my summons!
"All well?" cried I.
"All well, sir," answered the servant, cheerfully. "Mr. Squills, indeed,is with master, but I don't think there is anything the matter."
But now my mother appeared at the threshold, and I was in her arms.
"Sisty, Sisty! my dear, dear son—beggared, perhaps—and my fault—mine."
"Yours! Come into this room, out of hearing,—your fault?"
"Yes, yes! for if I had had no brother, or if I had not been led away,—if I had, as I ought, entreated poor Austin not to—"
"My dear, dearest mother, you accuse yourself for what, it seems, was myuncle's misfortune,—I am sure not even his fault! [I made a gulpthere.] No, lay the fault on the right shoulders,—the defunct shouldersof that horrible progenitor, William Caxton the printer; for though Idon't yet know the particulars of what has happened, I will lay a wagerit is connected with that fatal invention of printing. Come, come! myfather is well, is he not?"
"Yes, thank Heaven!"
"And I too, and Roland, and little Blanche! Why, then, you are right tothank Heaven, for your true treasures are untouched. But sit down andexplain, pray."
"I cannot explain. I do not understand anything more than that he, mybrother—mine!—has involved Austin in—in—" (a fresh burst of tears.)
I comforted, scolded, laughed, preached, and adjured in a breath; andthen, drawing my another gently on, entered my father's study.
At the table was seated Mr. Squills, pen in hand, and a glass of hisfavorite punch by his side. My father was standing on the hearth, ashade more pale, but with a resolute expr