The worst twelve month of his life!--with the possible
exception of that which he spent part at Ewell, part at Odessa.
Since, he had sailed in no smooth water; had seen no haven. But at
least he sailed onward, which gave him courage. Was courage to be
now illumined with hope? He tried to keep that thought away from
him; he durst not foster it. Among the papers he brought with him to
England was a letter, which, having laid it aside, he never dared to
open again. He knew it by heart--unfortunately for his peace.
He returned to another London than that he had known, a London which
smiled welcome. It was his duty, no less than his pleasure, to call
upon certain people for whom he had letters of introduction from
friends in Russia, and their doors opened wide to him. Upon
formalities followed kindness; the season was beginning, and at his
modest lodgings arrived cards, notes, bidding to ceremonies greater
and less; one or two of these summonses bore names which might have
stirred envy in the sons of fashion.
_Solus feci_! He allowed himself a little pride. His doing, it was
true, had as yet been nothing much to the eye of the world; but he
had made friends under circumstances not very favourable, friends
among the intelligent and the powerful. That gift, it seemed, was
his, if no other--the ability to make himself liked, respected.
He, by law the son of nobody, had begun to approve himself true son
of the father he loved and honoured.
Pages:
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426