BOOK II.
IN THE WORLD.
“Eleven years ago,” said Sir Edward to himself,
as his brougham slowly rolled him toward the Committee
Room; “just eleven years ago my natural
son disappeared mysteriously. I have no doubt in
the world but that this little bootblack is he. His
mother died in Italy. He resembles his mother very
much. Perhaps I ought to provide for him. Shall
I disclose myself? No! no! Better he should
taste the sweets of Labor. Penury ennobles the mind
and kindles the Love of the Beautiful. I will act to
him, not like a Father, not like a Guardian, not like
a Friend—but like a Philosopher!”
With these words, Sir Edward entered the Committee
Room. His Secretary approached him. “Sir
Edward, there are fears of a division in the House,
and the Prime Minister has sent for you.”
“I will be there,” said Sir Edward, as he placed
his hand on his chest and uttered a hollow cough!
No one who heard the Baronet that night, in his
sarcastic and withering speech on the Drainage and
Sewerage Bill, would have recognized the lover of
the Ideal and the Philosopher of the Beautiful. No
one who listened to his eloquence would have
dreamed of the Spartan resolution this iron man had
taken in regard to the Lost Boy—his own beloved
Lionel. None!
“A fine speech from Sir Edward, to-night,” said
Lord Billingsgate, as, arm-and-arm with the Premier,
he entered his carriage.
“Yes! but how dreadfully he coughs!”
“Exactly. Dr. Bolus says his lungs are entirely
gone; he breathes entirely by an effort of will, and
altogether independent of pulmonary assistance.”
“How strange!” and the carriage rolled awaw.
