Although the Chief Baron had assured Haire that his mission had no difficulty about it, that he 'd find her Ladyship would receive him in a very courteous spirit, and, finally, that “he'd do the thing” admirably, the unhappy little lawyer approached his task with considerable misgivings, which culminated in actual terror as he knocked at the door of the house where Lady Lendrick resided in Merrion Square, and sent up his name.
“The ladies are still in committee, sir,” said a bland-looking, usher-like personage, who, taking up Haire's card from the salver, scanned the name with a half-supercilious look.
“In committee! ah, indeed, I was not aware,” stammered out Haire. “I suspect—that is—I have reason to believe her Ladyship is aware—I mean my name is not unknown to Lady Lendrick—would you kindly present my card?”
“Take it up, Bates,” said the man in black, and then turned away to address another person, for the hall was crowded with people of various conditions and ranks, and who showed in their air and manner a something of anxiety, if not of impatience.
“Mr. MacClean,—where's Mr. MacClean?” cried a man in livery, as he held forth a square-shaped letter. “Is Mr. MacClean there?”
“Yes, I'm Mr. MacClean,” said a red-faced, fussy-looking man. “I'm Mr. George Henry MacClean, of 41 Mount Street.”
“Two tickets for Mr. MacClean,” said the usher, handing him the letter with a polite bow.
“Mr. Nolan, Balls Bridge,—does any one represent Mr. Nolan of Balls Bridge?” said the usher, haughtily.
“That 's me,” said a short man, who wiped the perspiration from his face with a red-spotted handkerchief, as large as a small bed-quilt,—“that's me.”
“The references not satisfactory, Mr. Nolan,” said the usher, reading from a paper in his hand.
“Not satisfactory?—what do you mean? Is Peter Arkins, Esquire, of Clontarf, unsatisfactory? Is Mr. Ryland, of Abbey Street, unsatisfactory?”
“I am really, sir, unable to afford you the explanation you desire. I am simply deputed by her Ladyship to return the reply that I find written here. The noise is really so great here I can hear nothing. Who are you asking for, Bates?”
“Mr. Mortimer O'Hagan.”
“He's gone away,” cried a voice; “he was here since eleven o'clock.”
“Application refused. Will some one tell Mr. O'Hagan his application is refused?” said the usher, austerely.
“Might I be bold enough to ask what is going forward?” whispered Haire.
“Mr. W. Haire, Ely Place,” shouted out the man in livery. “Card refused for want of a reference.”
“You ought to have sent up two names,—well-known names, Mr. Haire,” said the usher, with a politeness that seemed marked. “It's not too late yet; let me see,” and he looked at his watch, “we want a quarter to one; be back here in half an hour. Take a car,—you 'll find one at the door. Get your names, and I 'll see if I can't do it for you.”
“I am afraid I don't understand you, and I am sure you don't understand me. I came here by appointment—” The rest of the sentence was lost by a considerable bustle and movement that now ensued, for a number of ladies descended the stairs, chatting and laughing freely; while servants rushed hither and thither, calling up carriages, or inquiring for others not yet come. The usher, frantically pushing the crowd aside to clear a path for the ladies, was profuse of apologies for the confusion; adding at the same time that “it was twice as bad an hour ago. There were n't less than two hundred here this morning.”
A number of little pleasantries passed as the bland usher handed the ladies to their carriages; and it was evident by their laughter that his remarks were deemed pungent and witty. Meanwhile the hall was becoming deserted. The persons who had crowded there, descending singly or in groups, went their several ways, leaving Haire the only one behind. “And now, sir,” said the usher, “you see it's all over. You would n't take my advice. They are all gone, and it's the last meeting.”
“Will you favor me so far as to say for what did they meet? What was the object of the gathering?”
“I suppose, sir, you are not a reader of the morning papers?”
“Occasionally. Indeed, I always glance at them.”
“Well, sir, and has not your glance fallen upon the announcement of the ball,—the grand ball to be given at the-Rotundo for the orphan asylum called the 'Rogues Redemptory,' at Rathmines, at the head of whose patronesses stands my Lady's name?”
Haire shook his head in negative.
“And have you not come like the rest with an application for permission to attend the ball?”
“No; I have come to speak to Lady Lendrick—and by appointment too.”
A faint but prolonged “Indeed!” expressed the usher's-astonishment, and he turned and whispered a few words to-a footman at his side. He disappeared, and returned in & moment to say that her Ladyship would see Mr. Haire.
“I trust you will forgive me, sir,” said Lady Lendrick,—a very large, very showy, and still handsome woman,—as she motioned him to be seated. “I got your card when my head was so full of this tiresome ball, and I made the absurd mistake of supposing you came for tickets. You are, I think your note says, an old friend of Mr. Thomas-Lendrick?”
“I am an old friend of his father's. Madam! The Chief Baron and myself were schoolfellows.”
“Yes, yes: I have no doubt,” said she, hurriedly; “but from your note—I have it here somewhere,” and she rummaged amongst a lot of papers that littered the table,—“your note gave me to understand that your visit to me regarded Mr. Thomas Lendrick, and not the Chief Baron. It is possible, however, I may have mistaken your meaning. I wish I could find it. I laid it out of my hand a moment ago. Oh, here it is! now we shall see which of us is right,” and with a sort of triumph she opened the letter and read aloud, slurring over the few commencing lines till she came to “that I may explain to your Ladyship the circumstances by which Mr. Thomas Lendrick's home will for the present be broken up, and entreat of you to extend to his daughter the same kind interest and favor you have so constantly extended to her father.” “Now, sir, I hope I may say that it is notIhave been mistaken. If I read this passage aright, it bespeaks my consideration for a young lady who will shortly need a home and a protectress.”
“I suppose I expressed myself very ill. I mean, Madam, I take it, that in my endeavor not to employ any abruptness, I may have fallen into some obscurity. Shall I own, besides,” added he, with a tone of half-desperation in his voice, “that I had no fancy for this mission of mine at all,—that I undertook it wholly against my will? Baron Len-drick's broken health, my old friendship for him, his insistence,—and you can understand whatthatis, eh?”—he thought she was about to speak; but she only gave a faint equivocal sort of smile, and he went on: “All these together overcame my scruples, and I agreed to come.” He paused here as though he had made the fullest and most ample explanation, and that it was now her turn to speak.
“Well, sir,” said she, “go on; I am all ears for your communication.”
“There it is: that 's the whole of it, Madam. You are to understand distinctly that with the arrangement itself I had no concern whatever. Baron Lendrick never asked my advice; I never tendered it. I 'm not sure that I should have concurred with his notions,—but that 's nothing to the purpose; all that I consented to was to come here, to tell you the thing is so, and why it is so—there!” and with this he wiped his forehead, for the exertion had heated and fatigued him.
“I know I 'm very dull, very slow of comprehension; and in compassion for this defect, will you kindly make your explanation a little, a very little, fuller? What is it that isso?” and she emphasized the last word with a marked sarcasm in her tone.
“Oh, I can see that your Ladyship may not quite like it. There is no reason why you should like it,—all things considered; but, after all, it may turn out very well. If she suit him, if she can hit it off with his temper,—and she may,—young folks have often more forbearance than older ones,—there 's no saying what it may lead to.”
“Once for all, sir,” said she, haughtily, for her temper was sorely tried, “what is this thing which I am not to like, and yet bound to bear?”
“I don't think I said that; I trust I never said your Ladyship was bound to bear anything. So well as I can recall the Chief Baron's words,—and, God forgive me, but I wish I was—no matter what or where—when I heard them,—this is the substance of what he said: 'Tell her,' meaning your Ladyship,—'tell her that, rightly understood, the presence of my granddaughter as mistress of my house—'”
“What do you say, sir?—is Miss Lendrick coming to reside at the Priory?”
“Of course—what else have I been saying this half-hour?”
“To take the position of lady of the house?” said she, not deigning to notice his question.
“Just so, Madam.”
“I declare, sir, bold as the step is,”—she arose as she spoke, and drew herself haughtily up,—“bold as the step is, it is not half so bold as your own courage in coming to tell of it. What the Chief Baron had not the hardihood to communicate in writing, you dare to deliver to me by word of mouth,—you dare to announce to me that my place, the station I ought to fill, is to be occupied by another, and that whenever I pass the threshold of the Priory, I come as the guest of Lucy Lendrick! I do hope, sir, I may attribute to the confusion of your faculties—a confusion of which this short interview has given me proof—that you really never rightly apprehended the ignominy of the mission your friend intrusted to you.”
“You 're right there,” said he, placing both his hands on the side of his head; “confusion is just the name for it.”
“Yes, sir; but I apprehend you must have undertaken this office in a calm moment, and let me ask you how you could have lent yourself to such a task? You are aware, for the whole world is aware, that in living apart from the Chief Baron I am yielding to a necessity imposed by his horrible, his insufferable temper; now, how long will this explanation be valid, if my place in any respect should be occupied by another? The isolation in which he now lives, his estrangement from the world, serve to show that he has withdrawn from society, and accepted the position of a recluse. Will this continue now? Will these be the habits of the house with a young lady at its bead, free to indulge all the caprices of ignorant girlhood? I declare, sir, I wonder how a little consideration for your friend might not have led you to warn him against the indiscretion he was about to commit. The slight to me,” said she, sarcastically, and flushing deeply, “it was possible you might overlook; but I scarcely see how you could have forgotten the stain that must attach to that 'large intellect,—that wise and truly great man.' I am quoting a paragraph I read in the 'Post' this morning, with which, perhaps, you are familiar.”
“I did not see it,” said Haire, helplessly.
“I declare, sir, I was unjust enough to think you wrote it. I thought no one short of him who had come on your errand to-day could have been the author.”
“Well, I wish with all my heart I 'd never come,” said he, with a melancholy gesture of his hands.
“I declare, sir, I am not surprised at your confession. I suppose you are not aware that in the very moment adopted for this—this—this new establishment, there is something like studied insult to me. It is only ten days ago I mentioned to the Chief Baron that my son, Colonel Sewell, was coming back from India on a sick-leave. He has a wife and three little children, and, like most soldiers, is not over-well off. I suggested that as the Priory was a large roomy house, with abundant space for many people without in the slightest degree interfering with each other, he should offer the Sewells to take them in. I said nothing more,—nothing aboutménage,—no details of any kind. I simply said: “Could n't you give the Sewells the rooms that look out on the back lawn? Nobody ever enters them; even when you receive in the summer evenings, they are not opened. It would be a great boon to an invalid to be housed so quietly, so removed from all noise and bustle.' And to mark how I intended no more, I added, 'They would n't bore you, nor need you ever see them unless you wished for it.' And what was his reply? 'Madam, I never liked soldiers. I 'm not sure that his young wife would n't be displeasing to me, and I know that his children would be insufferable.'
“I said, 'Let me take the dear children, then.' 'Do, by all means, and their dear parents also,' he broke in. 'I should be in despair if I thought I had separated you.' Yes, sir, I give you his very words. This wise and truly great man, or truly wise and great—which is it?—had nothing more generous nor more courteous to say to me than a sarcasm and an impertinence. Are you not proud of your friend?”
Never was there a more unlucky peroration, from the day when Lord Denman concluded an eloquent defence of a queen's innocence by appealing to the unhappy illustration which called forth the touching words, “Let him that is without sin cast the first stone at her.” Never was there a more signal blunder than to ask this man to repudiate the friendship which had formed the whole pride and glory of his life.
“I should think Iamproud of him, Madam,” said he, rising, and speaking with a boldness that amazed even himself. “I was proud to be his class-fellow at school; I was proud to sit in the same division with him in college,—proud when he won his gold medal and carried off his fellowship. It was a proud day to me when I saw him take his seat on the bench; and my heart nearly burst with pride when he placed me on his right hand at dinner, and told the Benchers and the Bar that we had walked the road of life together, and that the grasp of my hand—he called it my honest hand—had been the ever-present earnest of each success he had achieved in his career. Yes, Madam, I am very proud of him; and my heart must be cold indeed before I cease to be proud of him.”
“I declare, sir, you astonish, you amaze me. I was well aware how that truly great and wise man had often inspired the eloquence of attack. Many have assailed—many have vituperated him; but that any one should have delivered a panegyric on the inestimable value of his friendship!—his friendship, of all things!—is what I was not prepared for.”
Haire heard the ringing raillery of her laugh; he was stung by he knew not what tortures of her scornful impertinence; bitter, biting words, very cruel words, too, fell over and around him like a sort of hail; they beat on his face and rattled over his head and shoulders. He was conscious of a storm, and conscious too that he sought neither shelter nor defence, but only tried to fly before the hurricane, whither he knew not.
How he quitted that room, descended the stairs, and escaped from the house, he never was able to recall. He was far away outside the city wandering along through an unfrequented suburb ere he came to his full consciousness, murmuring to himself ever as he went, “What a woman, what a woman! what a temper,—ay, and what a tongue!” Without any guidance of his own—without any consciousness of it—he walked on and on, till he found himself at the gate-lodge of the Priory; a carriage was just passing in, and he stopped to ask whose it was. It was the Chief Baron's granddaughter who had arrived that morning by train. He turned back when he heard this, and returned to town. “Whether you like it or not, Lady Lendrick, it is done now, and there 's no good in carrying on the issue after the verdict.” And with this reflection, embodying possibly as much wisdom as his whole career had taught him, he hastened homeward, secretly determining, if he possibly could, never to reveal anything to the Chief Baron of his late interview with Lady Lendrick.
Dr. Lendrick and his son still lingered at the Swan's Nest after Lucy's departure for the Priory. Lendrick, with many things to arrange and prepare for his coming voyage, was still so overcome by the thought of breaking up his home and parting from his children, that he could not address his mind to anything like business. He would wander about for hours through the garden and the shrubberies, taking leave, as he called it, of his dear plants and flowers, and come back to the house distressed and miserable. Often and often would he declare to Sir Brook, who was his guest, that the struggle was too much for him. “I never was a man of ardor or energy, and it is not now, when I have passed the middle term of life, that I am to hope for that spring and elasticity which were denied to my youth. Better for me send for Lucy, and stay where I am; nowhere shall I be so happy again.” Then would come the sudden thought that all this was mere selfishness, that in this life of inaction and indolence he was making no provision for that dear girl be loved so well. Whatever hopes the reconciliation with his father might lead to, would of course be utterly scattered to the winds by an act so full of disobedience as this. “It is true,” thought he, “I may fail abroad as I have failed at home. Success and I are scarcely on speaking terms,—but the grandfather cannot leave the granddaughter whom he has taken from her home, totally uncared and unprovided for.”
As for young Tom, Sir Brook had pledged himself to-take care of him. It was a vague expression enough; it might mean anything, everything, or nothing. Sir Brook Fossbrooke had certainly, in worldly parlance, not taken very good care of himself,—far from it; he had squandered and made away with two large estates and an immense sum in ready money. It was true he had friends everywhere,—some of them very great people with abundant influence, and well able to help those they cared for; but Fossbrooke was not one of those who ask; and the world has not yet come to the millennial beatitude in which one's friends importune them with inquiries how they are to be helped, what and where they wish for.
Many a time in the course of country-house life—at breakfast, as the post came in, and during the day, as a messenger would deliver a telegram—some great man would say, “There is a vacancy there—such a one has died—so-and-so has retired. There's a thing to suit you, Fossbrooke,”—and Sir Brook would smile, say a word or two that implied nothing, and so would end the matter. If “my Lord” ever retained any memory of the circumstance some time after, it would be that he had offered something to Fossbrooke, who would n't take it, did n't care for it. For so is it throughout life; the event which to one is the veriest trifle of the hour, is to another a fate and a fortune; and then, great folk who lead lives of ease and security are very prone to forget that humble men have often a pride very disproportioned to their condition, and are timidly averse to stretch out the hand for what it is just possible it may not be intended they should touch.
At all events, Fossbrooke went his way through the world a mystery to many and a puzzle,—some averring that it was a shame to his friends in power that he had “got nothing,” others as stoutly declaring that he was one whom no office would tempt, nor would any place requite him for the loss of liberty and independence.
He himself was well aware of each of these theories, but too proud to say a word to those who professed either of them. If, however, he was too haughty to ask for himself, he was by no means above being a suitor for his friends; and many a one owed to his active solicitude the advancement which none stood more in need of than himself.
“We shall make the Viceroy do something for us, Tom,” he would say. “Think over what it shall be,—for that's the invariable question, What is it you want? And it's better far to say, Make me an archbishop, than have to own that you want anything, and are, maybe, fit for nothing.”
Though Lendrick was well disposed towards Fossbrooke, and fully sensible of his manly honesty and frankness, he could not help seeing that he was one of those impulsive sanguine natures that gain nothing from experience beyond the gift of companionship. They acquire all that can make them delightful in society,—boons they are,—and especially to those whose more prudent temperament inclines them to employ their gifts more profitably. Scores of these self-made men, rich to overflowing with all that wealth could buy around them, would say, What a happy fellow was Fossbrooke! what a blessing it was to have his nature, his spirits, buoyancy, and such-like,—to be able to enjoy life as he did! Perhaps they believed all that they said too,—who knows? When they made such speeches to himself, as they would at times, he heard them with the haughty humility of one who hears himself praised for that which the flatterer deems a thing too low for envy. He well understood how cheaply others estimated his wares, for they were a scrip that figured in no share-list, and never were quoted at a premium.
Lendrick read him very correctly, and naturally thought that a more practical and a more worldly guide would have been better for Tom,—some one to hold him back, not to urge him forward; some one to whisper prudence, restraint, denial,—not daring, and dash, and indulgence. But somehow these flighty, imaginative, speculative men have very often a wonderful persuasiveness about them, and can give to the wildest dreams a marvellous air of substance and reality. A life so full of strange vicissitudes as Fossbrooke's seemed a guarantee for any—no matter what—turn of fortune. Hear him tell of where he had been, what he had done, and with whom, and you at once felt you were in presence of one to whom no ordinary laws of worldly caution or prudence applied.
That his life had compassed many failures and few successes was plain enough. He never sought to hide the fact.
Indeed, he was candor itself in his confessions, only that he accompanied them by little explanations, showing the exact spot and moment in which he had lost the game. It was wonderful what credit he seemed to derive from these disclosures. It was like an honest trader showing his balance-sheet to prove that, but for the occurrence of such ills as no prudence could ward off, his condition must have been one of prosperity.
Never did he say anything more truthful than that “he had never cared for money.” So long as he had it he used it lavishly, thoughtlessly, very often generously. When he ceased to have it, the want scarcely appeared to touch him personally. Indeed, it was only when some necessity presented itself to aid this one or extricate that, he would suddenly remember his impotence to be of use, and then the sting of his poverty would sorely pain him.
Like all men who have suffered reverses, he had to experience the different acceptance he met with in his days of humble fortune from what greeted him in his era of prosperity. If he felt this, none could detect it. His bearing and manner betrayed nothing of such consciousness. A very slight increase of stateliness might possibly have marked him in his poverty, and an air of more reserved dignity, which showed itself in his manner to strangers. In all other respects he was the same.
That such a character should have exercised a great influence over a young man like Tom Lendrick—ardent, impetuous, and desirous of adventure—was not strange.
“We must make a fortune for Lucy, Tom,” said Sir Brook. “Your father's nature is too fine strung to be a money-maker, and she must be cared for.” This was a desire which he continued to utter day after day; and though Fossbrooke usually smoked on after he had said it without any intimation as to where and when and how this same fortune was to be amassed, Tom Lendrick placed the most implicit faith in the assurance that it would be done “somehow.”
One morning as Lendrick was walking with his son in the garden, making, as he called it, his farewell visit to his tulips and moss-roses, he asked Tom if any fixed plan had been decided on as to his future.
“We have got several, sir. The difficulty is the choice. Sir Brook was at one time very full of buying a great tract in Donegal, and stocking it with all sorts of wild animals. We began with deer, antelopes, and chamois; and last night we got to wolves, bears, and a tiger. We were to have a most commodious shooting-box, and invite parties to come and sport, who, instead of going to Bohemia, the Rocky Mountains, and to Africa, would find all their savagery near home, and pay us splendidly for the privilege.
“There are some difficulties in the plan, it is true; our beasts might not be easy to keep within bounds. The jaguar might make an excursion into the market-town; the bear might eat a butcher. Sir Brook, besides, doubts ifferocould be preserved under the game laws. He has sent a case to Brewster for his opinion.”
“Don't tell me of such absurdities,” said Lendrick, trying to repress his quiet laugh. “I want you to speak seriously and reasonably.”
“I assure you, sir, we have the whole details of this on paper, even to the cost of the beasts, and the pensions to the widows of the keepers that may be devoured. Another plan that we had, and it looked plausible enough too, was to take out a patent for a wonderful medical antidote. As Sir Brook says, there is nothing like a patent medicine to make a man rich; and by good luck he is possessed of the materials for one. He has the secret for curing the bite of the rattlesnake. He got it from a Tuscarora Indian, who, I believe, was a sort of father-in-law to him. Three applications of this to the wound have never been known to fail.”
“But we are not infested with rattlesnakes, Tom.”
“That's true, sir. We thought of that, and decided that we should alter the prospectus of our company, and we have called it 'The antidote to an evil of stupendous magnitude and daily recurrence.
“A new method of flotation in water, by inflating the cellular membrane to produce buoyancy; a translation of the historical plays of Shakspeare into Tonga, for the interesting inhabitants of those islands; artificial rainfall by means of the voltaic battery: these are a few of his jottings down in a little book in manuscript he has entitled 'Things to be Done.'
“His favorite project, however, is one he has revolved for years in his mind, and he is fully satisfied that it contains the germ of boundless wealth. It has been shown, he says, that in the smoke issuing from the chimneys of great smelt-ing-furnaces, particles of subtilized metal are carried away to the amount of thousands of pounds sterling: not merely is the quantity great, but the quality, as might be inferred, is of the most valuable and precious kind. To arrest and precipitate this waste is his project, and he has been for years making experiments to this end. He has at length, he believes, arrived at the long-sought-for problem; and as he possesses a lead-mine in the island of Sardinia, he means that we should set out there, and at once begin operations.”
Dr. Lendrick shook his head gravely as he listeued; indeed, Tom's manner in detailing Sir Brook's projects was little calculated to inspire serious confidence.
“I know, father,” cried he, “what you mean. I know well how wild and flighty these things appear; but if you had only heard them from him,—had you but listened to his voice, and heard him speak of his own doubts and fears,—how he canvasses, not merely the value of his project, but what the world will say of it and of him,—how modestly he rates himself,—how free of all the cant of the discoverer he is,—how simply he enters into explanations,—how free to own the difficulties that bar success,—I say, if you had experienced these, I feel sure you would not escape from him without catching some of that malady of speculation which has so long beset him. Nor is one less disposed to trust him that he makes no parade of these things. Indeed, they are his deepest, most inviolable secrets. In his intercourse with the world no one has ever heard him allude to one of these projects, and I have given him my solemn pledge not to speak of them, save to you.”
“It is a reason to think better of the man, Tom, but not to put more faith in the discoveries.”
“I believe I take the man and his work together; at all events, when I am along with him, and listening to him, he carries me away captive, and I am ready to embark in any enterprise he suggests. Here he comes, with two letters, I see, in his hand. Did you ever see a man less like a visionary, father? Is not every trait of his marked with thought and struggle?” This was not the way Tom's father read Fossbrooke, but there was no time to discuss the point further.
“A letter for each of you,” said Sir Brook, handing them; and then taking out a cigar, he strolled down an alley, while they were engaged in reading.
“We have got a tenant at last,” said Lendrick. “The Dublin house-agent has found some one who will take the place as it stands; and now, to think of my voyage.”
It was well for poor Lendrick that he was not to witness the great change which, in a few short weeks, had been effected in his once home. So complete, indeed, was the transformation, there was but very little left beyond the natural outline of the scenery to remind one of that lovely nook in which the tasteful cottage nestled. The conservatory had been converted into a dining-room; the former dinner-room being fitted up for a billiard-room. The Swiss cowhouse, a pretty little conceit, on which Lendrick had lavished some money and more time, was turned into a stable, with three loose boxes; and the neat lawn, whose velvet sward was scarce less beautiful than the glittering flower-beds that studded it, was ruthlessly cut up into a racecourse, with hurdles and fences and double ditches, to represent a stiff country, and offer all the features of a steeple-chase.
It needed not the assurance of Mr. Kimball, the house-agent, to proclaim that his client was very unlike the last occupant of the place. “Hewas no recluse, no wretched misanthropist, hiding his discontent amongst shrubs and forcing-beds; he was a man of taste and refinement, with knowledge of life and its requirements. He would be an acquisition to any neighborhood.”
Now, the last phrase—and he invariably made it his peroration—has a very wide and sweeping acceptation. It appeals to the neighborhood with all the charms that pertain to social intercourse; a guest the more and a host the more are no small claims in small places. It appeals to the parson, as another fountain from which to draw draughts of benevolence. To the doctor it whispers fees and familiar dinners. Galen knows that the luckiest of men are not exempt from human ills, and that gout comes as a frequent guest where the cook is good and the wine tempting; and the butcher himself revels in the thought of a “good family” that consumes sirloins and forestalls sweetbreads.
It was somewhat trying to young Tom Lendrick, who had gone down to the Nest to fetch away some remnants of fishing-tackle he had left there, to hear these glowing anticipations of the new-comer, so evidently placed in contrast with the quiet and inexpensive life his father had led. How unlike were his father and this “acquisition to any neighborhood,” was impressed upon him at any moment! How could a life of unobtrusive kindness, of those daily ministerings to poor men's wants, compete with the glitter and display which were to adorn a neighborhood?
Already were people beginning to talk of Lendrick as odd, eccentric, peculiar; to set down his finest qualities as strange traits of a strange temperament, and rather, on the whole, to give themselves credit for the patience and forbearance which they had shown to one who, after all, was “simply an egotist.”
Yes, such are not unfrequent judgments in this same world of ours; and if you would have men's suffrages for the good you do, take care that you do it conventionally. Be in all things like those around you; and if there be a great man in your vicinity, whenever a doubt arises in your mind as to any course of action, do as you may imagine he might do.
Young Lendrick came away not a little disgusted with this taste of human fickleness. The sight of their old home changed even to desecration was bad enough, but this cold ingratitude was worse.
Had he gone into the cabins of the poor, had he visited the humble dwellings where his father's generous devotion had brought him face to face with famine and fever, he would have heard much to redress the balance of these opinions. He would have heard those warm praises that come from sorrow-stricken hearts, the wail of the friendless and forlorn. Tom heard not these, and he returned to town with a feeling of anger and resentment against the world he had never known before.
“How absurd it is in old Fossbrooke,” thought he, “to go on saying money cannot do this, that, and t'other! Why, it can do everything. It does not alone make a man great, powerful, and influential, but it gains him the praise of being good and kind and generous. Look at my poor father, who never had a thought but for others, who postponed himself to all around him; and yet here is some one, whose very name is unknown, more eagerly looked for, more ardently desired, than would he be were it to be announced to-morrow he was coming back to live amongst them. What nonsense it is to say that the world cares for any qualities save those it can utilize; and I am only amazed how a man could have seen so much of life as Sir Brook and gained so little by his experience.”
It was in this mood he got back to the little lodging in a humble suburb called Cullen's Wood, where Sir Brook awaited him. It is not impossible that the disparities of temperament in this world are just as beneficial, just as grateful, as are the boundless variety and change we find in nature. To Tom Lendrick's depression, almost disgust with life, Sir Brook brought that bright, hopeful, happy spirit which knew how to throw sunlight on every path to be travelled.
He had received good news, or what he thought was good news, from Sardinia. A new vein of ore had been struck,—very “fat” ore they called it,—some eighty-odd per cent, and a fair promise of silver in it. “They ask me for thirty thousand francs, though, Tom,” said he, with a smile; “they might as well have written 'pounds' when they were about it. They want to repair the engine and erect a new crane. They say, too, the chains are worn and unsafe,—a thing to be looked to, or we shall have some accidents. In fact, they need fully double what they ask for; and seeing how impossible was the performance, I am astonished at their modesty.”
“And what do you mean to do, sir?” asked Tom, bluntly.
“I have been thinking of two courses: my first thought was to make a formal conveyance of the mine to you and your sister, for your joint use and benefit. This done, and I standing aloof from all possible interest in it, I bethought me of a loan to be raised on the security of the property,—not publicly, not generally, but amongst your father's friends and well-wishers,—beginning with the neighborhood where he has lived so long, and around which he has sowed the seeds of such benefits as needs must ripen in gratitude.”
“Indulge no delusions on that score, sir. There is not a man in the county, except old Mills the vicar, perhaps, has a good word for us; and as to going to one of them for assistance, I 'd rather sweep a crossing. You shake your head, Sir Brook, and you smile at my passionate denunciation; but it is true, every word of it. I heard, in the few hours I spent there, scores of stories of my poor father's eccentricity,—his forgetfulness, his absence, and what not,—but never a syllable of his noble liberality, his self-sacrifice, or his gentleness.”
“My dear Tom,” said the old man, solemnly, “when you have lived to one-half my age, you will discover that the world is not so much cursed with ill-nature as with levity, and that when men talk disparagingly of their fellows, they do so rather to seem witty than to be just. There was not, perhaps, one of those who tried to raise a laugh at your father's oddities, or who assumed to be droll at his expense, who would not in a serious mood have conceded to him every good and great trait of his nature. The first step in worldly knowledge is to rise above all consideration of light gossip. Take my word for it, we often confirm men in wrong thinking by opposition, who, if left to themselves and their own hearts, would review their judgments, and even retract them.”
Tom took a hasty turn up and down the room; a ready reply was on his lip; indeed, it was with difficulty he repressed it, but he did so, and stood in seeming acquiescence to what he had heard. At last he said, “And the other plan, Sir Brook,—what was that?”
“Perhaps a more likely one, Tom,” said the old man, cheerfully. “It was to apply directly to your grandfather, a man whose great intelligence would enable him to examine a project with whose details he had not ever before versed himself, and ask whether he would not make the advance we require on mortgage or otherwise.”
“I don't think I 'd like to ask him,” said Tom, with a grim smile.
“The proposal could come from me,” said Sir Brook, proudly, “if he would graciously accord me an interview.”
Tom turned away to hide a smile, for he thought, if such a meeting were to take place, what he would give to be an unseen witness of it,—to watch the duel between antagonists so different, and whose weapons were so unlike.
“My sister knows him better than any of us,” said Tom, at last; “might I consult her as to the likelihood of any success with him?”
“By all means; it is what I would have myself advised.”
“I will do so, then, to-day. I ought to have gone to see her yesterday; but I will go to-day, and report progress when I come back. I have a long budget for her,” added he, with a sigh,—“a catalogue of all the things I am not going to do. I am not going to be a medallist, nor win a fellowship, nor even be a doctor; it will, however, give me great courage if I can say, I 'll be a miner.”
Tom Lendrick was right when he said he should have gone to see his sister on the day before, though he was not fully aware how right. The Chief Baron, in laying down a few rules for Lucy's guidance, made a point of insisting that she should only receive visitors on one day of the week; and in this regulation he included even her brother. So averse was the old man to be exposed to even a passing meeting with strangers, that on these Tuesdays he either kept his room or retired to a little garden of which he kept the key, and from whose precincts all were rigorously excluded.
Well knowing her brother's impatience of anything like restricted liberty, and how rapidly he would connect such an injunction as this with a life of servitude and endurance, Lucy took care to make the time of receiving him appear a matter of her own choice and convenience, and at the time of parting would say, “Good-bye till Tuesday, Tom; don't forget Tuesday, for we shall be sure to be alone and to ourselves.” He the more easily believed this, that on these same Tuesdays the whole place seemed deserted and desolate. The grave-looking man in black, who preceded him up the stairs, ushered him along the corridor, and finally announced him, awaited him like a piece of machinery, repeating every movement and gesture with an unbroken uniformity, and giving him to understand that not only his coming was expected, but all the details of his reception had been carefully prescribed and determined on.
“As I follow that fellow along the passage, Lucy,” said Tom, one day, “I can't help thinking that I experience every sensation of a man going to be hanged,—his solemn face, his measured tread, the silence, and the gloom,—only needing pinioned arms to make the illusion perfect.”
“Tie them around me, dearest Tom,” said she, laughing, and drawing him to a seat beside her on the sofa; “and remember,” added she, “you have a long day. Your sentence will not come off for another week;” and thus jestingly did she contrive to time his coming without ever letting him know the restrictions that defined his visits.
Now, the day before this conversation between Sir Brook and Tom took place being a Tuesday, Lucy had watched long and anxiously for his coming. She knew he had gone down to Killaloe on the preceding Saturday, but he had assured her he would be back and be with her by Tuesday. Lucy's life was far from unhappy, but it was one of unbroken uniformity, and the one sole glimpse of society was that meeting with her brother, whose wayward thoughts and capricious notions imparted to all he said a something striking and amusing. He usually told her how his week had been passed,—where he had been and with whom,—and she had learned to know his companions, and ask after them by name. Her chief interest was, however, about Sir Brook, from whom Tom usually brought a few lines, but always in an unsealed envelope, inscribed, “By the favor of Mr. Lendrick, jun.”
How often would Tom quiz her about the respectful devotion of her old admirer, and jestingly ask her if she could consent to marry him. “I know he'll ask you the question one of these days, Lucy, and it's your own fault if you give him such encouragement as may mislead him.” And then they would talk over the romance of the old man's nature, wondering whether the real world would be rendered more tolerable or the reverse by that ideal tone which so imaginative a temperament could give it “Is it not strange,” said Tom, one day, “that I can see all the weakness of his character wherever my own interests do not come, but the moment he presents before me some bright picture of a splendid future, a great name to achieve, a great fortune to make, that moment he takes me captive, and I regard him not as a visionary or a dreamer, but as a man of consummate shrewdness and great knowledge of life?”
“In this you resemble Sancho Panza, Tom,” said she, laughing. “He had little faith in his master's chivalry, but he implicitly believed in the island he was to rule over;” and from that day forward she called her brother Sancho and Sir Brook the Don.
On the day after that on which Tom's visit should have been but was not paid, Lucy sat at luncheon with her grandfather in a small breakfast-room which opened on the lawn. The old Judge was in unusual spirits; he had just received an address from the Bar, congratulating him on his recovery, and expressing hope that he might be soon again seen on that Bench he had so much ornamented by his eloquence and his wisdom. The newspapers, too, with a fickleness that seems their most invariable feature, spoke most flatteringly of his services, and placed his name beside those who had conferred highest honor on the judgeship.
“It is neatly worded, Lucy,” said the old man, taking up the paper on which the address was written; “and the passage that compares me with Mansfield is able as well as true. Both Mansfield and myself understood how there stands above all written law that higher, greater, grander law, that is based in the heart of all humanity, in the hope of an eternal justice, and soars above every technicality, by the intense desire of truth. It would have been, however, no more than fair to have added that, to an intellect the equal of Mansfield, I brought a temper which Mansfield had not, and a manner which if found in the courts of royalty, is seldom met with on the Bench. I do not quite like that phrase, 'the rapid and unerring glance of Erskine.' Erskine was brilliant for a Scotchman, but a brilliant Scotchman is but a third-rate Irishman. They who penned this might have known as much. I am better pleased with the words, 'the noble dignity of Lord Eldon.' There, my child, there, they indeed have hit upon a characteristic. In Eldon nature seemed to have created the judicial element in a high degree. It would be the vulgarity of modesty to pretend not to recognize in my own temperament a like organization.
“May I read you, Lucy, the few words in which I mean to reply to this courteous address? Will it bore you, my dear?”
“On the contrary, sir, I shall feel myself honored as well as interested.”
“Sit where you are, then, and I will retire to the far corner of the room. You shall judge if my voice and delivery be equal to the effort; for I mean to return my thanks in person, Lucy. I mean to add the force of my presence to the vigor of my sentiments. I have bethought me of inviting those who have signed this document to luncheon here; and it may probably be in the large drawing-room that I shall deliver this reply. If not, it may possibly be in my court before rising,—I have not fully determined.” So saying, he arose, and with feeble steps—assisting himself, as he went, by the table, and then grasping a chair—he moved slowly across the room. She knew him too well to dare to offer her arm, or appear in any way to perceive his debility. That he felt, and felt bitterly, “the curse of old age,” as he once profanely called it, might be marked in the firm compression of his lips and the stern frown that settled on him, while, as he sank into a seat, a sad weary sigh declared the utter exhaustion that overcame him.
It was not till after some minutes that he rallied sufficiently to unroll his manuscript and adjust his spectacles. The stillness in the room was now perfect; not a sound was heard save the faint hum of a bee which had strayed into the room, and was vaguely floating about to find an exit. Lucy sat in an attitude of patient attention,—her hands crossed before her, and her eyes slightly downcast.
A faint low cough, and he began, but in a voice tremulous and faint, “'Mr. Chief Sergeant, and Gentlemen of the Bar'—do you hear me, Lucy?”
“Yes, sir, I hear you.”
“I will try to be more audible; I will rest for a moment.” fie laid his paper on his knees, closed his eyes, and sat immovable for some seconds.
It was at this moment, when to the intense stillness was added a sense of expectancy, the honeysuckle that grew across the window moved, the frail branches gave way, and a merry voice called out, “Scene the first: a young lady discovered at luncheon!” and with a spring Tom Lendrick bounced into the room, and, ere her cry of alarm had ended, was clasping his sister in his arms.
“Oh, Tom, dearest Tom, why to-day? Grandpapa—grandpapa is here,” sighed she, rather than whispered, in his ear.
The young man started back, more struck by the emotion he had shown than by her words, and the Chief Baron advanced towards him with a manner of blended courtesy and dignity, saying, “I am glad to know you. Your sister's brother must be very welcome to me.”
“I wish I could make a proper excuse for this mode of entry, sir. First of all, I thought Lucy was alone; and, secondly—”
“Never mind the second plea; I submit to a verdict on the first,” said the Judge, smiling.
“Tom forgot; it was Tuesday was his day,” began Lucy.
“I have no day; days are all alike to me, Lucy. My occupations of Monday could be transferred to a Saturday, or, if need be, postponed indefinitely beyond it.”
“The glorious leisure of the fortunate,” said the Judge, with a peculiar smile.
“Or the vacuity of the unlucky, possibly,” said Tom, with an easy laugh.
“At all events, young gentleman, you carry your load jauntily.”
“One reason is, perhaps, that I never knew it was a load. I have always paraded in heavy marching order, so that I don't mind the weight of my pack.”
For the first time did the old man's features relax into a look of kindly meaning. To find the youth not merely-equal to appreciate a figure of speech, but able to carry on the illustration, seemed so to identify him with his own blood and kindred that the old Judge felt himself instinctively drawn towards him.
“Lucy, help your brother to something; there was an excellent curry there awhile ago,—if it be not cold.”
“I have set my affections on that cold beef. It seems tome an age since I have seen a real sirloin.”
A slight twitch crossed the Judge's face,—a pang he felt at what might be an insinuated reproach at his in hospitality; and he said, in a tone of almost apology, “We see no one—-absolutely no one—here. Lucy resigns herself to the companionship of a very dreary old man whom all else have forgotten.”
“Don't say so, grandpapa, on the day when such a testimony of esteem and affection reaches you.”
Young Lendrick looked up from his plate, turning his eyes first towards his sister, then towards his grandfather; his glance was so palpably an interrogatory, there was no-mistaking it. Perhaps the old man's first impulse was not to reply; but his courtesy or his vanity, or a blending of both, carried the day, and he said, in a voice of much feeling: “Your sister refers to an address I have just received,—an address which the Irish Bar have deemed proper to transmit to me with their congratulations on my recovery. It is as gratifying, it is as flattering, as she says. My brethren have shown that they can rise above all consideration of sect or party in tendering their esteem to a man whom no administration has ever been able to convert into a partisan.”
“But you have always been a Whig, sir, haven't you?” said Tom, bluntly.
“I have been a Whig, sir, in the sense that a King is a Royalist,” said the old man, haughtily; and though Tom felt sorely provoked to reply to this pretentious declaration, he only gave a wicked glance at his sister, and drank off his wine.
“It was at the moment of your unexpected appearance,” continued the Judge, “that I was discussing with your sister whether my reply to this compliment would come better if delivered here, or from my place on the Bench.”
“I 'd say from the Bench,” said Tom, as he helped himself to another slice of beef.
The old man gave a short cough, with a start. The audacity of tendering advice so freely and positively overcame him; and his color, faint indeed, rose to his withered cheek, and his eye glittered as he said, “Might I have the benefit of hearing the reasons which have led you to this opinion?”
“First of all,” said Tom, in a careless off-hand way, “I take it the thing would have more—what shall I say?—dignity; secondly, the men who have signed the address might feel they were treated with more consideration; and lastly,—it 's not a very good reason, but I 'm bound to own it,—I 'd like to hear it myself, which I could if it were delivered in public, but which I am not so likely to do if spoken here.”
“Oh, Tom, dear Tom!” whispered his sister, in dismay at a speech so certain to be accepted in its least pleasing signification.
“You have already to-day reminded me of my deficiencies in hospitality, sir. This second admonition was uncalled for. It is happy formethat my defence is unassailable. It is happy foryouthat your impeachment is unwitnessed.”
“You have mistaken me, sir,” said Tom, eagerly. “I never thought of reflecting on your hospitality. I simply meant to say that as I find myself here to-day by a lucky accident, I scarcely look to Fortune to do me such another good turn in a hurry.”
“Your father's fault—a fault that would have shipwrecked fourfold more ability than ever he possessed—was a timidity that went to very cowardice. He had no faith in himself, and he inspired no confidence in others. Yours is, if possible, a worse failing. You have boldness without knowledge. You have the rashness that provokes a peril, and no part of the skill that teaches how to meet it. It was with a wise prescience that I saw we should not be safe company for each other.”
He arose as he spoke, and, motioning back Lucy as she approached to offer her arm, he tottered from the room, to all seeming more overcome by passion than even by years and infirmity.
“Well!” said Tom, as he threw his napkin on the table, and pushed his chair back, “I 'll be shot if I know how I provoked that burst of anger, or to what I owe that very neat and candid appreciation of my character.”
Lucy threw her arm around his neck, and, bending over his shoulder till her face touched his own, said, “Oh, my dearest Tom, if you only knew how nervous and susceptible he is, in part from his nature, but more, far more, from suffering and sorrow! Left to the solitude of his own bitter thoughts for years, without one creature to whisper a kind word or a hopeful thought, is it any wonder if his heart has begun to consume itself?”
“Devilish bitter diet it must find it! Pass me over the Madeira, Lucy. I mean to have my last glass to the old gentleman's health and better temper.”
“He has moments of noble generosity that would win all your love,” said she, enthusiastically.
“You have a harder lot than ever I thought it, my poor Lucy,” said he, looking into her eyes with an affectionate solicitude. “This is so unlike our old home.”
“Oh, so unlike!” said she; and her lip quivered and her eyes grew glazy.
“And can you bear it, girl? Does it not seem to you like a servitude to put up with such causeless passion, such capricious anger as this?”
She shook her head mournfully, but made no answer.
“If it be your woman's nature enables you to do it, all I can say is, I don't envy you your sex.”
“But, Tom, remember his years,—remember his age.”
“By Jove, he took good care to remind me of my own!—not that he was so far wrong in what he said of me, Lucy. I felt all the while he had 'hit the blot,' and I would have owned it too, if he had n't taken himself off so quickly.”
“If you had, Tom,—if you had said but one word to this purport,—you would have seen how nobly forgiving he could be in an instant.”
“Forgiving,—humph! I don't think the forgiveness was to have come fromhim.”
“Sir William wishes to speak with you, Miss Lucy,” said the butler, entering hastily.
“I must go, Tom,—good-bye. I will write to you tomorrow,—to-night, if I can,—good-bye, my dearest brother; be sure to come on Tuesday,—mind, Tuesday. You will be certain to find me alone.”