“Lucy asked me to show him this note from her brother,” said Haire, as he strolled with Beattie down the lawn. “It was no time to do so. Look over it and say what you advise.”
“The boy wants a nurse, not a doctor,” said Beattie. “A little care and generous diet would soon bring him round; but they are a strange race, these Lendricks. They have all the stern qualities that brave danger, and they are terribly sensitive to some small wound to their self-love. Let that young fellow, for instance, only begin to feel that he is forgotten or an outcast, and he 'll droop at once. A few kind words, and a voice he loved,now, will do more than all my art could replace a little later.”
“You mean that we ought to have him back here?” asked Haire, bluntly.
“I mean that he ought to be where he can be carefully and kindly treated.”
“I 'll tell the Chief you think so. I 'll say that you dropped the remark to myself, of course,—never meaning to dictate anything tohim.”
Beattie shook his head in sign of doubt.
“I know him well, better perhaps than any one, and I know there's no more generous man breathing; but he must not be coerced,—he must not be even influenced, where the question be one for a decision. As he said to me one day, 'I want the evidence, sir, I don't want your speech to it.'”
“There 's the evidence, then,” said Beattie,—“that note with its wavering letters, weak and uncertain as the fingers that traced them,—show him that. Say, if you like, thatIread it and thought the lad's case critical. If, after that, he wishes to talk to me on the subject, I 'm ready to state my opinion. If the boy be like his father, a few tender words and a little show of interest for him will be worth all the tonics that ever were brewed.”
“It's the grandfather's nature too; but the world has never known it,—probably never will know it,” said Haire.
“In that I agree with you,” said Beattie, dryly.
“He regards it as a sort of weakness when people discover any act of generosity or any trait of kindliness about him; and do you know,” added he, confidentially, “I have often thought that what the world regarded as irritability and sharpness was nothing more nor less than shyness,—just shyness.”
“I certainly never suspected that he was the victim of that quality.”
“No, I imagine not. A man must know him as I do to-understand it. I remember one day, long, long ago, I went so far as to throw out a half hint that I thought he labored under this defect; he only smiled and said, 'You suspect me of diffidence. I am diffident,—no man more so, sir; but it is of the good or great qualities in other men.' Was n't that a strange reply? I never very clearly understood it,—do you?”
“I suspect I do; but here comes a message to us.”
Haire spoke a word with the servant, and then, turning: to Beattie, said: “He wants to see me. I 'll just step in, and be back in a moment.”
Beattie promised not to leave till he returned, and strolled along by the side of a little brook which meandered tastefully through the greensward. He had fallen into a revery,—a curious inquiry within himself whether it were a boon or an evil for a man to have acquired that sort of influence over another mind which makes his every act and word seem praiseworthy and excellent. “I wonder is the Chief the better or the worse for this indiscriminating attachment? Does it suggest a standard to attain to, or does it merely minister to self-love and conceit? Which is it? which is it?” cried he, aloud, as he stood and gazed on the rippling rivulet beside him.
“Shall I tell you?” said a low, sweet voice; and Lucy Lendrick slipped her arm within his as she spoke,—“shall I tell you, doctor?”
“Do, by all means.”
“A little of both, I opine. Mind,” said she, laughing, “I have not the vaguest notion of what you were balancing in your mind, but somehow I suspect unmixed good or evil is very rare, and I take my stand on a compromise. Am I right?”
“I scarcely know, but I can't submit the case to you. I have an old-fashioned prejudice against letting young people judge their seniors. Let us talk of something else. What shall it be?”
“I want to talk to you of Tom.”
“I have just been speaking to Haire about him. We must get him back here, Lucy,—we really must.”
“Do you mean here, in this house, doctor?”
“Here, in this house. Come, don't shake your head, Lucy. I see the necessity for it on grounds you know nothing of. Lady Lendrick is surrounding your grandfather with her family, and I want Tom back here just that the Chief should see what a thorough Lendrick he is. If your grandfather only knew the stuff that's in him, he 'd be prouder of him than of all his own successes.”
“No, no, no,—a thousand times no, doctor! It would never do,—believe me, it would never do. There are things which a girl may submit to in quiet obedience, which in a man would require subserviency. The Sewells, too, are to be here on Saturday, and who is to say what that may bring forth?”
“She wrote to you,” said the doctor, with a peculiar significance in his voice.
“Yes, a strange sort of note too; I almost wish I could show it to you,—I 'd so like to hear what you 'd say of the spirit of the writer.”
“She told me she would write,” said he again, with a more marked meaning in his manner.
“You shall see it,” said she, resolutely; “here it is;” and she drew forth the letter and handed it to him. For an instant she seemed as if about to speak, but suddenly, as if changing her mind, she merely murmured, “Read it, and tell me what you think of it.” The note ran thus:—
“My dearest Lucy,—We are to meet to-morrow, and I hope and trust to meet like sisters who love each other. Let me make one brief explanation before that moment arrives. I cannot tell what rumors may have reached you of all that has happened here. I know nothing of what people say, nor have I the faintest idea how our life may have been represented. If you knew me longer and better, you would know that I neither make this ignorance matter of complaint nor regret. I have lived about long enough to take the world at its just value, and not to make its judgments of such importance as can impair my self-esteem and my comfort. It would, however, have been agreeable to me to have known what you may have heard of me—of us—as it is not impossible I might have felt the necessity to add something,—to correct something,—perhaps to deny something. I am now in the dark, and pray forgive me if I stumble rudely against you, where I only meant to salute you courteously.
“You at least know the great disaster which befell here. Dr. Beattie has told you the story,—what more he may have said I cannot guess. If I were to wait for our meeting, I should not have to ask you. I should read it in your face, and hear it in every accent of your voice; but I write these few lines that you may know me at once in all frankness and openness, and know that ifyoube innocent ofmysecret,Iat least haveyoursin my keeping. Yes, Lucy, I know all; and when I say all, I mean far more than you yourself know.
“If I were treacherous, I would not make this avowal to you. I should be satisfied with the advantage I possessed, and employ it to my benefit. Perhaps with any other woman than yourself I should play this part,—with you I neither can nor will. I will declare to you frankly and at once, you have lost the game and I have won it. That I say this thus briefly, is because in amplifying I should seem to be attempting to explain what there is no explaining. That I say it in no triumph, my own conscious inferiority to you is the best guarantee. I never would have dreamed of a rivalry had I been a girl. It is because I cannot claim the prize I have won it. It is because my victory is my misery I have gained it. I think I know your nature well enough to know that you will bear me no ill-will. I even go so far as to believe I shall have your compassion and your sympathy. I need them more, far more, than you know of. I could tell you that had matters fallen out differently it would not have been toyouradvantage, for there were obstacles—family obstacles—perfectly insurmountable. This is no pretence: on my honor I pledge to the truth of what I say. So long as I believed they might be overcome, I was inyourinterest, Lucy. You will not believe me, will you, if I swear it? Will you if I declare it on my knees before you?
“If I have not waited till we met to say these things, it is that we may meet with open hearts, in sorrow, but in sincerity. When I have told you everything, you will see that I have not been to blame. There may be much to grieve over, but there is nothing to reprehend—anywhere. And now, how is our future to be? It is for you to decide. I have not wronged you, and yet I am asking for forgiveness. Can you give me your love, and what I need as much, your pity? Can you forget your smaller affliction for the sake of my heavier one, for it is heavier?
“I plead guilty to one only treachery; and this I stooped to, to avoid the shame and disgrace of an open scandal. I told his mother that, though Lucy was my name, it was yours also; and that you were the Lucy of all his feverish wanderings. Your woman's heart will pardon me this one perfidy.
“She is a very dangerous woman in one sense. She has a certain position in the world, from which she could and would open a fire of slander on any one. She desires to injure me. She has already threatened, and she is capable of more than threatening. She says she will see Sir William. This she may not be able to do; but she can write to him. You know better than I do what might ensue from two such tempers meeting; for myself I cannot think of it.
“I have written you a long letter, dear Lucy, when I only meant to have written five or six lines. I have not courage to read it over; were I to do so, I am sure I would never send it. Perhaps you will not thank me for my candor. Perhaps you will laugh at all my scrupulous honesty. Perhaps you will—no, that you never will—I mean, employ my trustfulness against myself.
“Who knows if I have not given to this incident an importance which you will only smile at? There are people so rich that they never are aware if they be robbed. Are you one of these, Lucy? and, if so, will you forgive the thief who signs herself your ever-loving sister,
“Lucy Skwell.
“I have told Dr. Beattie I would write to you; he looked as if he knew that I might, or that I ought,—which is it? Doctors see a great deal more than they ought to see. The great security against them is, that they acquire an indifference to the sight of suffering, which, in rendering them callous, destroys curiosity, and then all ills that can neither be bled nor blistered they treat as trifles, and end by ignoring altogether. Were it otherwise,—that is, had they any touch of humanity in their nature,—they would be charming confidants, for they know everything and can go everywhere. If Beattie should be one of your pets, I ask pardon for this impertinence; but don't forget it altogether, as, one day or other, you will be certain to acknowledge its truth.
“We arrive by the 4.40 train on Saturday afternoon. If I see you at the door when we drive up, I shall take it as a sign I am forgiven.”
Beattie folded the letter slowly, and handed it to Lucy without a word. “Tell me,” said he, after they had walked on several seconds in silence,—“tell me, do you mean to-be at the door as she arrives?”
“I think not,” said she, in a very low voice.
“She has a humble estimate of doctors; but there is one touch of nature she must not deny them,—they are very sensitive about contagion. Now, Lucy, I wish with all my heart that you were not to be the intimate associate of this woman.”
“So do I, doctor; but how is it to be helped?”
He walked along silent and in deep thought.
“Shall I tell you, doctor, how it can be managed, but only by your help and assistance? I must leave this.”
“Leave the Priory! but for where?”
“I shall go and nurse Tom: he needsme, doctor, and I believe I needhim; that is, I yearn after that old companionship which made all my life till I came here—Come now, don't oppose this plan; it is only by your hearty aid it can ever be carried out. When you have told grandpapa that the thought is a good one, the battle will be more than half won. You see yourself I ought not to be here.”
“Certainly not here with Mrs. Sewell; but there comes the grave difficulty of how you are to be lodged and cared for in that wild country where your brother lives?”
“My dear doctor, I have never known pampering till I came here. Our life at home—and was it not happy!—was of the very simplest. To go back again to the same humble ways will be like a renewal of the happy past; and then Tom and I suit each other so well,—our very caprices are kindred. Do say you like this notion, and tell me you will forward it.”
“The very journey is an immense difficulty.”
“Not a bit, doctor; I have planned it all. From this to Marseilles is easy enough,—only forty hours; once there, I either go direct to Cagliari, or catch the Sardinian steamer at Genoa—”
“You talk of these places as if they were all old acquaintances; but, my dear child, only fancy yourself alone in a foreign city. I don't speak of the difficulties of a new language.”
“You might, though, my dear doctor. My French and Italian, which carry me on pleasantly enough with Racine and Ariosto, will expose me sadly with my 'commissionnaire.'”
“But quite alone you cannot go,—that's certain.”
“I must not take a maid, that's as certain; Tom would only send us both back again. If you insist, and if grandpapa insists upon it, I will take old Nicholas. He thinks it a great hardship that he has not been carried away over seas to see the great world; and all his whims and tempers that tortured us as children will only amuse us now; his very tyranny will be good fun.”
“I declare frankly,” said the doctor, laughing, “I do not see how the difficulties of foreign travel are to be lessened by the presence of old Nicholas; but are you serious in all this?”
“Perfectly serious, and fully determined on it, if I be permitted.”
“When would you go?”
“At once! I mean as soon as possible. The Sewells are to be here on Saturday. I would leave on Friday evening by the mail-train from London. I would telegraph to Tom to say on what day he might expect me.”
“To-day is Tuesday; is it possible you could be ready?”
“I would start to-night, doctor, if you only obtain my leave.”
“It is all a matter of the merest chance how your grandfather will take it,” said Beattie, musing.
“Butyouapprove? tell me you approve of it.”
“There is certainly much in the project that I like. I cannot bear to think of your living here with the Sewells; my experience of them is very brief, but it has taught me to know there could be no worse companionship for you; but as these are things that cannot be spoken of to the Chief, let us see by what arguments we should approach him. I will go at once. Haire is with him, and he is sure to see that what I suggest has come from you. If it should be the difficulty of the journey your grandfather objects to, Lucy, I will go as far as Marseilles with you myself, and see you safely embarked before I leave you.”
She took his hand and kissed it twice, but was not able to utter a word.
“There, now, my dear child, don't agitate yourself; you need all your calm and all your courage. Loiter about here till I come to you, and it shall not be long.”
“What a true, kind friend you are!” said she, as her eyes grew dim with tears. “I am more anxious about this than I like to own, perhaps. Will you, if you bring me good tidings, make me a signal with your handkerchief?”
He promised this, and left her.
Lucy sat down under a large elm-tree, resolving to wait there patiently for his return; but her fevered anxiety was such that she could not rest in one place, and was forced to rise and walk rapidly up and down. She imagined to herself the interview, and fancied she heard her grandfather's stern question,—whether she were not satisfied with her home? What could he do more for her comfort or happiness than he had done? Oh, if he were to accuse her of ingratitude, how should she bear it? Whatever irritability he might display towards others, to herself he had always been kind and thoughtful and courteous.
She really loved him, and liked his companionship, and she felt that if in leaving him she should consign him to solitude and loneliness, she could scarcely bring herself to go; but he was now to be surrounded with others, and if they were not altogether suited to him by taste or habit, they would, even for their own sakes, try to conform to his ways and likings.
Once more she bethought her of the discussion, and how it was faring. Had her grandfather suffered Beattie to state the case fully, and say all that he might in its favor? or had he, as was sometimes his wont, stopped him short with a peremptory command to desist? And then what part had Haire taken? Haire, for whose intelligence the old Judge entertained the lowest possible estimate, had somehow an immense influence over him, just as instincts are seen too strong for reason. Some traces of boyish intercourse yet survived and swayed his mind with his consciousness of its power.
“How long it seems!” murmured she. “Does this delay augur ill for success, or is it that they are talking over the details of the plan? Oh, if I could be sure of that! My poor dear Tom, how I long to be near you—to care for you—and watch you!” and as she said this, a cold sickness came over her, and she muttered aloud: “What perfidy it all is! As if I was not thinking of myself, and my own sorrows, while I try to believe I am but thinking of my brother.” And now her tears streamed fast down her cheeks, and her heart felt as if it would burst. “It must be an hour since he left this,” said she, looking towards the house, where all was still and motionless. “It is not possible that they are yet deliberating. Grandpapa is never long in coming to a decision. Surely all has been determined on before this, and why does he not come and relieve me from my miserable uncertainty?”
At last the hall door opened, and Haire appeared; he beckoned to her with his hand to come, and then re-entered the house. Lucy knew not what to think of this, and she could scarcely drag her steps along as she tried to hasten back. As she entered the hall, Haire met her, and, taking her hand cordially, said, “It is all right; only be calm, and don't agitate him. Come in now;” and with this she found herself in the room where the old Judge was sitting, his eyes closed and his whole attitude betokening sleep. Beattie sat at his side, and held one hand in his own. Lucy knelt down and pressed her lips to the other hand, which hung over the arm of the chair. Gently drawing away the hand, the old man laid it on her head, and in a low faint voice said: “I must not look at you, Lucy, or I shall recall my pledge. You are going away!”
The young girl turned her tearful eyes towards him, and held her lips firmly closed to repress a sob, while her cheeks trembled with emotion.
“Beattie tells me you are right,” continued he, with a sigh; and then, with a sort of aroused energy, he added; “But old age, amongst its other infirmities, fancies that right should yield to years. 'Ce sont les droits de la decrepitude,' as La Rochefoucauld calls them. I will not insist upon my 'royalties,' Lucy, this time. You shall go to your brother.” His hand trembled as it lay on her head, and then fell heavily to his side. Lucy clasped it eagerly, and pressed it to her cheek, and all was silent for some seconds in the room.
At last the old man spoke, and it was now in a clear distinct voice, though weak. “Beattie will tell you everything, Lucy; he has all my instructions. Let him now have yours. To-morrow we shall, both of us, be calmer, and can talk over all together. To-morrow will be Thursday?”
“Wednesday, grandpapa.”
“Wednesday,—all the better, my dear child; another day gained. I say, Beattie,” cried he in a louder tone, “I cannot have fallen into the pitiable condition the newspapers describe, or I could never have gained this victory over my selfishness. Come, sir, be frank enough to own that where a man combats himself, he asserts his identity. Haire will go out and give that as his own,” muttered he; and as he smiled, he lay back, his breathing grew heavier and longer, and he sank into a quiet sleep.
“You have not told me what she wrote to you,” said Sewell to his wife, as he smoked his cigar at one side of the fire while she read a novel at the other. It was to be their last evening at the Nest; on the morrow they were to leave it for the Priory. “Were there any secrets in it, or were there allusions that I ought not to see?”
“Not that I remember,” said she, carelessly.
“What about our coming? Does the old man seem to wish for it?—how does she herself take it?”
“She says nothing on the subject, beyond her regret at not being there to meet us.”
“And why can't she?—where will she be?”
“At sea, probably, by that time. She goes off to Sardinia to her brother.”
“What! do you mean to that fellow who is living with Fossbrooke? Why did n't you tell me this before?”
“I don't think I remembered it; or, if I did, it's possible I thought it could not have much interest for you.”
“Indeed, Madam! do you imagine that the only things I care for are the movements ofyouradmirers? Where 's this letter? I 'd like to see it.”
“I tore it up. She begged me to do so when I had read it.”
“How honorable! I declare you ladies conduct your intercourse with an integrity that would be positively charming to think of if only your male friends were admitted to any share of the fair dealing. Tell me so much as you can remember of this letter.”
“She spoke of her brother having had a fever, and being now better, but so weak and reduced as to require great care and attention, and obliged to remove for change of air to a small island off the coast.”
“And Fossbrooke,—does she mentionhim?”
“Only that he is not with her brother, except occasionally: his business detains him near Cagliari.”
“I hope it may continue to detain him there! Has this-young woman gone off all alone on this journey?”
“She has taken no maid. She said it might prove inconvenient to her brother; and has only an old family servant she calls Nicholas with her.”
“So, then, we have the house to ourselves so far. She 'll not be in a hurry back, I take it. Anything would be better than the life she led with her grandfather.”
“She seems sorry to part with him, and recurs three or four times to his kindness and affection.”
“His kindness and affection! His vanity and self-love are nearer the mark. I thought I had seen something of conceit and affectation, but that old fellow leaves everything in that line miles behind. He is, without exception, the greatest bore and the most insupportable bully I ever encountered.”
“Lucy liked him.”
“She did not,—she could not. It suits you women to say these things, because you cultivate hypocrisy so carefully that you carry on the game with each other! How could any one, let her be ever so abject, like that incessant homage this old man exacted,—to be obliged to be alive to his vapid jokes and his dreary stories, to his twaddling reminiscences of college success or House of Commons—Irish House too—triumphs? Do you think if I wasn't a beggar I 'd go and submit myself to such a discipline?”
To this she made no reply, and for a while there was a silence in the room. At last he said, “You'llhave to take up that line of character thatsheacted.You'llhave to 'swing the incense' now. I'll be shot ifIdo.”
She gave no answer, and he went on: “You 'll have to train the brats too to salute him, and kiss his hand and call him—what are they to call him—grandpapa? Yes, they must say grandpapa. How I wish I had not sent in my papers! If I had only imagined I could have planted you all here, I could have gone back to my regiment and served out my time.”
“It might have been better,” said she, in a low voice.
“Of course it would have been better; each of us would have been free, and there are few people, be it said, take more out of their freedom,—eh, Madam?”
She shrugged her shoulders carelessly, but a slight, a very slight, flush colored her cheek.
“By the way, now we're on that subject, have you answered Lady Trafford's letter?”
“Yes,” said she; and now her cheek grew crimson.
“And what answer did you send?”
“I sent back everything.”
“What do you mean?—your rings and trinkets, the bracelet with the hair—mine, of course,—it could be no one's but mine.”
“All, everything,” said she, with a gulp.
“I must read the old woman's letter over again. You have n't burntthat, I hope?”
“No; it's upstairs in my writing-desk.”
“I declare,” said he, rising and standing with his back to the fire, “you women, and especially fine ladies, say things to each other that men never would dare to utter to other men. That old dame, for instance, charged you with what we male creatures have no equivalent for,—cheating at play would be mild in comparison.”
“I don't think thatyouescaped scot-free,” said she, with an intense bitterness, though her tone was studiously subdued and low.
“No,” said he, with a jeering laugh. “I figured as the accessory or accomplice, or whatever the law calls it. I was what polite French ladies callle mari complaisant,—a part I am so perfect in, Madam, that I almost think I ought to play it for my Benefit.' What do you say?”
“Oh, sir, it is not for me to pass an opinion on your abilities.”
“I have less bashfulness,” said he, fiercely. “I 'll venture to say a word onyours. I 've told you scores of times—I told you in India, I told you at the Cape, I told you when we were quarantined at Trieste, and I tell you now—that you never really captivated any man much under seventy. When they are tottering on to the grave, bald, blear-eyed, and deaf, you are perfectly irresistible; and I wish—really I say it in all good faith—you would limit the sphere of your fascinations to such very frail humanities. Trafford only became spooney after that smash on the skull; as he grew better, he threw off his delusions,—did n't he?”
“So he told me,” said she, with perfect calm.
“By Jove! that was a great fluke of mine,” cried he, aloud. “That was a hazard I never so much as tried. So that this fellow had made some sort of a declaration to you?”
“I never said so.”
“What was it then that youdidsay, Madam? Let us understand each other clearly.”
“Oh, I am sure we need no explanations for that,” said she, rising, and moving towards the door.
“I want to hear about this before you go,” said he, standing between her and the door.
“You are not going to pretend jealousy, are you?” said she, with an easy laugh.
“I should think not,” said he, insolently. “That is about one of the last cares will ever rob me of my rest at night. I 'd like to know, however, what pretext I have to send a ball through your young friend.”
“Oh, as to that peril, it will not robmeof a night's rest,” said she, with such a look of scorn and contempt as seemed actually to sicken him, for he staggered back as though about to fall and she passed out ere he could recover himself.
“It is to be no quarter between us then! Well, be it so,” cried he, as he sank heavily into a seat. “She's playing a bold game when she goes thus far.” He leaned his head on the table, and sat thus so long that he appeared to have fallen asleep; indeed, the servant who came to tell him that tea was served, feared to disturb him, and retired without speaking. Far from sleeping, however, his head was racked with a maddening pain, and he kept on muttering to himself, “This is the second time—the second time she has taunted me with cowardice. Let her beware! Is there no one will warn her against what she is doing?”
“Missis says, please, sir, won't you have a cup of tea?” said the maid timidly at the door.
“No; I'll not take any.”
“Missis says too, sir, that Miss Blanche is tuk poorly, and has a shiverin' over her, and a bad headache, and she hopes you 'll send in for Dr. Tobin.”
“Is she in bed?”
“Yes, sir, please.”
“I'll go up and see her;” and with this he arose and passed up the little stair that led to the nursery. In one bed a little dark-haired girl of about three years old lay fast asleep; in the adjoining bed a bright blue-eyed child of two years or less lay wide awake, her cheeks crimson, and the expression of her features anxious and excited. Her mother was bathing her temples with cold water as Sewell entered, and was talking in a voice of kind and gentle meaning to the child.
“That stupid woman of yours said it was Blanche,” said Sewell, pettishly, as he gazed at the little girl.
“I told her it was Cary; she has been heavy all day, and eaten nothing. No, pet,—no, darling,” said she, stooping over the sick child, “pa is not angry; he is only sorry that little Cary is ill.”
“I suppose you'd better have Tobin to see her,” said he, coldly. “I 'll tell George to take the tax-cart and fetch him out. It's well it was n't Blanche,” muttered he, as he sauntered out of the room. His wife's eyes followed him as he went, and never did a human face exhibit a stronger show of repressed passion than hers, as, with closely compressed lips and staring eyes, she watched him as he passed out.
“The fool frightened me,—she said it was Blanche,” were the words he continued to mutter as he went down the stairs.
Tobin arrived in due time, and pronounced the case not serious,—a mere feverish attack that only required a day or two of care and treatment.
“Have you seen Colonel Sewell?” said Mrs. Sewell, as she accompanied the doctor downstairs.
“Yes; I told him just what I 've said to you.”
“And what reply did he make?”
“He said, 'All right! I have business in town, and must start to-morrow. My wife and the chicks can follow by the end of the week.'”
“It's so like him!—so like him!” said she, as though the pent-up passion could no longer be restrained.
On arriving in Dublin, Sewell repaired at once to Balfour's office in the Castle yard; he wanted to “hear the news,” and it was here that every one went who wanted to “hear the news.” There are in all cities, but more especially in cities of the second order, certain haunts where the men about town repair; where, like the changing-houses of bankers, people exchange their “credits,”—take up their own notes, and give up those of their neighbors.
Sewell arrived before the usual time when people dropped in, and found Balfour alone and at breakfast. The Under-Secretary's manner was dry, so much Sewell saw as he entered; he met him as though he had seen him the day before, and this, when men have not seen each other for some time, has a certain significance. Nor did he ask when he had come up, nor in any way recognize that his appearance was matter of surprise or pleasure.
“Well, what's going on here?” said Sewell, as he flung himself into an easy-chair, and turned towards the fire. “Anything new?”
“Nothing particular. I don't suppose you care for the Cattle Show or the Royal Irish Academy?”
“Not much,—at least, I can postpone my inquiries about them. How about my place here? Are you going to give me trouble about it?”
“Your place,—your place?” muttered the other, once or twice; and then, standing up with his back to the fire, and his skirts over his arms, he went on. “Do you want to hear the truth about this affair, or are we only to go on sparring with the gloves, eh?”
“The truth, of course, if such a novel proceeding should not be too much of a shock to you.”
“No, I suspect not. I do a little of everything every day just to keep my hand in.”
“Well, go on now, out with this truth.”
“Well, the truth is,—I am now speaking confidentially,—if I were you I 'd not press my claim to that appointment,—do you perceive?”
“I do not; but perhaps I may when you have explained yourself a little more fully.”
“And,” continued he, in the same tone, and as though no interruption had occurred, “that's the opinion of Halkett, and Doyle, and Jocelyn, and the rest.”
“Confidentially, of course,” said Sewell, with a sneer so slight as not to be detected.
“I may say confidentially, because it was at dinner we talked it over, and we were only the household,—no guests but Byam Herries and Barrington.”
“And you all agreed?”
“Yes, there was not a dissentient voice but Jocelyn's, who said, if he were in your place, he'd insist on having all the papers and letters given up to him. His view is this: 'What security have I that the same charges are not to be renewed again and again? I submit now, but am I always to submit? Are my Indian'—(what shall I call them? I forget what he called them; I believe it was escapades)—'my Indian escapades to declare me unfit to hold anything under the Crown?' He said a good deal in that strain, but we did not see it. It was hard, to be sure, but we did not see it. As Halkett said, 'Sewell has had his innings already in India. If, with a pretty wife and a neat turn for billiards, he did not lay by enough to make his declining years comfortable, I must say that he was not provident.' Doyle, however, remarked that after that affair with Loftus up at Agra—wasn't it Agra?”—Sewell nodded—“it was n't so easy for you to get along as many might think, and that you were a devilish clever fellow to do what you had done. Doyle likes you, I think.” Sewell nodded again, and, after a slight pause, Balfour proceeded: “And it was Doyle, too, said, 'Why not try for something in the colonies? There are lots of places a man can go and nothing be ever heard of him. If I was Sewell, I 'd say, Make me a barrackmaster in the Sandwich Islands, or a consul in the Caraccas.'
“They all concurred in one thing, that you never did so weak a thing in your whole life as to have any dealings with Trafford. It was his mother went to the Duke—ay, into the private office at the Horse Guards—and got Clifford's appointment cancelled, just for a miserable five hundred pounds Jack won off the elder brother,—that fellow who died last year at Madeira. She's the most dangerous woman in Europe. She does not care what she says, nor to whom she says it. She 'd go up to the Queen at a drawing-room and make a complaint as soon as she 'd speak to you or me. As it is, she told their Excellencies here all that went on in your house, and I suppose scores of things that did not go on either, and said, 'And are you going to permit this man to be'—she did not remember what, but she said—'a high official under the Crown? and are you going to receive his wife amongst your intimates?' What a woman she is! To hear her you 'd think her 'dear child,' instead of being a strapping fellow of six feet two, was a brat in knickerbockers, with a hat and feather. The fellow himself must be a consummate muff to be bullied by her; but then the estate is not entailed, they say, and there's a younger brother may come into it all. His chances look well just now, for Lionel has got a relapse, and the doctors think very ill of him.”
“I had not heard that,” said Sewell, calmly.
“Oh, he was getting on most favorably,—was able to sit up at the window, and move a little about the room,—when, one morning Lady Trafford had driven over to the Lodge to luncheon, he stepped downstairs in his dressing-gown as he was, got into a cab, and drove off into the country. All the cabman could tell was that he ordered him to take the road to Rathfarnham, and said, 'I 'll tell you by and by where to;' and at last he said, 'Where does Sir William Lendrick live?' and though the man knew the Priory, he had taken a wrong turn and got down to ask the road. Just at this moment a carriage drove by with two grays and a postilion—A young lady was inside with an elderly gentleman, and the moment Trafford saw her he cried out, 'There she is,—that is she!' As hard as they could they hastened after; but they smashed a trace, and lost several minutes in repairing it, and as many more in finding out which way the carriage had taken. It was to Kingstown, and, as the cabman suspected, to catch the packet for Holyhead; for just as they drove up, the steamer edged away from the pier, and the carriage with the grays drove off with only the old man, Trafford fell back in a faint, and appeared to have continued so, for when they took him out of the cab at Bilton's he was insensible.
“Beattie says he'll come through it, but Maclin thinks he 'll never be the same man again; he 'll have a hardening or a softening—which is it?—of the brain, and that he'll be fit for nothing.”
“Except a place in the viceregal household, perhaps. I don't imagine you want gold-medallists for your gentlemen-in-waiting?”
“We have some monstrous clever fellows, let me tell you. Halkett made a famous examination at Sandhurst, and Jocelyn wrote that article in 'Bell's Life,' 'The Badger Drawn at Last.'”
“To come back to where we were, how are you to square matters with the Chief Baron? Are you going to law with him about this appointment, or are you about to say thatIam the objection? Let me have a definite answer to this question.”
“We have not fully decided; we think of doing either, and we sometimes incline to do both. At all events, we are not to have it; that's the only thing certain.”
“Have you got a cigar? No, not these things; I mean something that can be smoked.”
“Try this,” said Balfour, offering his case.
“They 're the same as those on the chimney. I must say, Balfour, the traditional hospitalities of the Castle are suffering in their present hands. When I dined here the last time I was in town, they gave me two glasses of bad sherry and one glass of a corked Gladstone; and I came to dinner that day after reading in Barrington all about the glorious festivities of the Irish Court in the olden days of Richmond and Bedford.”
“Lady Trafford insists that your names—your wife's as well as your own—are to be scratched from the dinner-list. Sir Hugh has three votes in the House, and she bullies us to some purpose, I can tell you. I can't think how you could have made this woman so much your enemy. It is not dislike,—it is hatred.”
“Bad luck, I suppose,” said Sewell, carelessly.
“She seems so inveterate too; she'll not give you up, very probably.”
“Women generally don't weary in this sort of pursuit.”
“Couldn't you come to some kind of terms? Couldn't you contrive to let her know that you have no designs on her boy? You've won money of him, have n't you?”
“I have some bills of his,—not for a very large amount, though; you shall have them a bargain.”
“I seldom speculate,” was the dry rejoinder.
“You are right; nor is this the case to tempt you.”
“They 'll be paid, I take it?”
“Paid! I'll swear they shall!” said Sewell, fiercely. “I'll stand a deal of humbug about dinner invitations, and cold salutations, and such-like; but none, sir, not one, about what touches a material interest.”
“It's not worth being angry about,” said Balfour, who was really glad to see the other's imperturbability give way.
“I'm not angry. I was only a little impatient, as a man may be when he hears a fellow utter a truism as a measure of encouragement. Tell your friends—I suppose I must call them your friends—that they make an egregious mistake when they push a man like me to the wall. It is intelligible enough in a woman to do it; women don't measure their malignity, nor their means of gratifying it; butmenought to know better.”
“I incline to think I'll tell my 'friends' nothing whatever on the subject.”
“That's as you please; but remember this,—if the day should come that I need any of these, details you have given me this morning, I'll quote them, and you too, as their author; and if I bring an old house about your ears, look out sharp for a falling chimney-pot! You gave me a piece of advice awhile ago,” continued he, as he put on his hat before the glass, and arranged his necktie. “Let me repay you with two, which you will find useful in their several ways: Don't show your hand when you play with as shrewd men as myself; and, Don't offer a friend such execrable tobacco as that on the chimney;” and with this he nodded and strolled out, humming an air as he crossed the Castle yard and entered the city.
The old Judge was very sad after Lucy's departure from the Priory. While she lived there they had not seen much of each other, it is true. They met at meal-times, and now and then Sir William would send up the housekeeper to announce a visit from him; but there is a sense of companionship in the consciousness that under the same roof with you dwells one upon whose affection you can draw, whose sympathy will be with you in your hour of need; and this the old man now felt to be waiting; and he wandered restlessly about the house and the garden, tenacious to see that nothing she liked or loved was threatened with any change, and repeating to all that she must find everything as she left it when she came back again.
Sewell had been recalled to the country by the illness of his child, and they were not expected at the Priory for at least a week or two longer. Haire had gone on circuit, and even Beattie the Judge only saw hurriedly and at long intervals. With Lady Lendrick he had just had a most angry correspondence, ending in one of those estrangements which, had they been nations instead of individuals, would have been marked by the recall of their several envoys, but which they were satisfied to signalize by an order at the Priory gate-lodge not to admit her Ladyship's carriage, and an equally determined command at Merrion Square for the porter to take in no letters that came from the Chief Baron.
Lest the world should connect this breach with any interest in my story, I may as well declare at once the incident had no possible bearing upon it. It was a little episode entirely self-contained, and consisted in Lady Lendrick having taken advantage of Sir William's illness and confinement to house to send for and use his carriage-horses,—a liberty which he resented by a most furious letter, to which the rejoinder begot another infinitely more sarcastic,—the correspondence ending by a printed notice which her Ladyship received in an envelope, that the Chief Baron's horses would be sold on the ensuing Saturday at Dycer's to the highest bidder, his Lordship having no further use for them.
Let me own that the old Judge was sincerely sorry when this incident was concluded. So long as the contest lasted, while he was penning his epistle or waiting for the reply, his excitement rallied and sustained him. He used to sit after the despatch of one of his cutting letters calculating with himself the terror and consternation it produced, just as the captain of a frigate might have waited with eager expectancy that the smoke might drift away and show him the shattered spars or the yawning bulwarks of his enemy. But when his last missive was returned unopened, and the messenger reported that the doctor's carriage was at her Ladyship's door as he came away, the Judge collapsed at once, and all the dreariness of his deserted condition closed in upon him.
Till Sewell returned to-town, Sir William resolved not to proceed farther with respect to the registrarship. His plan, long determined upon, was to induct him into the office, administer the oaths, and leave him to the discharge of the duties. The scandal of displacing an official would, he deemed, be too great a hazard for any government to risk. At all events, if such a conflict came, it would be a great battle, and with the nation for spectators.
“The country shall ring with it,” was the phrase he kept repeating over and over as he strolled through his neglected garden or his leafy shrubberies; but as he plodded along, alone and in silence, the dreary conviction would sometimes shoot across his mind that he had run his race, and that the world had wellnigh forgotten him. “In a few days more,” sighed he out, “it will be over, and I shall be chronicled as the last of them.” And for a moment it would rally him to recall the glorious names with which he claimed companionship, and compare them—with what disparagement!—with the celebrities of the time.
It was strange how bright the lamp of intellect would shine out as the wick was fast sinking in the socket. His memory would revive some stormy scene in the House, some violent altercation at the Bar, and all the fiery eloquence of passion would recur to him, stirring his heart and warming his blood, till he half forgot his years, and stood forth, with head erect and swelling chest, strong with a sense of power and a whole soul full of ambition.
“Beattie would not let me take my Circuit,” would he say. “I wish he saw me to-day. Decaying powers! I would tell them that the Coliseum is grander in its ruin than all their stuccoed plastering in its trim propriety. Had he suffered me to go, the grand jury would have heard a charge such as men's ears have not listened to since Avonmore! Avon-more! what am I saying?—Yelverton had not half my law, nor a tenth part of my eloquence.”
In his self-exaltation he began to investigate whether he was greater as an advocate or as prosecutor. How difficult to decide! After all, it was in the balance of the powers thus displayed that he was great as a judge. He recalled the opinions of the press when he was raised to the bench, and triumphantly asked aloud, had he not justified every hope and contradicted every fear that was entertained of him? “Has my learning made me intolerant, or my brilliancy led me into impatience? Has the sense of superiority that I possess rendered me less conciliatory? Has my 'impetuous genius'—how fond they were of that phrase!—carried me away into boundless indiscretions? and have I, as one critic said, so concentrated the attention of the jury on myself that the evidence went for nothing and the charge was everything?”
It was strange how these bursts of inordinate vanity and self-esteem appeared to rally and invigorate the old man, redressing, as it were, the balance of the world's injustice—such he felt it—towards him. They were like a miser's hoard, to be counted and re-counted in secret with that abiding assurance that he had wealth and riches, however others might deem him poor.
It was out of these promptings of self-love that he drew the energetic powers that sustained him, broken and failing and old as he was.
Carried on by his excited thoughts, he strayed away to a little mound, on which, under a large weeping-ash, a small bench was placed, from which a wide view extended over the surrounding country. There was a tradition of a summer-house on the spot in Curran's day, and it was referred to more than once in the diaries and letters of his friends; and the old Chief loved the place, as sacred to great memories.
He had just toiled up the ascent, and gained the top, when a servant came to present him with a card and a letter, saying that the gentleman who gave them was then at the house. The card bore the name, “Captain Trafford,—th Regiment.” The letter was of a few lines, and ran thus:—
“My dear Sir William,—I had promised my friend and late patient Captain Trafford to take him over to the Priory this morning and present him to you. A sudden call has, however, frustrated the arrangement; and as his time is very brief, I have given him this as a credential to your acquaintance, and I hope you will permit him to stroll through the garden and the shrubberies, which he will accept as a great favor. I especially beg that you will lay no burden on your own strength to become his entertainer: he will be amply gratified by a sight of your belongings, of which he desires to carry the memory beyond seas.—Believe me very sincerely yours,
“J. Beattie.”
“If the gentleman who brought this will do me the favor to come up here, say I shall be happy to see him.”
As the servant went on his message, the old man lay back on his seat, and, closing his eyes, muttered some few dropping words, implying his satisfaction at this act of reverential homage. “A young soldier too; it speaks well for the service when the men of action revere the men of thought. I am glad it is a good day with me; he shall carry away other memories than of woods and streams. Ah! here he comes.”
Slowly, and somewhat feebly, Trafford ascended the hill, and with a most respectful greeting approached the Judge.
“I thank you for your courtesy in coming here, sir,” said the Chief; “and when we have rested a little, I will be yourCiceroneback to the house.” The conversation flowed on pleasantly between them, Sir William asking where Traflford had served, and what length of time he had been in Ireland,—his inquiries evidently indicating that he had not heard of him before, or, if he had, had forgotten him.
“And now you are going to Malta?”
“Yes, my Lord; we sail on the 12th.”
“Well, sir, Valetta has no view to rival that. See what a noble sweep the bay takes here, and mark how well the bold headlands define the limits! Look at that stretch of yellow beach, like a golden fillet round the sea; and then mark the rich woods waving in leafy luxuriance to the shore! Those massive shadows are to landscape what times of silent thought are to our moral natures. Do you like your service, sir?”
“Yes, my Lord; there is much in it that I like. I would like it all if it were in 'activity.'”
“I have much of the soldier in myself, and the qualities by which I have gained any distinction I have won are such as make generals,—quick decision, rapid intelligence, prompt action.”
Traflford bowed to this pretentions summary, but did not speak.
The old Judge went on to describe what he called the military mind, reviewing in turn the generals of note from Hannibal down to Marlborough. “What have they left us by way of legacy, sir? The game, lost or won, teaches us as much! Is not a letter of Cicero, is not an ode of Horace worth it all? And as for battle-fields, it is the painter, not the warrior, has made them celebrated. Wouvermans has done more for war than Turenne!”
“But, my Lord, there must be a large number of men like myself who make very tolerable soldiers, but who would turn out sorry poets or poor advocates.”
“Give me your arm now, and I will take you round by the fish-pond and show you where the 'Monks of the Screw' held their first meeting. You have heard of that convivial club?” Trafiford bowed; and the Judge went on to tell of the strange doings of those grave and thoughtful men, who-deemed no absurdity too great in their hours of distraction and levity. When they reached the house, the old man was so fatigued that he had to sit down in the porch to rest. “You have seen all, sir; all I have of memorable. You say you 'd like to see the garden, but there is not a memory connected with it. See it, however, by all means; saunter about till I have rallied a little, and then join me at my early dinner. I 'll send to tell you when it is ready. I am sorry it will be such a lonely meal; but she who could have thrown sunshine over it is gone—gone!” And he held his hands over his face, and said no more. Trafiford moved silently away, and went in search of the garden. He soon found the little wicket, and ere many minutes was deep in the leafy solitude of the neglected spot. At last he came upon the small gate in the laurel hedge, passing through which he entered the little flower-garden. Yes, yes; there was no doubting it! This was hers! Here were the flowers she tended; here the heavy bells from which she emptied the rain-drops; here the tendrils her own hands had trained! Oh, force of love, that makes the very ground holy, and gives to every leaf and bud an abiding value! He threw himself upon the sward and kissed it. There was a little seat under a large ilex—how often had she sat there thinking!—could it be thinking over the days beside the Shannon,—that delicious night they came back from Holy Island, the happiest of all his life? Oh, if he could but believe that she loved him! if he could only know that she did not think of him with anger and resentment!—for she might! Who could tell what might have been said of his life at the Sewells'? He had made a confidante of one who assumed to misunderstand him, and who overwhelmed him with a confession of her own misery, and declared she loved him; and this while he lay in a burning fever, his head racked with pain, and his mind on the verge of wandering. Was there-ever a harder fate than his? That he had forfeited the affection of his family, that he had wrecked his worldly fortunes, seemed little in his eyes to the danger of being thought ill of by her he loved.
His father's last letter to him had been a command to leave the army and return home, to live there as became the expectant head of the house. “I will have your word of honor to abandon this ignoble passion”—so he called his love; “and in addition, your solemn pledge never to marry an Irishwoman.” These words were, he well knew, supplied by his mother. It had been the incessant burden of her harangues to him during the tedious days of his recovery; and even when, on the morning of this very day, she had been suddenly recalled to England by a severe attack of illness of her husband, her last act before departure was to write a brief note to Lionel, declaring that if he should not follow her within a week, she would no longer conceive herself bound to maintain his interests against those of his more obedient and more affectionate brother.
“Won't that help my recovery, doctor?” said he, showing the kind and generous epistle to Beattie. “Are not these the sort of tonic stimulants your art envies?”
Beattie shook his head in silence, and after a long pause said, “Well, what was your reply to this?”
“Can you doubt it? Don't you know it; or don't you knowme?”
“Perhaps I guess.”
“No, but you are certain of it, doctor. The regiment is ordered to Malta, and sails on the 12th. I go with them! Holt is a grand old place, and the estate is a fine one; I wish my brother every luck with both. Will you do me a favor,—a great favor?”
“If in my power, you may be certain I will. What is it?”
“Take me over to the Priory; I want to see it. You can find some pretext to present me to the Chief Baron, and obtain his leave to wander through the grounds.”
“I perceive—I apprehend,” said Beattie, slyly. “There is no difficulty in this. The old Judge cherishes the belief that the spot is little short of sacred; he only wonders why men do not come as pilgrims to visit it. There is a tradition of Addison having lived there, while secretary in Ireland; Curran certainly did; and a greater than either now illustrates the locality.”
It was thus that Trafford came to be there; with what veneration for the haunts of genius let the reader picture to himself!
“His Lordship is waiting dinner, sir,” said a servant, abruptly, as he sat there—thinking, thinking; and he arose and followed the man to the house.
The Chief Baron had spent the interval since they parted in preparing for the evening's display. To have for his guest a youth so imbued with reverence for Irish genius and ability, was no common event. Young Englishmen and soldiers, too, were not usually of this stuff; and the occasion to make a favorable impression was not to be lost.
When he entered the dinner-room, Trafford was struck by seeing that the table was laid for three, though they were but two; and that on the napkin opposite to where he sat a small bouquet of fresh flowers was placed.
“My granddaughter's place, sir,” said the old Judge, as he caught his eye. “It is reserved for her return. May it be soon!”
How gentle the old man's voice sounded as he said this, and how kindly his eyes beamed! Trafford thought there was something actually attractive in his features, and wondered he had not remarked it before.
Perhaps on that day when the old Judge well knew how agreeable he was, what stores of wit and pleasantry he was pouring forth, his convictions assured him that his guest was charmed. It was a very pardonable delusion,—he talked with great brilliancy and vigor. He possessed the gift—which would really seem to be the especial gift of Irishmen of that day—to be a perfect relater. To a story he imparted that slight dash of dramatic situation and dialogue that made it lifelike, and yet never retarded the interest nor prolonged the catastrophe. Acute as was his wit, his taste was fully as conspicuous, never betraying him for an instant, so long as his personal vanity could be kept out of view.
Trafford's eager and animated attention showed with what pleasure he listened; and the Chief, like all men who love to talk and know they talk well, talked all the better for the success vouchsafed to him. He even arrived at that stage of triumph in which he felt that his guest was no common man, and wondered if England really turned out many young fellows of this stamp,—so well read, so just, so sensible, so keenly alive to nice distinction, and so unerring in matters of taste.
“You were schooled at Rugby, sir, you told me; and Rugby has reason to be proud if she can turn out such young men. I am only sorry Oxford should not have put the fine edge on so keen an intellect.”
Trafford blushed at a compliment he felt to be so unmerited, but the old man saw nothing of his confusion,—he was once again amongst the great scenes and actors of his early memories.
“I hope you will spare me another day before you leave Ireland. Do you think you could give me Saturday?” said the Chief, as his guest arose to take leave.
“I am afraid not, my Lord; we shall be on the march by that day.”
“Old men have no claim to use the future tense, or I should ask you to come and see me when you come back again.”
“Indeed will I. I cannot thank you enough for having asked me.”
“Why are there not more young men of that stamp?” said the old Judge, as he looked after him as he went. “Why are they not more generally cultivated and endowed as he is? It is long since I have found one more congenial to me in every way. I must tell Beattie I like his friend. I regret not to see more of him.”
It was in this strain Sir William ruminated and reflected; pretty much like many of us, who never think our critics so just or so appreciative as when they applaud ourselves.