Quick and decided in all his movements, Fossbrooke set out almost immediately after this scene with Tom, and it was only as they gathered together at breakfast that it was discovered he had gone.
“He left Bermuda in the very same fashion,” said Cave. “He had bought a coffee-plantation in the morning, and he set out the same night; and I don't believe he ever saw his purchase after. I asked him about it, and he said he thought—he was n't quite sure—he made it a present to Dick Molyneux on his marriage. 'I only know,' said he, 'it's not mine now.'”
As they sat over their breakfast, or smoked after it, they exchanged stories about Fossbrooke, all full of his strange eccentric ways, but all equally abounding in traits of kind-heartedness and generosity. Comparing him with other men of liberal mould, the great and essential difference seemed to be that Fossbrooke never measured his generosity. When he gave, he gave all that he had; he had no notion of aiding or assisting. His idea was to establish a man at once,—easy, affluent, and independent. He abounded in precepts of prudence, maxims of thrift, and such-like; but in practice he was recklessly lavish.
“Why ain't there more like him?” cried Trafford, enthusiastically.
“I 'm not sure it would be better,” said Cave. “The race of idle, cringing, do-nothing fellows is large enough already. I suspect men like Fossbrooke—at least what he was in his days of prosperity—give a large influence to the spread of dependants.”
“The fault I find with him,” said Tom, “is his credulity. He believes everything, and, what's worse, every one. There are fellows here who persuade him this mine is to make his fortune; and if he had thousands to-morrow, he would embark them all in this speculation, the only result of which is to enrich these people, and ruin ourselves.”
“Is that your view of it?” asked Cave, in some alarm.
“Of course it is; and if you doubt it, come down with me into the gallery, as they call it, and judge for yourself.”
“But I have already joined the enterprise.”
“What! invested money in it?”
“Ay. Two thousand pounds,—a large sum for me, I promise you. It was with immense persuasion, too, I got Fossbrooke to let me have these shares. He offered me scores of other things as a free gift in preference,—salmon-fisheries in St. John's; a saw-mill on Lake Huron; a large tract of land at the Cape; I don't know what else: but I was firm to the copper, and would have nothing but this.”
“I went in for lead,” said Trafford, laughingly.
“You; and areyouinvolved in this also?” asked Tom.
“Yes; so far as I have promised to sell out, and devote whatever remains after paying my debts to the mine.”
“Why, this beats all the infatuation I ever heard of! You have not the excuse of men at a distance, who have only read or listened to plausible reports; but you have come here,—you have been on the spot,—you have seen with your own eyes the poverty-stricken air of the whole concern, the broken machinery, the ruined scaffoldings, the mounds of worthless dross that hide the very approach to the shaft; and you have seen us, too, and where and how we live!”
“Very true,” broke in Cave; “but I have heardhimtalk, and I could no more resist the force of his words than I could stand in a current and not be carried down by it.”
“Exactly so,” chimed in Trafford; “he was all the more irresistible that he did not seek to persuade. Nay, he tried his utmost to put me off the project, and, as with the Colonel, he offered me dozens of other ways to push my fortune, without costing me a farthing.”
“Might not we,” said Cave, “ask how it comes that you, taking this dispiriting view of all here, still continue to embark your fortunes in its success?”
“It is just because they are my fortunes; had it been my fortune, I had been more careful. There is all the difference in life between a man's hopes and his bank-stock. But if you ask me why I hang on here, after I have long ceased to think anything can come of it, my answer is, I do so just as I would refuse to quit the wreck, when he declared he would not leave it. It might be I should save my life by deserting him; but it would be little worth having afterwards; and I 'd rather live with him in daily companionship, watching his manly courageous temper and his high-hearted way of dealing with difficulties, than I would go down the stream prosperously with many another; and over and over have I said to myself, If that fine nature of his can make defeat so endurable, what splendor of triumph would it not throw over a real success!”
“And this is exactly what we want to share,” said Traf-ford, smiling.
“But what do either of you know of the man, beyond the eccentricity, or the general kindliness with which he meets you? You have not seen him as I have, rising to his daily toil with a racking head and a fevered frame, without a word of complaint, or anything beyond a passing syllable of discomfort; never flinching, never yielding; as full of kind thought for others, as full of hopeful counsel, as in his best days; lightening labor with proverb and adage, and stimulating zeal with many a story. You can't picture to yourselves this man, once at the head of a princely fortune, which he dispensed with more than princely liberality, sharing a poor miner's meal of beans and oil with pleasant humor, and drinking a toast, in wine that would set the teeth on edge, to that good time when they would have more generous fare, and as happy hearts to enjoy it.
“Nor have you seen him, as I have, the nurse beside the sick-bed, so gentle, so thoughtful,—a very woman in tenderness; and all that after a day of labor that would have borne down the strongest and the stoutest. And who is he that takes the world in such good part, and thinks so hopefully of his fellow-men? The man of all his time who has been most betrayed, most cheated, whose trust has been most often abused, whose benefits have been oftenest paid back in ingratitude. It is possible enough he may not be the man to guide one to wealth and fortune; but to whatever condition of life he leads, of one thing I am certain, there will be no better teacher of the spirit and temper to enjoy it; there will be none who will grace any rank—the highest or the humblest—with a more manly dignity.”
“It was knowing all this of him,” said Cave, “that impelled me to associate myself with any enterprise he belonged to. I felt that if success were to be won by persistent industry and determination, his would do it, and that his noble character gave a guarantee for fair dealing better than all the parchments lawyers could engross.”
“From what I have seen of life, I 'd not say that success attends such men as he is,” said Tom. “The world would be, perhaps, too good if it were so.”
Silence now fell upon the party, and the three men smoked on for some time without a word. At last Tom, rising from the bench where he had been seated, said, “Take my advice; keep to your soldiering, and have nothing to do with this concern here. You sail on Saturday next, and by Sunday evening, if you can forget that there is such an island as Sardinia, and such poor devils on it as ourselves, it will be all the better for you.”
“I am sorry to see you so depressed, Lendrick,” said Cave.
“I 'm not so low as you suspect; but I'd be far lower if I thought that others were going to share our ill-fortunes.”
Though the speech had no direct reference to Trafford, it chanced that their eyes met as he spoke, and Trafford's face flushed to a deep crimson as he felt the application of the words.
“Come here, Tom,” said he, passing his arm within Len-drick's, and leading him off the terrace into a little copse of wild hollies at the foot of it. “Let me have one word with you.” They walked on some seconds without a word, and when Trafford spoke his voice trembled with agitation. “I don't know,” muttered he, “if Sir Brook has told you of the change in my fortunes,—that I am passed over in the entail by my father, and am, so to say, a beggar.”
Lendrick nodded, but said nothing.
“I have got debts, too, which, if not paid by my family, will compel me to sell out,—has he told you this?”
“Yes; I think he said so.”
“Like the kind, good fellow he is,” continued Trafford, “he thinks he can do something with my people,—talk my father over, and induce my mother to take my side. I 'm afraid I know them better, and that they 're not sorry to be rid of me at last. It is, however, just possible—I will not say more, but just possible—that he may succeed in making some sort of terms for me before they cut me off altogether. I have no claim whatever, for I have spent already the portion that should have come to me as a younger son. I must be frank with you, Tom. There 's no use in trying to make my case seem better than it is.” He paused, and appeared to expect that the other would say something; but Tom smoked on and made no sign whatever.
“And it comes to this,” said Trafford, drawing a long breath and making a mighty effort, “I shall either have some small pittance or other,—and small it must be,—or be regularly cleaned out without a shilling.”
A slight, very slight, motion of Tom's shoulders showed that he had heard him.
“If the worst is to befall me,” said Traflford, with more energy than he had shown before, “I 'll no more be a burden to you than to any other of my friends. You shall hear little more of me; but if fortune is going to give me her last chance, willyougive me one also?”
“What do you mean?” said Tom, curtly.
“I mean,” stammered out Trafford, whose color came and went with agitation as he spoke,—“I mean, shall I have your leave—that is, may I go over to Maddalena?—may I—O Tom,” burst he out at last, “you know well what hope my heart clings to.”
“If there was nothing but a question of money in the way,” broke in Tom, boldly, “I don't see how beggars like ourselves could start very strong objections. That a man's poverty should separate him from us would be a little too absurd; but there 's more than that in it. You have got into some scrape or other. I don't want to force a confidence—I don't want to hear about it. It's enough for me that you are not a free man.”
“If I can satisfy you that this is not the case—”
“It won't do to satisfyme,” said Tom, with a strong emphasis on the last word.
“I mean, if I can show that nothing unworthy, nothing dishonorable, attaches to me.”
“I don't suspect all that would suffice. It's not a question of your integrity or your honor. It's the simple matter whether when professing to care for one woman you made love to another?”
“If I can disprove that. It 's a long story—”
“Then, for Heaven's sake, don't tell it to me.”
“Let me, at least, show that it is not fair to shun me.”
There was such a tone of sorrow in his voice as he spoke that Tom turned at once towards him, and said: “If you can make all this affair straight—I mean, if it be clear that there was no more in it than such a passing levity that better men than either of us have now and then fallen into—I don't see why you may not come back with me.”
“Oh, Tom, if you really will let me!”
“Remember, however, you come at your own peril. I tell you frankly, if your explanation should fail to satisfy the one who has to hear it, it fails with me too,—do you understand me?”
“I think I do,” said Trafford, with dignity.
“It's as well that we should make no mistake; and now you are free to accept my invitation or to refuse it. What do you say?”
“I say, yes. I go back with you.”
“I'll go and see, then, if Cave will join us,” said Tom, turning hastily away, and very eager to conceal the agitation he was suffering, and of which he was heartily ashamed.
Cave accepted the project with delight,—he wanted to see the island,—but, more still, he wanted to see that Lucy Lendrick of whom Sir Brook had spoken so rapturously. “I suppose,” whispered he in Tom's ear, “you know all about Trafford. You 've heard that he has been cut out of the estate, and been left with nothing but his pay?”
Tom nodded assent.
“He's not a fellow to sail under false colors, but he might still have some delicacy in telling about it—”
“He has told me all,” said Tom, dryly.
“There was a scrape, too,—not very serious, I hope,—in Ireland.”
“He has told me of that also,” said Tom. “When shall you be ready? Will four o'clock suit you?”
“Perfectly.”
And they parted.
When, shortly after daybreak, the felucca rounded the point of the island, and stood in for the little bay of Maddalena, Lucy was roused from sleep by her maid with the tidings, “Give me the glass, quickly,” cried she, as she rushed to the window, and after one rapid glance, which showed her the little craft gayly decked with the flag of England, she threw herself upon her bed, and sobbed in very happiness. In truth, there was in the long previous day's expectancy—in the conflict of her hope and fear—a tension that could only be relieved by tears.
How delightful it was to rally from that momentary gush of emotion, and feel so happy! To think so well of the world as to believe that all goes for the best in it, is a pleasant frame of mind to begin one's day with; to feel that though we have suffered anxiety, and all the tortures of deferred hope, it was good for us to know that everything was happening better for us than we could have planned it for ourselves, and that positively it was not so much by events we had been persecuted as by our own impatient reading of them. Something of all these sensations passed through Lucy's mind as she hurried here and there to prepare for her guests, stopping at intervals to look out towards the sea, and wonder how little way the felucca made, and how persistently she seemed to cling to the selfsame spot.
Nor was she altogether unjust in this. The breeze had died away at sunrise; and in the interval before the land-wind should spring up there was almost a dead calm.
“Is she moving at all?” cried Lucy, to one of the sailors who lounged on the rocks beneath the window.
The man thought not. They had kept their course too far from shore, and were becalmed in consequence.
How could they have done so?—surely sailors ought to have known better! and Tom, who was always boasting how he knew every current, and every eddy of wind, what was he about? It was a rude shock to that sweet optimism of a few moments back to have to own that here at least was something that might have been better.
“And what ought they to do, what can they do?” asked she, impatiently, of the sailor.
“Wait till towards noon, when the land-breeze freshens up, and beat.”
“Beat means, go back and forward, scarcely gaining a mile an hour?”
The sailor smiled, and owned she was not far wrong.
“Which means that they may pass the day there,” cried she, fretfully.
“They're not going to do it, anyhow,” said the man; “they are lowering a boat, and going to row ashore.”
“Oh, how much better! and how long will it take them?”
“Two hours, if they 're good rowers; three, or even four, if they 're not.”
“Come in and have a glass of wine,” said she; “and you shall look through the telescope, and tell me how they row, and who are in the boat,—I mean how many are in it.”
“What a fine glass! I can see them as if they were only a cable's length off. There's the Signorino Maso, your brother, at the bow oar; and then there's a sailor, and another sailor; and there's a signore, a large man,—per Bacco, he's the size of three,—at the stroke; and an old man, with white hair, and a cap with gold lace round it, steering; he has bright buttons down his coat.”
“Never mindhim. What of the large man,—is he young?”
“He pulls like a young fellow! There now, he has thrown off his coat, and is going at it in earnest! Ah, he's no signore after all.”
“How no signore?” asked she, hastily.
“None but a sailor could row as he does! A man must be bred to it to handle an oar in that fashion.”
She took the glass impatiently from him, and tried to see the boat; but whether it was the unsteadiness of her hand, or that some dimness clouded her eyes, she could not catch the object, and turned away and left the room.
The land-wind freshened, and sent a strong sea against the boat, and it was not until late in the afternoon that the party landed, and, led by Tom, ascended the path to the cottage. At his loud shout of “Lucy,” she came to the door looking very happy indeed, but more agitated than she well liked. “My sister, Colonel Cave,” said Tom, as they came up; “and here's an old acquaintance, Lucy; but he's a major now. Sir Brook is away to England, and sent you all manner of loving messages.”
“I have been watching your progress since early morning,” said Lucy, “and, in truth, I scarcely thought you seemed to come nearer. It was a hard pull.”
“All Trafford's fault,” said Tom, laughing; “he would do more than his share, and kept the boat always dead against her rudder.”
“That's not the judgment one of our boatmen here passed on him,” said Lucy; “he said it must be a sailor, and no signore, who was at the stroke oar.”
“See what it is to have been educated at Eton,” said Cave, slyly; “and yet there are people assail our public schools!”
Thus chatting and laughing, they entered the cottage, and were soon seated at table at a most comfortable little dinner.
“I will say,” said Tom, in return for some compliment from the Colonel, “she is a capital housekeeper. I never had anything but limpets and sea-urchins to eat till she came, and now I feel like an alderman.”
“When men assign us the humble office of providing for them, I remark they are never chary of their compliments,” said Lucy, laughingly. “Master Tom is willing to praise my cookery, though he says nothing of my companionship.”
“It was such a brotherly speech,” chimed in Cave.
“Well, it's jolly, certainly,” said Tom, as he leaned back in his chair, “to sit here with that noble sea-view at our feet, and those grand old cliffs over us.”
While Cave concurred, and strained his eyes to catch some object out seaward, Trafford, for almost the first time, found courage to address Lucy. He had asked something about whether she liked the island as well as that sweet cottage where first he saw her, and by this they were led to talk of that meeting, and of the long happy day they had passed at Holy Island.
“How I 'd like to go back to it!” said Lucy, earnestly.
“To the time, or to the place? To which would you wish to go back?”
“To the Nest,” said Lucy, blushing slightly; “they were about the happiest days I ever knew, and dear papa was with us then.”
“And is it not possible that you may all meet together there one of these days? He'll not remain at the Cape, will he?”
“I was forgetting that you knew him,” said she, warmly; “you met papa since I saw you last: he wrote about you, and told how kindly and tenderly you had nursed him on his voyage.”
“Oh, did he? Did he indeed speak of me?” cried Trafford, with intense emotion.
“He not only spoke warmly about his affection for you, but he showed pain and jealousy when he thought that some newer friends had robbed him of you—but perhaps you forget the Cape and all about it.”
Trafford's face became crimson, and what answer he might have made to this speech there is no knowing, when Tom cried out, “We are going to have our coffee and cigar on the rocks, Lucy, but you will come with us.”
“Of course; I have had three long days of my own company, and am quite wearied of it.”
In the little cleft to which they repaired, a small stream divided the space, leaving only room for two people on the rocks at either side; and after some little jesting as to who was to have the coffee-pot, and who the brandy-flask, Tom and Cave nestled in one corner, while Lucy and Trafford, with more caution as to proximity, seated themselves on the rock opposite.
“We were talking about the Cape, Major Trafford, I think,” said Lucy, determined to bring him back to the dreaded theme.
“Were we? I think not; I think we were remembering all the pleasant days beside the Shannon.”
“If you please, more sugar and no brandy; and now for the Cape.”
“I 'll just hand them the coffee,” said he, rising and crossing over to the others.
“Won't she let you smoke, Trafford?” said Tom, seeing the unlighted cigar in the other's fingers; “come over here, then, and escape the tyranny.”
“I was just saying,” cried Cave, “I wish our Government would establish a protectorate, as they call it, over these islands, and send us out here to garrison them; I call this downright paradise.”
“You may smoke, Major Trafford,” said Lucy, as he returned; “I am very tolerant about tobacco.”
“I don't care for it—at least not now.”
“You'd rather tell me about the Cape,” said she, with a sly laugh. “Well, I 'm all attention.”
“There's really nothing to tell,” said he, in confusion. “Your father will have told you already what a routine sort of thing life is,—always meeting the same people,—made ever more uniform by their official stations. It's always the Governor, and the Chief-Justice, and the Bishop, and the Attorney-General.”
“But they have wives and daughters?”
“Yes; but official people's wives and daughters are always of the same pattern. They are only females of the species.”
“So that you were terribly bored?”
“Just so,—terribly bored.”
“What a boon from heaven it must have been then to have met the Sewells!” said she, with a well-put-on carelessness.
“Oh, your father mentioned the Sewells, did he?” asked Trafford, eagerly.
“I should think he did mention them! Why, they were the people he was so jealous of. He said that you were constantly with him till they came,—his companion, in fact,—and that he grieved heavily over your desertion of him.”
“There was nothing like desertion; besides,” added he, after a moment, “I never suspected he attached any value to my society.”
“Very modest, certainly; and probably, as the Sewells did attach this value, you gave it where it was fully appreciated.”
“I wish I had never met them,” muttered Trafford; and though the words were mumbled beneath his breath, she heard them.
“That sounds very ungratefully,” said she, with a smile, “if but one half of what we hear be true.”
“What is it you have heard?”
“I 'm keeping Major Trafford from his cigar, Tom; he's too punctilious to smoke in my company, and so I shall leave him to you;” and so saying, she arose, and turned towards the cottage.
Trafford followed her on the instant, and overtook her at the porch.
“One word,—only one,” cried he, eagerly. “I see how I have been misrepresented to you. I see what you must think of me; but will you only hear me?”
“I have no right to hear you,” said she, coldly.
“Oh, do not say so, Lucy,” cried he, trying to take her hand, but which she quickly withdrew from him. “Do not say that you withdraw from me the only interest that attaches me to life. If you knew how friendless I am, you would not leave me.”
“He upon whom fortune smiles so pleasantly very seldom wants for any blandishments the world has to give; at least, I have always heard that people are invariably courteous to the prosperous.”
“And do you talk of me as prosperous?”
“Why, you are my brother's type of all that is luckiest in life. Only hear Tom on the subject! Hear him talk of his friend Trafford, and you will hear of one on whom all the good fairies showered their fairest gifts.”
“The fairies have grown capricious, then. Has Tom told you nothing—I mean since he came back?”
“No; nothing.”
“Then let me tell it.”
In very few words, and with wonderfully little emotion, Trafford told the tale of his altered fortunes. Of course he did not reveal the reasons for which he had been disinherited, but loosely implied that his conduct had displeased his father, and with his mother he had never been a favorite. “Mine,” said he, “is the vulgar story that almost every family has its instance of,—the younger son, who goes into the world with the pretensions of a good house, and forgets that he himself is as poor as the neediest man in the regiment. They grew weary of my extravagance, and, indeed, they began to get weary of myself, and I am not surprised at it! and the end has come at last. They have cast me off, and, except my commission, I have now nothing in the world. I told Tom all this, and his generous reply was, 'Your poverty only draws you nearer to us.' Yes, Lucy, these were his words. Do you think that his sister could have spoken them?”
“'Before she could do so, she certainly should be satisfied on other grounds than those that touch your fortune,” said Lucy, gravely.
“And it was to give her that same satisfaction I came here,” cried he, eagerly. “I accepted Tom's invitation on the sole pledge that I could vindicate myself to you. I know what is laid to my charge, and I know too how hard it will be to clear myself without appearing like a coxcomb.” He grew crimson as he said this, and the shame that overwhelmed him was a better advocate than all his words. “But,” added he, “you shall think me vain, conceited,—a puppy, if you will,—but you shall not believe me false. Will you listen to me?”
“On one condition I will,” said she, calmly.
“Name your condition. What is it?”
“My condition is this: that when I have heard you out,—heard all that you care to tell me—if it should turn out that I am not satisfied—I mean, if it appear to me a case in which I ought not to be satisfied—you will pledge your word that this conversation will be our last together.”
“But, Lucy, in what spirit will you judge me? If you can approach the theme thus coldly, it gives me little hope that you will wish to acquit me.”
A deep blush covered her face as she turned away her head, but made no answer.
“Be only fair, however,” cried he, eagerly. “I ask for nothing more.” He drew her arm within his as he spoke, and they turned towards the beach where a little sweep of the bay lay hemmed in between lofty rocks. “Here goes my last throw for fortune,” said Trafford, after they had strolled along some minutes in silence. “And oh, Lucy, if you knew how I would like to prolong these minutes before, as it may be, they are lost to me forever! If you knew how I would like to give this day to happiness and hope!”
She said nothing, but walked along with her head down, her face slightly averted from him.
“I have not told you of my visit to the Priory,” said he, suddenly.
“No; how came you to go there?”
“I went to see the place where you had lived, to see the garden you had tended, and the flowers you loved, Lucy. I took away this bit of jasmine from a tree that overhung a little rustic seat. It may be, for aught I know, all that may remain to me of you ere this day closes.”
“My dear little garden! I was so fond of it!” she said, concealing her emotion as well as she could.
“I am such a coward,” said he, angrily; “I declare I grow ashamed of myself. If any one had told me I would have skulked danger in this wise, I 'd have scouted the idea! Take this, Lucy,” said he, giving her the sprig of withered jasmine; “if what I shall tell you exculpate me—if you are satisfied that I am not unworthy of your love,—you will give it back to me; if I fail—” He could not go on, and another silence of some seconds ensued.
“You know the compact now?” asked he, after a moment. She nodded assent.
For full five minutes they walked along without a word, and then Trafford, at first timidly, but by degrees more boldly, began a narrative of his visit to the Sewells' house. It is not—nor need it be—our task to follow him through a long narrative, broken, irregular, and unconnected as it was. Hampered by the difficulties which on each side beset him of disparaging those of whom he desired to say no word of blame, and of still vindicating himself from all charge of dishonor, he was often, it must be owned, entangled, and sometimes scarcely intelligible. He owned to have been led into high play against his will, and equally against his will induced to form an intimacy with Mrs. Sewell, which, beginning in a confidence, wandered away into Heaven knows what of sentimentality, and the like. Trafford talked of Lucy Lendrick and his love, and Mrs. Sewell talked of her cruel husband and her misery; and they ended by making a little stock-fund of affection, where they came in common to make their deposits and draw their cheques on fortune.
All this intercourse was the more dangerous that he never knew its danger; and though, on looking back, he was astonished to think what intimate relations subsisted between them, yet, at the time, these had not seemed in the least strange to him. To her sad complaints of neglect, ill-usage, and insult, he offered such consolations as occurred to him: nor did it seem to him that there was any peril in his path, till his mother burst forth with that atrocious charge against Mrs. Sewell for having seduced her son, and which, so far from repelling with the indignation it might have evoked, she appeared rather to bend under, and actually seek his protection to shelter her. Weak and broken by his accident at the race, these difficulties almost overcame his reason; never was there, to his thinking, such a web of entanglement. The hospitality of the house he was enjoying outraged and violated by the outbreaks of his mother's temper; Sewell's confidence in him betrayed by the confessions he daily listened to from his wife; her sorrows and griefs all tending to a dependence on his counsels which gave him a partnership in her conduct. “With all these upon me,” said he, “I don't think I was actually mad, but very often I felt terribly close to it. A dozen times a day I would willingly have fought Sewell; as willingly would I have given all I ever hoped to possess in the world to enable his wife to fly his tyranny, and live apart from him. I so far resented my mother's outrageous conduct, that I left her without a good-bye.”
I can no more trace him through this wandering explanation than I dare ask my reader to follow. It was wild, broken, and discursive. Now interrupted by protestations of innocence, now dashed by acknowledgments of sorrow, who knows if his unartistic story did not serve him better than a more connected narrative,—there was such palpable truth in it!
Nor was Lucy less disposed to leniency that he who pleaded before her was no longer the rich heir of a great estate, with a fair future before him, but one poor and portionless as herself. In the reserve with which he shrouded his quarrel with his family, she fancied she could see the original cause,—his love for her; and if this were so, what more had she need of to prove his truth and fidelity? Who knows if her woman's instinct had not revealed this to her? Who knows if, in that finer intelligence of the female mind, she had not traced out the secret of the reserve that hampered him, of the delicate forbearance with which he avoided the theme of his estrangement from his family? And if so, what a plea was it for him! Poor fellow, thought she, what has he not given up for me!
Rich men make love with great advantages on their side. There is no doubt that he who can confer demesnes and diamonds has much in his favor. The power that abides in wealth adds marvellous force to the suitor's tale; but there is, be it owned, that in poverty which, when allied with a sturdy self-dependence, appeals wonderfully to a woman's mind. She feels all the devotion that is offered her, and she will not be outdone in generosity. It is so fine of him, when others care for nothing but wealth and riches, to be satisfied with humble fortune, and withme!There is the summing up, and none need be more conclusive.
How long Trafford might have gone on strengthening his case, and calling up fresh evidence to his credit,—by what force of words he might still have sustained his character for fidelity,—there is no saying; but his eloquence was suddenly arrested by the sight of Cave and Tom coming to meet them.
“Oh, Lucy,” cried he, “do not quit my arm till you tell me my fate. For very pity's sake, do not leave me in the misery of this anxiety,” said he, as she disengaged herself, affecting to arrange her shawl.
“I have a word to say to my brother,” said she, hurriedly; “keep this sprig of jasmine for me. I mean to plant it somewhere;” and without another word she hastened away and made for the house.
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“So we shall have to sail at once, Trafford,” said Cave. “The Admiral has sent over the 'Gondomar' to fetch us; and here's a lieutenant with a despatch waiting for us at the cottage.”
“The service may go—No, I don't mean that; but if you sail to-morrow you sail without me.”
“Have you made it all right?” whispered Tom in his ear.
“I 'm the happiest fellow in Europe,” said he, throwing his arm round the other's shoulder. “Come here, Tom, and let me tell you all—all.”
We are once more at the Priory; but how changed is it all! Billy Haire himself scarcely recognizes the old spot, and indeed comes now but seldom to visit it; for the Chief has launched out into the gay world, and entertains largely at dinner, and even givesdéjeuners dansants,—foreign innovations at which he was wont to inveigh with vehemence.
The old elm under whose shade Avonmore and the wits used to sit of an evening, beneath whose leafy canopy Curran had jested and Moore had sung, was cut down, and a large tent of gaudy blue and white spread its vulgar wings over innumerable breakfast-tables, set forth with what the newspapers call every delicacy of the season.
The Horatian garden, and the Roman house—conceits of an old Lord Chancellor in former times, and once objects of almost veneration in Sir William's eyes—have been swept away, with all their attendant details of good or bad taste, and in their place a fountain has been erected, for whose aquatic displays, be it noted in parenthesis, two horses and as many men are kept in full employ. Of the wild old woodland walks—shady and cool, redolent of sweet-brier and honeysuckle—not a trace remains; driving-roads, wide enough for a pony-carriage, have been substituted for these, and ruthless gaps in the dense wood open long vistas to the eye, in a spot where once it was the sense of enclosure and seclusion that imparted the chief charm. For so it is, coming out of the din and bustle of a great city, there is no attraction which can vie with whatever breathes of tranquillity, and seems to impart peace by an air of unbroken quiet. It was for this very quality the Priory had gained its fame. Within doors the change was as great as without. New, and, be it admitted, more comfortable furniture had replaced the old ponderous objects which, in every form of ugliness, had made the former decorations of the rooms. All was now light, tasteful, elegant. All invited to ease of intercourse, and suggested that pleasant union of social enjoyment with self-indulgence which our age seems to cultivate. But of all the changes and mutations which a short time had effected, none could compete with that in the old Chief himself. Through life he had been studiously attentive to neatness and care in his dress; it was with something of pride that he exhibited little traits of costume that revived bygone memories; and his long white hak, brushed rigidly back, and worn as a queue behind, and his lace ruffles, recalled a time when these were distinctive signs of class and condition.
His sharply cut and handsome features were well served by the well-marked temples and lofty head that surmounted them, and which the drawn-back hair displayed to full advantage; and what a terrible contrast did the expression present when a light-brown wig covered his head, and a lock of childlike innocence graced his forehead! The large massive eyebrows, so impressive in their venerable whiteness, were now dyed of a dark hue; and to prevent the semblance of ghastliness which this strong color might impart to the rest of the face, a faint tinge of rouge was given to the cheek, thus lending to the whole features an expression of mingled smirk and severity as little like the former look of dignified intelligence as might be.
A tightly fitting frock-coat and a colored cravat, fastened with a massive jewelled pin, completed a travesty which, strange to say, imparted its character to his gait, and made itself evident in his carriage.
His manner, too,—that admirable courtesy of a bygone day, of which, when unprovoked by a personal encounter, he was a master,—was now replaced by an assumed softness,—an ill-put-on submission that seemed to require all his watchfulness never to forget.
If his friends deplored and his enemies exulted over this unbecoming change in one who, whatever his defects, had ever displayed the force and power of a commanding intellect, the secret was known to few. A violent and unseemly attack had been made in the “House” against him by some political partisan, who alleged that his advanced age and failing faculties urgently demanded his retirement from the Bench, and calling loudly on the Government to enforce a step which nothing but the tenacity and obstinacy of age would have refused to accept voluntarily and even gratefully.
In the discussion—it was not debate—that the subject gave rise to, the year of his birth was quoted, the time he had been first called, and the long period he had served on the Bench; and if his friends were strong in their evidences of his unfailing powers and unclouded faculties, his assailants adduced instances in which he had mistaken the suitors and misstated the case. His temper, too, imperious even to insult, had, it was said, driven many barristers from his court, where few liked to plead except such as were his abject and devoted followers.
When the attack appeared in the morning papers, Beattie drove out in all haste to the Priory to entreat that the newspapers should be withheld from him, and all mention of the offensive subject be carefully avoided. The doctor was shown into the room where the Sewells were at breakfast, and at once eagerly announced the reason for his early visit.
“You are too late, doctor,” said Sewell; “he had read every line of it before we came downstairs. He made me listen to it, too, before I could go to breakfast.”
“And how did he bear it?”
“On the whole, I think well. He said they were incorrect about the year he was called, and also as to the time he entered Parliament. With regard to the man who made the attack, he said, 'It is my turn to be biographer now; let us see if the honorable member will call the victory his.'”
“He must do nothing of the kind. I will not answer for his life if he gives way to these bursts of temper.”
“I declare I think I'd not interfere with him,” drawled out Sewell, as he broke an egg. “I suspect it's better to let those high-pressure people blow off their steam.”
“I'm sure Dr. Beattie is right,” interposed Mrs. Sewell, who saw in the doctor's face an unmistakable look of disgust at the Colonel's speech.
“I repeat, sir,” said Beattie, gravely, “that it is a question of Sir William's life; he cannot survive another attack like his last one.”
“It has always been a matter of wonder to me how he has lived so long. To go on existing, and be so sensitive to public opinion, is something quite beyond my comprehension.”
“You would not mind such attacks, then?” said Beattie, with a very slight sneer.
“I should think not! A man must be a fool if he does n't know there are scores of fellows who don't like him; and he must be an unlucky dog if there are not others who envy him for something or other, though it only be his horse or his dog, his waistcoat or his wife.”
In the look of malevolence he threw across the table as he spoke this, might be read the concentrated hate of one who loved to insult his victim. The doctor saw it, and rose to leave, disgusted and angry. “I suppose Sir William knows I am here?” said he, coldly.
“I suspect not,” said Sewell. “If you 'll talk to my wife, or look over the 'Times,' I'll go and tell him.”
The Chief Baron was seated at his writing-table when Sewell entered, and angrily cried out, “Who is there?”
“Sewell, my Lord. May I come in?”
“Sir, you have taken that liberty in anticipation of the request. What do you want?”
“I came to say, my Lord, that Dr. Beattie is here.”
“Who sent for him, sir?”
“Not I, my Lord, certainly.”
“I repeat my question, sir, and expect a direct answer.”
“I can only repeat my answer, my Lord. He was not sent for by me or with my knowledge.”
“So that I am to understand that his presence here is not the result of any active solicitude of my family for the consequences of this new outrage upon my feelings;” and he clutched the newspaper as he spoke, and shook it with passion.
“I assure you, my Lord, Beattie has come here of his own accord.”
“But on account of this!” and the words came from him with a hissing sound that denoted intense anger. Sewell made a gesture to imply that it might be so, but that he himself knew nothing of it. “Tell him, then, sir, that the Chief Baron regrets he cannot see him; that he is at this moment engaged with the reply to a late attack in the House of Commons, which he desires to finish before post hour; and add, sir, that he is in the best of health and in excellent spirits,—facts which will afford him increased enjoyment, if Dr. Beattie will only be kind enough to mention them widely in the course of his visits.”
“I 'm delighted, my Lord, to be charged with such a message,” said Sewell, with a well-assumed joy.
“I am glad, sir, to have pleased you, at the same time that I have gained your approbation.”
There was a haughty tone in the way these words were delivered that for an instant made Sewell doubt whether they meant approval or reprimand; but he thought he saw a look of self-satisfied vanity in the old man's face, and he merely bowed his thanks for the speech.
“What do you think, sir, they have had the hardihood to say in the House of Commons?” cried the Chief, while his cheek grew crimson and his eye flashed fire. “They say that, looking to the perilous condition of Ireland, with a widespread conspiracy through the land, and rebellion in most daring form bearding the authorities of the Crown, it is no time to see one of the chief seats of justice occupied by one whose achievements in Crown prosecutions date from the state trials of '98! In which capacity, sir, am I assailed? Is it as Patriarch or Patriot? Am I held up to obloquy because I came into the world at a certain year, or because I was one of the counsel for Wolfe Tone? From whom, too, come these slanderous assaults? Do these puny slanderers not yet know that it is with men as with plants, and that though the dockweed is rotten within a few weeks, the oak takes centuries to reach maturity?
“There were men in the Administration once, sir, in whom I had that confidence I could have placed my office in their hands with the full conviction it would have been worthily conferred,—men above the passions of party, and who saw in public life other ambitions than the struggles for place. I see these men no longer. They who now compose the Cabinet inspire no trust; with them I will not treat.”
Exhausted by this outburst of passion, he lay back in his chair, breathing heavily, and to all seeming overcome.
“Shall I get you anything, my Lord?” whispered Sewell.
The old man smiled faintly, and whispered, “Nothing.”
“I wish, my Lord,” said Sewell, as he bent over his chair,—“I wish I could dare to speak what is passing in my mind; and that I had that place in your Lordship's esteem which might give my words any weight.”
“Speak—say on,” said he, faintly.
“What I would say is this, my Lord,” said Sewell, with increased force, “that these attacks on your Lordship are in a great measure provoked by yourself.”
“Provoked by me! and how, sir?” cried the Chief, angrily.
“In this wise, my Lord. You have always held your libellers so cheap that you actually encourage their assaults. You, in the full vigor of your faculties, alive to the latest events, interested in all that science discovers or invention develops, persist in maintaining, both in your mode of living and your companionship, a continued reference to the past. With a wit that could keep pace with the brightest, and an imagination more alive than the youngest men can boast, you vote yourself old, and live with the old. Why, my Lord, is it any wonder that they try you on the indictment you have yourself drawn up? I have only to ask you to look across the Channel and see the men—your own contemporaries, your colleagues too—who escape these slanders, simply because they keep up with the modes and habits of the day. Their equipages their retinues, their dress, are all such as fashion sanctions. Nothing in their appearance reminds the world that they lived with the grandfathers of those around them; and I say, my Lord, if these men can do this, how much easier would it be for you to do it? You, whose quick intellect the youngest in vain try to cope with; you who are readier in repartee,—younger, in fact, in all the freshness of originality and in all the play of fancy, than the smartest wits of the day.
“My Lord, it has not been without a great effort of courage I have dared to speak thus boldly; but I have so often talked the subject over with my wife, and she, with a woman's wit, has so thoroughly entered into the theme, that I felt, even at the hazard of your displeasure, I ought to risk the telling you.” After a pause, he added: “It was but yesterday my wife said, 'If papa,'—you know, my Lord, it is so she calls you in secret,—'if papa will only cease to dress like a church dignitary, he will not look above fifty,—fifty four or five at most.'”
“I own,” said the Judge, slowly, “it has often struck me as strange how little animadversion the Press bestowed upon my English colleagues for their advanced years, and how persistently they commented on mine; and yet the history of Ireland does not point to the early decline of intellectual power. They are fond of showing the characteristics that separate us, but they have never adduced this one.”
“I hope I have your Lordship's forgiveness for my boldness,” said Sewell, with humility.
“You have more, sir,—you have my gratitude for an affectionate solicitude. I will think over what you have said when I am alone.”
“It will make me a very proud man if I find that my words have had weight with you. I am to tell Beattie, my Lord, that you are engaged, and cannot see him?” said he, moving towards the door.
“Yes. Say that I am occupied with my reply to this slander. Tell him if he likes to dine with me at six—”
“I beg pardon, my Lord—but my wife hoped you would dine with us to-day. We have a few young soldiers, and two or three pretty women coming to us—”
“Make my compliments to Mrs. Sewell, and say I am charmed to accept her invitation.”
Sewell took his leave with every token of respectful gratitude. But no sooner had he reached the stairs than he burst into a fit of laughter. “Would any one have believed that the old fool would have swallowed the bait? I was so terrified at my own temerity, I 'd have given the world to be out of the scrape! I declare, if my mother could be got rid of, we 'd have him leading something of sixteen to the altar. Well, if this acute attack of youth does n't finish him, he must have the constitution of an elephant.”