A few minutes after the Adjutant had informed Colonel Cave that Lieutenant Traflford had reported himself, Sir Brook entered the Colonel's quarters, eager to know what was the reason of the sudden recall of Traflford, and whether the regiment had been unexpectedly ordered for foreign service.
“No, no,” said Cave, in some confusion. “We have had our turn of India and the Cape; they can't send us away again for some time. It was purely personal; it was, I may say, a private reason. You know,” added he, with a slight smile, “I am acting as a sort of guardian to Trafford just now. His family sent him over to me, as to a reformatory.”
“From everything I have seen of him, your office will be an easy one.”
“Well, I suspect that, so far as mere wildness goes,—extravagance and that sort of thing,—he has had enough of it; but there are mistakes that a young fellow may make in life—mistakes in judgment—which will damage him more irreparably than all his derelictions against morality.”
“That I deny,—totally, entirely deny. I know what you mean,—that is, I think I know what you mean; and if I guess aright, I am distinctly at issue with you on this matter.”
“Perhaps I could convince you, notwithstanding. Here's a letter which I have no right to show you; it is marked 'Strictly confidential and private.' You shall read it,—nay, you must read it,—because you are exactly the man to be able to give advice on the matter. You like Traflford, and wish him well. Read that over carefully, and tell me what you would counsel.”
Fossbrooke took out his spectacles, and, having seated himself comfortably, with his back to the light, began in leisurely fashion to peruse the letter. “It's his mother who writes,” said he, turning to the signature,—“one of the most worldly women I ever met. She was a Lascelles. Don't you know how she married Trafford?”
“I don't remember, if I ever heard.”
“It was her sister that Trafford wanted to marry, but she was ambitious to be a peeress; and as Bradbrook was in love with her, she told Sir Hugh, 'I have got a sister so like me nobody can distinguish between us. She 'd make an excellent wife for you. She rides far better than me, and she is n't half so extravagant. I 'll send for her.' She did so, and the whole thing was settled in a week.”
“They have lived very happily together.”
“Of course they have. They didn't 'go in,' as the speculators say, for enormous profits; they realized very fairly, and were satisfied. I wish her handwriting had been more cared for. What's this she says here about a subscription?”
“That 's supervision,—the supervision of a parent.”
“Supervision of a fiddlestick! the fellow is six feet one inch high, and seven-and-twenty years of age; he's quite beyond supervision. Ah! brought back all his father's gout, has he? When will people begin to admit that their own tempers have something to say to their maladies? I curse the cook who made the mulligatawny, but I forget that I ate two platefuls of it. So it's the doctor's daughter she objects to. I wish she saw her. I wish you saw her, Cave. You are an old frequenter of courts and drawing-rooms. I tell you you have seen nothing like this doctor's daughter since Laura Bedingfield was presented, and that was before your day.”
“Every one has heard of the Beauty Bedingfield; but she was my mother's contemporary.”
“Well, sir, her successors have not eclipsed her! This doctor's daughter, as your correspondent calls her, is the only rival of her that I have ever seen. As to wit and accomplishments, Laura could not compete with Lucy Lendrick.”
“You know her, then?” asked the Colonel; and then added, “Tell me something about the family.”
“With your leave, I will finish this letter first. Ah! here we have the whole secret. Lionel Trafford is likely to be that precious prize, an eldest son. Who could have thought that the law of entail could sway a mother's affections? 'Contract no ties inconsistent with his station.' This begins to be intolerable, Cave. I don't think I can go on.”
“Yes, yes; read it through.”
“She asks you if you know any one who knows these Hendrichs or Lendrichs; tell her that you do; tell her that your friend is one of those men who have seen a good deal of life, heard more, too, than he has seen. She will understand that, and that his name is Sir Brook Fossbrooke, who, if needed, will think nothing of a journey over to Lincolnshire to afford her all the information she could wish for. Say this, Cave, and take my word for it, she will put very few more questions to you.”
“That would be to avow I had already consulted with you. No, no; I must not do that.”
“The wind-up of the epistle is charming. 'I have certainly no reason to love Ireland.' Poor Ireland! here is another infliction upon you. Let us hope you may never come to know that Lady Trafford cannot love you.”
“Come, come, Fossbrooke, be just, be fair; there is nothing so very unreasonable in the anxiety of a mother that her son, who will have a good name and a large estate, should not share them both with a person beneath him.”
“Why must she assume that this is the case,—why take it for granted that this girl must be beneath him? I tell you, sir, if a prince of the blood had fallen in love with her, it would be a reason to repeal the Royal Marriage Act.”
“I declare, Fossbrooke, I shall begin to suspect that your own heart has not escaped scathless,” said Cave, laughing.
The old man's face became crimson, but not with anger. As suddenly it grew pale; and in a voice of deep agitation he said, “When an old man like myself lays his homage at her feet, it is not hard to believe how a young man might love her.”
“How did you come to make this acquaintance?” said Cave, anxious to turn the conversation into a more familiar channel.
“We chanced to fail in with her brother on the river. We found him struggling with a fish far too large for his tackle, and which at last smashed his rod and got away. He showed not alone that he was a perfect angler, but that he was a fine-tempered fellow, who accepted his defeat manfully and well; he had even a good word for his enemy, sir, and it was that which attracted me. Trafford and he, young-men-like, soon understood each other; he came into our boat, lunched with us, and asked us home with him to tea. There 's the whole story. As to the intimacy that followed, it was mostly my own doing. I own to you I never so much as suspected that Trafford was smitten by her; he was always with her brother, scarcely at all in her company; and when he came to tell me he was in love, I asked him how he caught the malady, for I never saw him near the infection. Once that I knew of the matter, however, I made him write home to his family.”
“It was by your advice, then, that he wrote that letter?”
“Certainly; I not only advised, I insisted on it,—I read it, too, before it was sent off. It was such a letter as, if I had been the young fellow's father, would have made me prouder than to hear he had got the thanks of Parliament.”
“You and I, Fossbrooke, are old bachelors; we are scarcely able to say what we should have done if we had had sons.”
“I am inclined to believe it would have made us better, not worse,” said Fossbrooke, gravely.
“At all events, as it was at your instigation this letter was written, I can't well suggest your name as an impartial person in the transaction,—I mean, as one who can be referred to for advice or information.”
“Don't do so, sir, or I shall be tempted to say more than may be prudent. Have you never noticed, Cave, the effect that a doctor's presence produces in the society of those who usually consult him,—the reserve,—the awkwardness,—the constraint,—the apologetic tone for this or that little indiscretion,—the sitting in the draught or the extra glass of sherry? So is it, but in a far stronger degree, when an old man of the world like myself comes back amongst those he formerly lived with,—one who knew all their past history, how they succeeded here, how they failed there,—what led the great man of fashion to finish his days in a colony, and why the Court beauty married a bishop. Ah, sir, we are the physicians who have all these secrets in our keeping. It is ours to know what sorrow is covered by that smile, how that merry laugh has but smothered the sigh of a heavy heart. It is only when a man has lived to my age, with an unfailing memory too, that he knows the real hollowness of life,—all the combinations falsified, all the hopes blighted,—the clever fellows that have turned out failures, or worse than failures,—the lovely women that have made shipwreck through their beauty. It is not only, however, that he knows this, but he knows how craft and cunning have won where ability and frankness have lost,—how intrigue and trick have done better than genius and integrity. With all this knowledge, sir, in their heads, and stout hearts within them, such men as myself have their utility in life. They are a sort of walking conscience that cannot be ignored. The railroad millionnaire talks less boastfully before him who knew him as an errand-boy; the grande dame is less superciliously insolent in the presence of one who remembered her in a very different character. Take my word for it, Cave, Nestor may have been a bit of a bore amongst the young Greeks of fashion, but he had his utility too.”
“But how am I to answer this letter? What advice shall I give her?”
“Tell her frankly that you have made the inquiry she wished; that the young lady, who is as well born as her son, is without fortune, and if her personal qualities count for nothing, would be what the world would call a 'bad match.'”
“Yes, that sounds practicable. I think that will do.”
“Tell her, also, that if she seriously desires that her son should continue in the way of that reformation he has so ardently followed for some time back, and especially so since he has made the acquaintance of this family, such a marriage as this would give her better reasons for confidence than all her most crafty devices in match-making and settlements.”
“I don't think I can exactly tell her that,” said Caver smiling.
“Tell her, then, that if this connection be not to her liking, to withdraw her son at once from this neighborhood before this girl should come to care for him; for if she should, by heavens! he shall marry her, if every acre of the estate were to go to a cousin ten times removed!”
“Were not these people all strangers to you t' other day, Fossbrooke?” said Cave, in something like a tone of reprehension.
“So they were. I had never so much as heard of them; but she, this girl, has a claim upon my interest, founded on a resemblance so strong that when I see her, I live back again in the long past, and find myself in converse with the dearest friends I ever had. I vow to Heaven I never knew the bitterness of want of fortune till now! I never felt how powerless and insignificant poverty can make a man till I desired to contribute to this girl's happiness; and if I were not an old worthless wreck,—shattered and unseaworthy,—I 'd set to work to-morrow to refit and try to make a fortune to bestow on her.”
If Cave was half disposed to banter the old man on what seemed little short of a devoted attachment, the agitation of Fossbrooke's manner—his trembling lip, his shaking voice, his changing color—all warned him to forbear, and abstain from what might well have proved a perilous freedom.
“You will dine with us at mess, Fossbrooke, won't you?”
“No; I shall return at once to Killaloe. I made Dr. Lendrick's acquaintance just as I started by the train. I want to see more of him. Besides, now that I know what was the emergency that called young Trafford up here, I have nothing to detain me.”
“Shall you see him before you go?”
“Of course. I am going over to his quarters now.”
“You will not mention our conversation?”
“Certainly not.”
“I 'd like to show you my letter before I send it off. I 'd be glad to think it was what you recommended.”
“Write what you feel to be a fair statement of the case, and if by any chance an inclination to partiality crosses you, let it be in favor of the young. Take my word for it, Cave, there is a selfishness in age that needs no ally. Stand by the sons; the fathers and mothers will take care of themselves. Good-bye.”
Whether it was that the Chief Baron had thrown off an attack which had long menaced him, and whose slow approaches had gradually impaired his strength and diminished his mental activity, or whether, as some of his “friends” suggested, that the old man's tenure of life had been renewed by the impertinences of the newspapers and the insolent attacks of political foes,—an explanation not by any means far-fetched,—whatever the cause, he came out of his illness with all the signs of renewed vigor, and with a degree of mental acuteness that he had not enjoyed for many years before.
“Beattie tells me that this attack has inserted another life in my lease,” said he; “and I am glad of it. It is right that the men who speculated on my death should be reminded of the uncertainty of life by the negative proof. It is well, too, that there should be men long-lived enough to bridge over periods of mediocrity, and connect the triumphs of the past with the coming glories of the future. We are surely not destined to a perpetuity of Pendletons and Fitzgibbons?”
It was thus he discoursed to an old legal comrade,—who, less gifted and less fortunate, still wore his stuff gown, and pleaded for the outer bar,—poor old Billy Haire, the dreariest advocate, and one of the honestest fellows that ever carried his bag into court. While nearly all of his contemporaries had risen to rank and eminence, Billy toiled on through life with small success, liked by his friends, respected by the world, but the terror of attorneys, who only saw in him the type of adverse decisions and unfavorable verdicts.
For forty-odd years had he lived a life that any but himself would have deemed martyrdom,—his law laughed at, his eloquence ridiculed, his manner mimicked, jeered at by the bench, quizzed by the bar, sneered at by the newspapers, every absurd story tagged to his name, every stupid blunder fathered on him, till at last, as it were, by the mere force of years, the world came to recognize the incomparable temper that no provocation had ever been able to irritate, the grand nature that rose above all resentment, and would think better of its fellows than these moods of spiteful wit or impertinent drollery might seem to entitle them to.
The old Judge liked him; he liked his manly simplicity of character, his truthfulness, and his honesty; but perhaps more than all these, did he like his dulness. It was so pleasant to him to pelt this poor heavy man with smart epigrams and pungent sarcasms on all that was doing in the world, and see the hopeless effort he made to follow him.
Billy, too, had another use; he alone, of all the Chief Baron's friends, could tell him what was the current gossip of the hall,—what men thought, or at least what they said of him. The genuine simplicity of Haire's nature gave to his revelations a character so devoid of all spitefulness,—it was so evident that, in repeating, he never identified himself with his story that Lendrick would listen to words from him that, coming from another, his resentment would have repelled with indignation.
“And you tell me that the story now is, my whole attack was nothing but temper?” said the old Judge, as the two men walked slowly up and down on the grass lawn before the door.
“Not that exactly; but they say that constitutional irritability had much to say to it.”
“It was, in fact, such a seizure as, with a man like yourself, would have been a mere nothing.”
“Perhaps so.”
“I am sure of it, sir; and what more do they say?”
“All sorts of things, which, of course, they know nothing about. Some have it that you refused the peerage, others that it was not offered.”
“Ha!” said the old man, irritably, while a faint flush tinged his cheek.
“They say, too,” continued Haire, “that when the Viceroy informed you that you were not to be made a peer, you said: 'Let the Crown look to it, then. The Revenue cases all come to my court; and so long as I sit there, they shall never have a verdict.'”
“You must have invented that yourself, Billy,” said the Judge, with a droll malice in his eye. “Come, confess it is your own. It is so like you.”
“No, on my honor,” said the other, solemnly.
“Not that I would take it ill, Haire, if you had. When a man has a turn for epigram, his friends must extend their indulgence to the humor.”
“I assure you, positively, it is not mine.”
“That is quite enough; let us talk of something else. By the way, I have a letter to show you. I put it in my pocket this morning, to let you see it; but, first of all, I must show you the writer,—here she is.” He drew forth a small miniature case, and, opening it, handed it to the other.
“What a handsome girl! downright beautiful!”
“My granddaughter, sir,” said the old man, proudly.
“I declare, I never saw a lovelier face,” said Haire. “She must be a rare cheat if she be not as good as she is beautiful. What a sweet mouth!”
“The brow is fine; there is a high intelligence about the eyes and the temples.”
“It is the smile, that little lurking smile, that captivates me. What may her age be?”
“Something close on twenty. Now for her letter. Read that.”
While Haire perused the letter, the old Judge sauntered away, looking from time to time at the miniature, and muttering some low inaudible words as he went.
“I don't think I understand it. I am at a loss to catch what she is drifting at,” said Haire, as he finished the first side of the letter. “What is she so grateful for?”
“You think the case is one which calls for little gratitude, then. What a sarcastic mood you are in this morning, Haire!” said the Judge, with a malicious twinkle of the eye. “Still, there are young ladies in the world who would vouchsafe to bear me company in requital for being placed at the head of such a house as this.”
“I can make nothing of it,” said the other, hopelessly.
“The case is this,” said the Judge, as he drew his arm within the other's. “Tom Lendrick has beeu offered a post of some value—some value to a man poor as he is—at the Cape. I have told him that his acceptance in no way involves me. I have told those who have offered the place that I stand aloof in the whole negotiation,—that in their advancement of my son they establish no claim upon me, I have even said I will know nothing whatever of the incident.” He paused for some minutes, and then went on: “I have told Tom, however, if his circumstances were such as to dispose him to avail himself of this offer, that—until he assured himself that the place was one to his liking, that it gave a reasonable prospect of permanence, that the climate was salubrious, and the society not distasteful—I would take his daughter to live with me.”
“He has a son, too, has n't he?”
“He has, sir, and he fain would have induced me to take him instead of the girl; but this I would not listen to. I have not nerves for the loud speech and boisterous vitality of a young fellow of four or five and twenty. His very vigor would be a standing insult to me, and the fellow would know it. When men come to my age, they want a mild atmosphere in morals and manners, as well as in climate. My son's physiology has not taught him this, doctor though he be.”
“I see,—I see it all now,” said Haire; “and the girl, though sorry to be separated from her father, is gratified by the thought of becoming a tie between him and you.”
“That is not in the record, sir,” said the Judge, sternly. “Keep to your brief.” He took the letter sharply from the other's hand as he spoke. “My granddaughter has not had much experience of life; but her woman's tact has told her that her real difficulty—her only one, perhaps—will be with Lady Lendrick. She cannot know that Lady Lendrick's authority in this house is nothing,—less than nothing. I would never have invited her to come here, had it been otherwise.”
“Have you apprised Lady Lendrick of this arrangement?”
“No, sir; nor shall I. it shall be for you to do that 'officiously,' as the French say, to distinguish from what is called 'officially.' I mean you to call upon her and say, in the course of conversation, informally, accidentally, that Miss Lendrick's arrival at the Priory has been deferred, or that it is fixed for such a date,—in fact, sir, whatever your own nice tact may deem the neatest mode of alluding to the topic, leaving to her the reply. You understand me?”
“I 'm not so sure that I do.”
“So much the better; your simplicity will be more inscrutable than your subtlety, Haire. I can deal with the one—the other masters me.”
“I declare frankly I don't like the mission. I was never, so to say, a favorite with her Ladyship.”
“Neither was I, sir,” said the other, with a peremptory loudness that was almost startling.
“Hadn't you better intimate it by a few lines in a note? Had n't you better say that, having seen your son during his late visit to town, and learnt his intention to accept a colonial appointment—”
“All this would be apologetic, sir, and must not be thought of. Don't you know, Haire, that every unnecessary affidavit is a flaw in a man's case? Go and see her; your very awkwardness will imply a secret, and she 'll be so well pleased with her acuteness in discovering the mystery, she 'll half forget its offence.”
“Let me clearly understand what I' ve got to do. I 'm to tell her or to let her find out that you have been reconciled to your son Tom?”
“There is not a word of reconciliation, sir, in all your instructions. You are to limit yourself to the statement that touches my granddaughter.”
“Very well; it will be so much the easier. I'm to say, then, that you have adopted her, and placed her at the head of your house; that she is to live here in all respects as its mistress?”
He paused; and as the Judge bowed a concurrence, he went on: “Of course you will allow me to add that I was never consulted; that you did not ask my opinion, and that I never gave one?”
“You are at liberty to, say all this.”
“I would even say that I don't exactly see how the thing will work. A very young girl, with of course a limited experience of life, will have no common difficulties in dealing with a world so new and strange, particularly without the companionship of one of her own sex.”
“I cannot promise to supply that want, but she shall see as much of you as possible.” And the words were uttered with a blended courtesy and malice, of which he was perfect master. Poor Haire, however, only saw the complimentary part, and hurriedly pledged himself to be at Miss Lendrick's orders at all times.
“Come and let me show you how I mean to lodge her. I intend her to feel a perfect independence of me and my humors. We are to see each other from inclination, not constraint: I intend, sir that we should live on good terms; and as the Church will have nothing to say to the compact, it is possible it may succeed.
“These rooms are to be hers,” said he, opening a door which offered a vista through several handsomely furnished rooms, all looking out upon a neatly kept flower-garden. “Lady Lendrick, I believe, had long since destined them for a son and daughter-in-law of hers, who are on their way home from India. The plan will be now all the more difficult of accomplishment.”
“Which will not make my communication to her the pleasanter.”
“But redound so much the more to the credit of your adroitness, Haire, if you succeed. Come over here this evening and report progress.” And with this he nodded an easy good-bye, and strolled down the garden.
“I don't envy Haire his brief in this case,” muttered he. “He'll not have the 'court with him,' that's certain;” and he laughed spitefully to himself as he went.
It may seem a hardship, but not improbably it is in its way an alleviation, that we are never involved in any of the great trials in life without having to deal with certain material embarrassments, questions of vulgar interest which concern our pockets and affect our finances.
Poor Lendrick's was a case in point. He was about to leave his country,—to tear himself from a home he had embellished,—to separate from his children that he loved so dearly, to face a new life in a new land, friendless and alone; and with all these cares on his heart, he had creditors to satisfy, debts to insure payment of by security, and, not least of his troubles, his house to relet. Now, the value the world sets on that which is not for sale is very unlike its estimate for the same commodity when brought to market. The light claret your friend pronounced a very pleasant little wine at your own table, he would discover, when offered for purchase, to be poor, washy, and acrid. The horse you had left him, and whose performance he had encomiumized, if put up to auction, would be found spavined, or windgalled, or broken-down. Such a stern test is money, so fearfully does its coarse jingle jar upon all the music of flattery, and make discord of all compliment. To such a pitch is the process carried, that even pretty women, who as wives were objects of admiration to despairing and disappointed adorers, have become, by widowhood, very ordinary creatures, simply because they are once more “in the market.”
It is well for us that heaven itself was not in the “Price Current,” or we might have begun to think lightly of it. At all events we 'd have higgled about the cost, and tried to get there as cheaply as might be.
From the day that the Swan's Nest appeared in the Dublin papers “to be let furnished, for the three years of an unexpired term,” Lendrick was besieged by letters and applications. All the world apparently wanted the place, but wanted it in some way or other quite out of his power to accord. One insisted on having it unfurnished, and for a much longer period than he could give. Another desired more land, and the right of shooting over several hundred additional acres. A third would like the house and garden, but would not burden himself with the lawn, and could not see why Lendrick might not continue to hold the meadow-land, and come back from the Cape or anywhere else to mow the grass and rick it in due season.
A schoolmistress proposed he should build a dormitory for thirty young ladies, and make the flower-garden into a playground; and a miller from Limerick inquired whether he was willing to join in a suit to establish a right of water-power by diverting a stream from the Shannon through the dining-room to turn an undershot wheel.
It was marvellous with what patience and courtesy Lendrick replied to these and such-like, politely assuring the writers how he regretted his inability to meet their wishes, and modestly confessing that he had neither the money nor the time to make his house other than it was.
All these, however, were as nothing to his trials when the day arrived when the house and grounds, in the language of the advertisement, were “on view,” and the world of the curious and idle were free to invade the place, stroll at will through rooms and gardens, comment and criticise not merely the objects before them, but the taste and the fortunes, the habits and the lives of those who had made this their home, and these things part of their own natures.
In a half-jesting humor, but really to save Lendrick from a mortification which, to a nature timid and sensitive as his, would have been torture, Sir Brook and Tom agreed to divide the labors of ciceroneship between them; the former devoting his attentions to the house and furniture, while Tom assumed the charge of grounds and gardens. To complete the arrangement, Lendrick and Lucy were banished to a small summer-house, and strictly enjoined never to venture abroad so long as the stranger horde overran the territory.
“I declare, my dear, I almost think the remedy worse than the disease,” said Lendrick to his daughter, as he paced with short feverish steps the narrow limits of his prison-house. “This isolation here has something secret, something that suggests shame about it. I think I could almost rather face all the remarks our visitors might make than sit down here to fancy and brood over them.”
“I suspect not, dearest papa; I believe the plan will spare us much that might pain us.”
“After all, child, these people have a right to be critical, and they are not bound to know by what associations you and I are tied to that old garden-seat or that bookstand, and we ought to be able to avoid showing them this.”
“Perhaps we ought, papa; but could we do so? that's-the question.”
“Surely the tradesman affects no such squeamishness about what he offers for sale.”
“True, papa; because none of his wares have caught any clew to his identity. They have never been his in the sense which makes possession pleasure.”
“I wish they would not laugh without there; their coarse laughter sounds to me so like vulgar ridicule. I hardly thought all this would have made me so irritable; even the children's voices jar on my nerves.”
He turned away his head, but her eyes followed him, and two heavy tears stole slowly along her cheek, and her lip quivered as she looked.
“There, they are going away,” said he, listening; “I am better now.”
“That 's right, dearest papa; I knew it was a mere passing pang,” said she, drawing her arm within his, and walking along at his side. “How kind Sir Brook is!”
“How kind every one, we might say. Poor Mills is like a brother, and Tobin too,—I scarcely expected so much heart from him. He gave me his old lancet-case as a keepsake yesterday, and I declare his voice trembled as he said good-bye.”
“As for the poor people, I hear, papa, that one would think they had lost their nearest and dearest. Molly Dew says they were crying in her house this morning over their breakfast as if it was a funeral.”
“Is it not strange, Lucy, that what touches the heart so painfully should help to heal the pang it gives? There is that in all this affection for us that gladdens while it grieves. All,—all are so kind to us! That young fellow—Trafford I think his name is—he was waiting at the post for his letters this morning when I came up, and it seems that Foss-brooke had told him of my appointment,—indiscreet of him, for I would not wish it talked of; but Trafford turned to him and said, 'Ask Dr. Lendrick, is he decided about going;' and when he heard that I was, he scarcely said goodbye, but jumped into a cab, and drove off full speed.
“'What does that mean?' asked I.
“'He was so fond of Tom,' said Fossbrooke, 'they were never separate this last month or five weeks;' so you see, darling, each of us has his sphere of love and affection.”
Lucy was crimson over face and neck, but never spoke a word. Had she spoken it would have been, perhaps, to corroborate Sir Brook, and to say how fond the young men were of each other. I do not affirm this, I only hint that it is likely. Where there are blanks in this narrative, the reader has as much right to fill them as myself.
“Sir Brook,” continued Lendrick, “thinks well of the young man; but for my own part I hardly like to see Tom in close companionship with one so much his superior in fortune. He is easily led, and has not yet learned that stern lesson in life, how to confess that there are many things he has no pretension to aspire to.”
“Tom loves you too sincerely, papa, ever to do that which would seriously grieve you.”
“He would not deliberately,—he would not in cold blood, Lucy; but young men, when together, have not many moods of deliberation or cold blood. But let us not speculate on trouble that may never come. It is enough for the present that he and Trafford are separated, if Trafford was even likely to lead him into ways of extravagance.”
“What 's that! Is n't it, Tom? He's laughing heartily at something. Yes; here he comes.”
“You may come out; the last of them has just driven off,” cried Tom, knocking at the door, while he continued to laugh on immoderately.
“What is it, Tom? What are you laughing at?”
“You should have seen it; it's nothing to tell, but it was wonderful to witness. I'll never forget it as long as I live.”
“But what was it?” asked she, impatiently.
“I thought we had fully done with all our visitors,—and a rum set they were, most of them, not thinking of taking the place, but come out of mere curiosity,—when who should drive up with two postilions and four spicy grays but Lady Drumcarran and a large party, three horsemen following? I just caught the word 'Excellency,' and found out from one of the servants that a tall old man with white hair and very heavy eyebrows was the Lord-Lieutenant. He stooped a good deal, and walked tenderly; and as the Countess was most eager about the grounds and the gardens, they parted company very soon, he going into the house to sit down, while she prosecuted her inquiries without doors.
“I took him into the library; we had a long chat about fishing, and fish-curing, and the London markets, and flax, and national education, and land-tenure, and such-like. Of course I affected not to know who he was, and I took the opportunity to say scores of impertinences about the stupidity of the Castle, and the sort of men they send over here to govern us; and he asked me if I was destined for any career or profession, and I told him frankly that whenever I took up anything I always was sure to discover it was the one very thing that didn't suit me; and as I made this unlucky discovery in law, medicine, and the Church, I had given up my college career, and was now in a sort of interregnal period, wondering what it was to be next. I did n't like to own that the res angusto had anything to say to it. It was no business of his to know about that.
“'You surely have friends able and willing to suggest something that would fit you,' said he. 'Is not the Chief Baron your grandfather?'
“'Yes, and he might make me crier of his court; but I think he has promised the reversion to his butler. The fact is, I 'd not do over well with any fixed responsibilities attached to me. I 'd rather be a guerilla than serve in the regulars, and so I 'll just wait and see if something won't turn up in that undisciplined force I 'd like to serve with.'
“'I 'll give you my name,' said he, 'before we part, and possibly I may know some one who might be of use to you.'
“I thanked him coolly, and we talked of something else, when there came a short plump little fellow, all beard and gold chains, to say that Lady Drumcarran was waiting for him. 'Tell her I'm coming,' said he; 'and, Balfour,' he cried out, 'before you go away, give this gentleman my address, and if he should call, take care that I see him.'
“Balfour eyed me, and I eyed him, with, I take it, pretty much the same result, which said plainly enough, 'You 're not the man for me.'
“'What in heaven's name is this?' cried the Viceroy, as he got outside and saw Lady Drumcarran at the head of a procession carrying plants, slips, and flower-pots down to the carriage.
“'Her Ladyship has made a raid amongst the greeneries,' said Balfour, 'and tipped the head-gardener, that tall fellow there with the yellow rose-tree; as the place is going to be sold, she thought she might well do a little genteel pillage.' Curious to see who our gardener could be, all the more that he was said to be 'tall,' I went forward, and what do you think I saw? Sir Brook, with a flower-pot under one arm, and a quantity of cuttings under the other, walking a little after the Countess, who was evidently giving him ample directions as to her intentions. I could scarcely refrain from an outburst of laughing, but I got away into the shrubbery and watched the whole proceedings. I was too far off to hear, but this much I saw. Sir Brook had deposited his rose-tree and his slips on the rumble, and stood beside the carriage with his hat off. When his Excellency came up, a sudden movement took place in the group, and the Viceroy, seeming to push his way through the others, cried out something I could not catch, and then grasped Sir Brook's hand with both his own. All was tumult in a moment. My Lady, in evident confusion and shame,—that much I could see,—was courtesying deeply to Sir Brook, who seemed not to understand her apologies—, at least, he appeared stately and courteous, as usual, and not in the slightest degree put out or chagrined by the incident. Though Lady Drumcarran was profuse of her excuses, and most eager to make amends for her mistake, the Viceroy took Sir Brook's arm and led him off to a little distance, where they talked together for a few moments.
“'It's a promise, then, Fossbrooke,—you promise me!' cried he aloud, as he approached the carriage.
“'Rely upon me,—and within a week, or ten days at farthest,' said Sir Brook, as they drove away.
“I have not seen him since, and I scarcely know if I shall be able to meet him without laughing.”
“Here he comes,” cried Lucy; “and take care, Tom, that you do nothing that might offend him.”
The caution was so far unnecessary that Sir Brook's manner, as he drew near, had a certain stately dignity that invited no raillery.
“You have been detained a long time a prisoner, Dr. Len-drick,” said Fossbrooke, calmly; “but your visitors were so charmed with all they saw that they lingered on, unwilling to take their leave.”
“Tom tells me we had some of our county notabilities,—Lord and Lady Drumcarran, the Lacys, and others,” said Lendrick.
“Yes; and the Lord-Lieutenant, too, whom I used to know at Christ Church. He would have been well pleased to have met you. He told me your father was the ablest and most brilliant talker he ever knew.”
“Ah! we are very unlike,” said Lendrick, blushing modestly. “Did he give any hint as to whether his party are pleased or the reverse with my father's late conduct?”
“He only said, 'I wish you knew him, Fossbrooke; I sincerely wish you knew him, if only to assure him that he will meet far more generous treatment from us than from the Opposition.' He added that we were men to suit each other; and this, of course, was a flattery for which I am very grateful.”
“And the tall man with the stoop was the Lord-Lieutenant?” asked Tom. “I passed half an hour or more with him in the library, and he invited me to call upon him, and told a young fellow, named Balfour, to give me his address, which he forgot to do.”
“We can go together, if you have no objection; for I, too, have promised to pay my respects,” said Sir Brook.
Tom was delighted at the suggestion, but whispered in his sister's ear, as they passed out into the garden, “I thought I 'd have burst my sides laughing when I met him; but it's the very last thing in my thoughts now. I declare I 'd as soon pull a tiger's whiskers as venture on the smallest liberty with him.”
“I think you are right, Tom,” said she, squeezing his arm affectionately, to show that she not alone agreed with him, but was pleased that he had given her the opportunity of doing so.
“I wonder is he telling the governor what happened this morning? It can scarcely be that, though, they look so grave.”
“Papa seems agitated too,” said Lucy.
“I just caught Trafford's name as they passed. I hope he 's not saying anything against him. It is not only that Lionel Trafford is as good a fellow as ever lived, but that he fully believes Fossbrooke likes him. I don't think he could be so false; do you, Lucy?”
“I 'm certain he is not. There, papa is beckoning to you; he wants you;” and Lucy turned hurriedly away, anxious to conceal her emotion, for her cheeks were burning, and her lips trembled with agitation.
It was decided on that evening that Sir Brook and Tom should set out for Dublin the next morning. Lucy knew not why this sudden determination had been come to, and Tom, who never yet had kept a secret from her, was now reserved and uncommunicative. Nor was it merely that he held aloof his confidence, but he was short and snappish in his manner, as though she had someway vexed him, and vexed him in some shape that he could not openly speak of or resent.
This was very new to her from him, and yet how was it? She had not courage to ask for an explanation. Tom was not exactly one of those people of whom it was pleasant to ask explanations., Where the matter to be explained might be one of delicacy, he had a way of abruptly blurting out the very thing one would have desired might be kept back. Just as an awkward surgeon will tear off the dressing, and set a wound a-bleeding, would he rudely destroy the work of time in healing by a moment of rash impatience. It was knowing this—knowing it well—that deterred Lucy from asking what might lead to something not over-agreeable to hear.
“Shall I pack your portmanteau, Tom?” asked she. It was a task that always fell to her lot.
“No; Nicholas can do it,—any one can do it,” said he, as he mumbled with an unlit cigar between his teeth.
“You used to say I always did it best, Tom,—that I never forgot anything,” said she, caressingly.
“Perhaps I did,—perhaps I thought so. Look here, Lucy,” said he, as though by an immense effort he had got strength to say what he wanted, “I am half vexed with you, if not more than half.”
“Vexed with me, Tom,—vexed with me! and for what?”
“I don't think that you need ask. I am inclined to believe that you know perfectly well what I mean, and what I would much rather not say, if you will only let me.”
“I do not,” said she, slowly and deliberately.
“Do you mean to say, Lucy,” said he, and his manner was almost stern as he spoke, “that you have no secrets from me, that you are as frank and outspoken with me today as you were three months ago?”
“I do say so.”
“Then what's the meaning of this letter?” cried he, as, carried away by a burst of passion, he overstepped all the prudential reserve he had sworn to himself to regard. “What does this mean?”
“I know nothing of that letter, nor what it contains,” said she, blushing till her very brow became crimson.
“I don't suppose you do, for though it is addressed to you, the seal is unbroken; but you know whose handwriting it's in, and you know that you have had others from the same quarter.”
“I believe the writing is Mr. Trafford's,” said she, as a deathlike paleness spread over her face, “because he himself once asked me to read a letter from him in the same handwriting.”
“Which you did?”
“No; I refused. I handed the letter back to him unopened, and said that, as I certainly should not write to him without my father's knowledge and permission, I would not read a letter from him without the same.”
“And what was the epistle, then, that the vicar's housekeeper handed him from you?”
“That same letter I have spoken of. He left it on my table, insisting and believing that on second thoughts I would read it. He thought so because it was not to me, though addressed to me, but the copy of a letter he had written to his mother, about me certainly.” Here she blushed deeply again. “As I continued, however, of the same mind, determined not to see what the letter contained, I re-enclosed it and gave it to Mrs. Brennan to hand to him.”
“And all this you kept a secret from me?”
“It was not my secret. It was his. It was his till such time as he could speak of it to my father, and this he told me had not yet come.”
“Why not?”
“I never asked him that. I do not think, Tom,” said she, with much emotion, “it was such a question as you would have had me ask.”
“Do you love—Come, darling Lucy, don't be angry with me. I never meant to wound your feelings. Don't sob that way, my dear, dear Lucy. You know what a rough coarse fellow I am; but I'd rather die than offend you. Why did you not tell me of all this? I never liked any one so well as Trafford, and why leave me to the chance of misconstruing him? Would n't it have been the best way to have trusted me as you always have?”
“I don't see what there was to have confided to you. Mr. Trafford might, if he wished. I mean, that if there was a secret at all. I don't know what I mean,” cried she, covering her face with her handkerchief, while a convulsive motion of her shoulders showed how she was moved.
“I am as glad as if I had got a thousand pounds, to know you have been so right, so thoroughly right, in all this, Lucy; and I am glad, too, that Trafford has done nothing to make me think less well of him. Let's be friends; give me your hand, like a dear, good girl, and forgive me if I have said what pained you.”
“I am not angry, Tom,” said she, giving her hand, but with her head still averted.
“God knows it's not the time for us to fall out,” said he, with a shaking voice. “Going to separate as we are, and when to be together again not so easy to imagine.”
“You are surely going out with papa?” asked she, eagerly.
“No; they say not.”
“Who says not?”
“The governor himself—Sir Brook—old Mills—everybody, in fact. They have held a committee of the whole house on it. I think Nicholas was present too; and it has been decided that as I am very much given to idleness, bitter beer, and cigars, I ought not to be anywhere where these ingredients compose the chief part of existence. Now the Cape is precisely one of these places; and if you abstract the idleness, the bitter beer, and the tobacco, there is nothing left but a little Hottentotism, which is neither pleasant nor profitable. Voted, therefore, I am not to go to the Cape. It is much easier, however, to open the geography books, and show all the places I am unfit for, than to hit upon the one that will suit me. And so I am going up to Dublin to-morrow with Sir Brook to consult—I don't well know whom, perhaps a fortune-teller—what 's to be done with me. All I do know is, I am to see my grandfather, and to wait on the Viceroy, and I don't anticipate that any of us will derive much pleasure from either event.”
“Oh, Tom! what happiness it would be to me if grandpapa—” She stopped, blushed, and tried in vain to go on.
“Which is about the least likely thing in the world, Lucy,” said he, answering her unspoken sentence. “I am just the sort of creature he could n't abide,—not to add that, from all I have heard of him, I 'd rather take three years with hard labor at the hulks than live with him. It will do very well with you. You have patience, and a soft forgiving disposition. You 'll fancy yourself, besides, Heaven knows what of a heroine, for submitting to his atrocious temper, and imagine slavery to be martyrdom. Now, I could n't. I 'd let him understand that I was one of the family, and had a born right to be as ill-tempered, as selfish, and as unmannerly as any other Lendrick.”
“But if he should like you, Tom? If you made a favorable impression upon him when you met?”
“If I should, I think I 'd go over to South Carolina, and ask some one to buy me as a negro, for I 'd know in my heart it was all I could be fit for.”
“Oh, my dear, dear Tom, I wish you would meet him in a different spirit, if only for poor papa's sake. You know what store he lays by grandpapa's affection.”
“I see it, and it puzzles me. If any one should continue to ill-treat me for five-and-twenty years, I 'd not think of beginning to forgive him till after fifty more, and I 'm not quite sure I 'd succeed then.”
“But you are to meet him, Tom,” said she, hopefully. “I trust much to your meeting.”
“That 's more than I do, Lucy. Indeed, I 'd not go at all, except on the condition which I have made with myself, to accept nothing from him. I had not meant to tell you this; but it has escaped me, and can't be helped. Don't hang your head and pout your lip over that bad boy, brother Tom. I intend to be as submissive and as humble in our interview as if I was going to owe my life to him, just because I want him to be very kind and gracious to you; and I 'd not wish to give him any reason for saying harsh things of me, which would hurt you to listen to. If I only knew how—and I protest I do not—I'd even try and make a favorable impression upon him, for I 'd like to be able to come and see you, Lucy, now and then, and it would be a sore blow to me if he forbade me.”
“You don't think I'd remain under his roof if he should do so?” asked she, indignantly.
“Not if you saw him turn me away,—shutting the door in my face; but what scores of civil ways there are of intimating that one is not welcome! But why imagine all these?—none of them may happen; and, as Sir Brook says, the worst misfortunes of life are those that never come to us; and I, for one, am determined to deal only with real, actual, present enemies. Is n't he a rare old fellow?—don't you like him, Lucy?”
“I like him greatly.”
“He loves you, Lucy,—he told me so; he said you were so like a girl whose godfather he was, and that he had loved her as if she were his own. Whether she had died, or whether something had happened that estranged them, I could n't make out; but he said you had raised up some old half-dead embers in his heart, and kindled a flame where he had thought all was to be cold forever; and the tears came into his eyes, and that great deep voice of his grew fainter and fainter, and something that sounded like a sob stopped him. I always knew he was a brave, stout-hearted, gallant fellow; but that he could feel like this I never imagined. I almost think it was some girl he was going to be married to once that you must be so like. Don't you think so?” “I don't know; I cannot even guess,” said she, slowly. “It's not exactly the sort of nature where one would expect to find much sentiment; but, as he said one day, some old hearts are like old chateaux, with strange old chambers in them that none have traversed for years and years, and with all the old furniture moth-eaten and crumbling, but standing just where it used to be. I 'd not wonder if it was of himself he was speaking.”
She remained silent and thoughtful, and he went on,—“There's a deal of romance under that quaint stern exterior. What do you think he said this morning?—'Your father's heart is wrapped up in this place, Tom; let us set to work to make money and buy it for him. 'I did not believe he was serious, and I said some stupid nonsense about a diamond necklace and ear-rings for you on the day of presentation; and he turned upon me with a fierce look, and in a voice trembling with anger, said, 'Well, sir, and whom would they become better? Is it her birth or her beauty would disparage them, if they were the jewels of a crown?' I know I 'll not cross another whim of his in the same fashion again; though he came to my room afterwards to make an apology for the tone in which he had spoken, and assured me it should never be repeated.” “I hope you told him you had not felt offended.” “I did more,—I did, at least, what pleased him more,—I said I was delighted with that plan of his about buying up the Nest, and that the very thought gave a zest to any pursuit I might engage in; and so, Lucy, it is settled between us that if his Excellency won't make me something with a fine salary and large perquisites, Sir Brook and I are to set out I'm not very sure where, and we are to do I'm not quite certain what; but two such clever fellows, uniting experience with energy, can't fail, and the double event—I mean the estate and the diamonds—are just as good as won already. Well, what do you want, Nicholas?” cried Tom, as the grim old man put his head inside the door and retired again, mumbling something as he went. “Oh, I remember it now; he has been tormenting the governor all day about getting him some place,—some situation or other; and the old rascal thinks we are the most ungrateful wretches under the sun, to be so full of our own affairs and so forgetful of his: we are certainly not likely to leave him unprovided for; he can't imagine that. Here he comes again. My father is gone into Killaloe, Nicholas; but don't be uneasy, he 'll not forget you.”
“Forgettin's one thing, Master Tom, and rememberin's the right way is another,” said Nicholas, sternly. “I told him yesterday, and I repeated it to-day, I won't go among them Hottentots.”
“Has he asked you?”
“Did he ask me?” repeated the old man, leaning forward and eying him fiercely,—“did he ask me?”
“My brother means, Nicholas, that papa could n't expect you to go so far away from your home and your friends.”
“And where's my home and my friends?” cried the irascible old fellow; “and I forty-eight years in the family? Is that the way to have a home or friends either?”
“No, Tom, no,—I entreat—I beg of you,” said Lucy, standing between her brother and the old man, and placing her hand on Tom's lips; “you know well that he can't help it.”
“That's just it,” cried Nicholas, catching the words; “I can't help it. I 'm too old to help it. It is n't after eight-and-forty years one ought to be looking out for new sarvice.”
“Papa hopes that grandpapa will have no objection to taking you, Nicholas; he means to write about it to-day; but if there should be a difficulty, he has another place.”
“Maybe I'm to 'list and be a sodger; faix, it wouldn't be much worse than going back to your grandfather.”
“Why, you discontented old fool,” burst in Tom, “have n't you been teasing our souls out these ten years back by your stories of the fine life you led in the Chief Baron's house?”
“The eatin' was better, and the drinkin' was better,” said Nicholas, resolutely. “Wherever the devil it comes from, the small beer here bangs Banagher; but for the matter of temper he was one of yourselves! and by my sowl, it's a family not easily matched!”
“I agree with you; any other man than my father would have pitched you neck and crop into the Shannon years ago,—I 'll be shot if I would n't.”
“Mind them words. What you said there is a threat; it's what the law makes a constructive threat, and we 'll see what the Coorts say to it.”
“I declare, Nicholas, you would provoke any one; you will let no one be your friend,” said Lucy; and taking her brother's arm she led him away, while the old man, watching them till they entered the shrubbery, seated himself leisurely in a deep arm-chair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “By my conscience,” muttered he, “it takes two years off my life every day I have to keep yez in order.”