On the day after the picnic Sir Brook went by invitation to breakfast
with the vicar.
“When a man asks you to dinner,” said Fossbrooke, “he generally wants
you to talk; when he asks you to breakfast, he wants to talk to you.”
Whatever be the truth of this adage generally, it certainly-had its
application in the present case. The vicar wanted very much to talk to
Sir Brook.
As they sat, therefore, over their coffee and devilled kidneys, chatting
over the late excursion and hinting at another, the vicar suddenly said:
“By the way, I want you to tell me something of the young fellow who
was one of us yesterday. Tobin, our doctor here, who is a perfect
commission-agent for scandal, says he is the greatest scamp going; that
about eight or ten months ago the 'Times' was full of his exploits in
bankruptcy; that his liabilities were tens of thousands,--assets
_nil_. In a word, that, notwithstanding his frank, honest look, and his
unaffected manner, he is the most accomplished scapegrace of the age.”
“And how much of this do you believe?” asked Sir Brook, as he helped
himself to coffee.
“That is not so easy to reply to; but I tell you, if you ask me, that I
'd rather not believe one word of it.”
“Nor need you. His Colonel told me something about the young fellow's
difficulties; he himself related the rest. He went most recklessly into
debt; betted largely on races, and lost; lent freely, and lost; raised
at ruinous interest, and renewed at still more ruinous; but his father
has paid every shilling of it out of that fortune which one day was to
have come to him, so that Lionel's thirty thousand pounds is now about
eight thousand. I have put the whole story into the fewest possible
words, but that's the substance of it.”
“And has it cured him of extravagance?”
“Of course it has not. How should it? _You_ have lived some more years
in the world than he has, and I a good many more than _you_, and
will you tell me that time has cured either of us of any of our old
shortcomings? _Non sum quails eram_ means, I can't be as wild as I used
to be.”
“No, no; I won't agree to that. I protest most strongly against the
doctrine. Many men are wiser through experience, and, consequently,
better.”
“I sincerely believe I knew the world better at four-and-twenty than I
know it now. The reason why we are less often deceived in after than
in early life is not that we are more crafty or more keen-eyed. It is
simply because we risk less. Let us hazard as much at sixty as we once
did at six-and-twenty, and we 'll lose as heavily.”
The vicar paused a few moments over the other's words, and then said,
“To come back to this young man, I half suspect he has formed an
attachment to Lucy, and that he is doing his utmost to succeed in her
favor.”
“And is there anything wrong in that, doctor?”
“Not positively wrong; but there is what may lead to a great deal
of unhappiness. Who is to say how Trafford's family would like the
connection? Who is to answer for Lendrick's approval of Trafford?”
“You induce me to make a confidence I have no right to impart; but I
rely so implicitly on your discretion. I will tell you what was
intrusted to me as a secret: Trafford has already written to his father
to ask his consent.”
“Without speaking to Lendrick? without even being sure of Lucy's?”
“Yes, without knowing anything of either; but on my advice he has first
asked his father's permission to pay his addresses to the young lady.
His position with his family is peculiar; he is a younger son, but
not exactly as free as most younger sons feel to act for themselves. I
cannot now explain this more fully, but it is enough if you understand
that he is entirely dependent on his father. When I came to know this,
and when I saw that he was becoming desperately in love, I insisted on
this appeal to his friends before he either entangled Lucy in a promise,
or even made any declaration himself. He showed me the letter before
he posted it. It was all I could wish. It is not a very easy task for
a young fellow to tell his father he 's in love; but he, in the very
frankness of his nature, acquitted himself well and manfully.”
“And what answer has he received?”
“None as yet. Two posts have passed. He might have heard through
either of them; but no letter has come, and he is feverishly uneasy and
anxious.”
The vicar was silent, but a grave motion of his head implied doubt and
fear.
“Yes,” said Sir Brook, answering the gesture,--“yes, I agree with you.
The Traffords are great folk in their own country. Trafford was a strong
place in Saxon times. They have pride enough for all this blood, and
wealth enough for both pride and blood.”
“They 'd find their match in Lendrick, quiet and simple as he seems,”
said the vicar.
“Which makes the matter worse. Who is to give way? Who is to _céder le
pas?_”
“I am not so sure I should have advised that letter. I am inclined to
think I would have counselled more time, more consideration. Fathers and
mothers are prudently averse to these loves at first sight, and they are
merciless in dealing with what they deem a mere passing sentiment.”
“Better that than suffer him to engage the girl's affections, and then
learn that he must either desert her or marry her against the feeling
of his family. Let us have a stroll in the garden. I have made you one
confidence; I will now make you another.”
They lit their cigars, and strolled out into a long alley fenced on one
side by a tall dense hedge of laurels, and flanked on the other by a low
wall, over which the view took in the wide reach of the river and the
distant mountains of Scariff and Meelick.
“Was not that where we picnicked yesterday?” asked Sir Brook, pointing
to an island in the distance.
“No; you cannot see Holy Island from this.”
Sir Brook smoked on for some minutes without a word; at last, with a
sort of abruptness, he said, “She was so like her, not only in face and
figure, but her manner; the very tone of her voice was like; and then
that half-caressing, half-timid way she has in conversation, and, more
than all, the sly quietness with which she caps you when you fancy that
the smart success is all your own.”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“Of another Lucy,” said Sir Brook, with a deep melancholy. “Heaven
grant that the resemblance follow them not in their lives as in their
features! It was that likeness, however, which first attracted me
towards Miss Lendrick. The first moment I saw her it overcame me; as I
grew to know her better, it almost confused me, and made me jumble in
your hearing things of long ago with the present. Time and space were
both forgotten, and I found my mind straying away to scenes in the
Himalaya with those I shall never see more. It was thus that, one day
carried away by this delusion, I chanced to call her Lucy, and she
laughingly begged me not to retract it, but so to call her always.” For
some minutes he was silent, and then resumed: “I don't know if you ever
heard of a Colonel Frank Dillon, who served on Napier's staff in Scinde.
Fiery Frank was his nickname among his comrades, but it only applied
to him on the field of battle, and with an enemy in front. Then he was
indeed fiery,--the excitement rose to almost madness, and led him to
acts of almost incredible daring. At Meanee he was nearly cut to pieces,
and as he lay wounded, and to all appearance dying, he received a
lance-wound through the chest that the surgeon declared must prove
fatal. He lived, however, for eight months after,--he lived long enough
to reach the Himalayas, where his daughter, an only child, joined him
from England. On her way out she became acquainted with a young officer,
who was coming out as aide-de-camp to the Governor-General. They were
constantly thrown together on the journey, and his attentions to her
soon showed the sentiments he had conceived for her. In fact, very soon
after Lucy had joined her father, Captain Sewell appeared 'in the Hills'
to make a formal demand of her in marriage.
“I was there at the time, and I remember well poor Dillon's expression
of disappointment after the first meeting with him. His daughter's
enthusiastic description of his looks, his manner, his abilities, his
qualities generally, had perhaps prepared him for too much. Indeed,
Lucy's own intense admiration for the soldierlike character of her
father's features assisted the mistake; for, as Dillon said, 'There must
be a dash of the _sabreur_ in the fellow that will win Lucy.' I came
into Dillon's room immediately after the first interview. The instant
I caught his eye I read what was going on in his brain. 'Sit down here,
Brook,' cried he, 'sit in my chair here;' and he arose painfully as he
spoke. 'I'll show you the man.' With this he hobbled over to a table
where his cap lay, and, placing it rakishly on one side of his head, he
stuck his eyeglass in one eye, and, with a hand in his trousers-pocket,
lounged forward towards where I sat, saying, 'How d' ye do, Colonel?
Wound doing better, I hope. The breezy climate up here soon set you up.'
'Familiar enough this, sir,' cried Dillon, in his own stern voice; 'but
without time to breathe, as it were,--before almost I had exchanged
a greeting with him,--he entered upon the object of his journey. I
scarcely heard a word he said; I knew its purport,--I could mark the
theme,--but no more. It was not the fellow himself that filled my mind;
my whole thoughts were upon my daughter, and I went on repeating to
myself, “Good heavens! is this Lucy's choice? Am I in a trance? Is
it this contemptible cur (for he was a cur, sir) that has won the
affections of my darling, high-hearted, generous girl? Is the romantic
spirit that I have so loved to see in her to bear no better fruit than
this? Does the fellow realize to her mind the hero that fills men's
thoughts?” I was so overcome, so excited, so confused, Brook, that I
begged him to leave me for a while, that one of my attacks of pain was
coming on, and that I should not be able to converse farther He said
something about trying one of his cheroots,--some impertinence or other,
I forget what; but he left me, and I, who never knew a touch of girlish
weakness in my life, who when a child had no mood of softness in my
nature,--I felt the tears trickling along my cheeks, and my eyes dimmed
with them.' My poor friend,” continued Fossbrooke, “could not go on; his
emotions mastered him, and he sat with his head buried between his hands
and in silence. At last he said, 'She 'll not give him up, Brook; I have
spoken to her,--she actually loves him. Good heavens!' he cried, 'how
little do we know about our children's hearts! how far astray are we as
to the natures that have grown up beside us, imbibing, as we thought,
our hopes, our wishes, and our prejudices! We awake some day to discover
that some other influence has crept in to undo our teachings, and
that the fidelity on which we would have staked our lives has changed
allegiance.'
“He talked to me long in this strain, and I saw that the effects of this
blow to all his hopes had made themselves deeply felt on his chance of
recovery. It only needed a great shock to depress him to make his case
hopeless. Within two months after his daughter's arrival he was no more.
“I became Lucy's guardian. Poor Dillon gave me the entire control over
her future fortune, and left me to occupy towards her the place he had
himself held. I believe that next to her father I held the best place
in her affections,--of such affections, I mean, as are accorded to
a parent. I was her godfather, and from her earliest infancy she had
learned to love me. The reserve--it was positive coldness--with which
Dillon had always treated Sewell had caused a certain distance, for the
first time in their lives, between the father and daughter. She thought,
naturally enough, that her father was unjust; that, unaccustomed to the
new tone of manners which had grown up amongst young men,--their greater
ease, their less rigid observance of ceremonial, their more liberal
self-indulgence,--he was unfairly severe upon her lover. She was
annoyed, too, that Sewells attempts to conciliate the old man should
have turned out such complete failures. But none of these prejudices
extended to me, and she counted much on the good understanding that she
expected to find grow up between us.
“If I could have prevented the marriage, I would. I learned many things
of the man that I disliked. There is no worse sign of a man than to be
at the same time a man of pleasure and friendless. These he was,--he was
foremost in every plan of amusement and dissipation, and yet none liked
him. Vain fellows get quizzed for their vanity, and selfish men laughed
at for their selfishness, and close men for their avarice; but there
is a combination of vanity, egotism, small craftiness, and
self-preservation in certain fellows that is totally repugnant to all
companionship. Their lives are a series of petty successes, not owing
to any superior ability or greater boldness of daring, but to a studious
outlook for small opportunities. They are ever alive to know the 'right
man,' to be invited to the 'right house,' to say the 'right thing.'
Never linked with whatever is in disgrace or misfortune, they are always
found backing the winning horse, if not riding him.
“Such men as these, so long as the world goes well with them, and events
turn out fortunately, are regarded simply as sharp, shrewd fellows,
with a keen eye to their own interests. When, however, the weight of
any misfortune comes, when the time arrives that they have to bear up
against the hard pressure of life, these fellows come forth in their
true colors, swindlers and cheats.
“Such was he. Finding that I was determined to settle the small fortune
her father had left her inalienably on herself, he defeated me by a
private marriage. He then launched out into a life of extravagance to
which their means bore no proportion. I was a rich man in those days,
and knew nothing better to do with my money than assist the daughter of
my oldest friend. The gallant Captain did not balk my good intentions.
He first accepted, he then borrowed, and last of all he forged my name.
I paid the bills and saved him, not for his sake, I need not tell you,
but for hers, who threw herself at my feet, and implored me not to see
them ruined. Even this act of hers he turned to profit. He wrote to
me to say that he knew his wife had been to my house, that he had long
nurtured suspicions against me,--I that was many years older than her
own father,--that for the future he desired all acquaintance should
cease between us, and that I should not again cross his threshold.
“By what persuasions or by what menaces he led his wife to the step, I
do not know; but she passed me when we met without a recognition. This
was the hardest blow of all. I tried to write her a letter; but after a
score of attempts I gave it up, and left the place.
“I never saw her for eight years. I wish I had not seen her then. I
am an old, hardened man of the world, one whom life has taught all its
lessons to in the sternest fashion. I have been so baffled and beaten,
and thrown back by all my attempts to think well of the world, that
nothing short of a dogged resolution not to desert my colors has rescued
me from a cold misanthropy; and yet, till I saw, I did not believe
there was a new pang of misery my heart had not tasted. What? it is
incredible,--surely that is not she who once was Lucy Dillon,--that
bold-faced woman with lustrous eyes and rouged cheeks,--brilliant,
indeed, and beautiful, but not the beauty that is allied to the
thought of virtue,--whose every look is a wile, whose every action is
entanglement. She was leaning on a great man's arm, and in the smile she
gave him told me how she knew to purchase such distinctions. He noticed
me, and shook my hand as I passed. I heard him tell her who I was; and
I heard her say that I had been a hanger-on, a sort of dependant of her
father's, but she never liked me! I tried to laugh, but the pain was too
deep. I came away, and saw her no more.”
He ceased speaking, and for some time they walked along side by side
without a word. At last he broke out: “Don't believe the people who say
that men are taught by anything they experience in life. Outwardly they
may affect it. They may assume this or that manner. The heart cannot
play the hypocrite, and no frequency of disaster diminishes the smart.
The wondrous resemblance Miss Lendrick bears to Lucy Dillon renews to my
memory the bright days of her early beauty, when her poor father would
call her to sit down at his feet and read to him, that he might gaze
at will on her, weaving whole histories of future happiness and joy for
her. 'Is it not like sunshine in the room to see her, Brook?' would he
whisper to me. 'I only heard her voice as she passed under my window
this morning, and I forgot some dark thought that was troubling me.'
And there was no exaggeration in this. The sweet music of her tones
“vibrated so softly on the ear, they soothed the sense, just as we feel
soothed by the gentle ripple of a stream.
“All these times come back to me since I have been here, and I cannot
tell you how the very sorrow that is associated with them has its power
over me. Every one knows with what attachment the heart will cling to
some little spot in a far-away land that reminds one of a loved place at
home,--how we delight to bring back old memories, and how we even like
to name old names, to cheat ourselves back into the past. So it is that
I feel when I see this girl. The other Lucy was once as my daughter; so,
too, do I regard her, and with this comes that dreadful sorrow I have
told you of, giving my interest in her an intensity unspeakable. When
I saw Trafford's attention to her, the only thing I thought of was
how unlike he was to him who won the other Lucy. His frank, unaffected
bearing, his fine, manly trustfulness, the very opposite to the other's
qualities, made me his friend at once. When I say friend, I mean
well-wisher, for my friendship now bears no other fruit. Time was when
it was otherwise.”
“What is it, William?” cried the vicar, as his servant came hurriedly
forward.
“There 's a gentleman in the drawing-room, sir, wants to see Sir Brook
Fossbrooke.”
“Have I your leave?” said the old man, bowing low. “I 'll join you here
immediately.”
Within a few moments he was back again. “It was Trafford. He has just
got a telegram to call him to his regiment. He suspects something has
gone wrong; and seeing his agitation, I offered to go back with him. We
start within an hour.”