It was well for poor Lendrick that he was not to witness the great
change which, in a few short weeks, had been effected in his once home.
So complete, indeed, was the transformation, there was but very little
left beyond the natural outline of the scenery to remind one of that
lovely nook in which the tasteful cottage nestled. The conservatory had
been converted into a dining-room; the former dinner-room being fitted
up for a billiard-room. The Swiss cowhouse, a pretty little conceit, on
which Lendrick had lavished some money and more time, was turned into
a stable, with three loose boxes; and the neat lawn, whose velvet sward
was scarce less beautiful than the glittering flower-beds that studded
it, was ruthlessly cut up into a racecourse, with hurdles and fences and
double ditches, to represent a stiff country, and offer all the features
of a steeple-chase.
It needed not the assurance of Mr. Kimball, the house-agent, to proclaim
that his client was very unlike the last occupant of the place. “_He_
was no recluse, no wretched misanthropist, hiding his discontent amongst
shrubs and forcing-beds; he was a man of taste and refinement, with
knowledge of life and its requirements. He would be an acquisition to
any neighborhood.”
Now, the last phrase--and he invariably made it his peroration--has a
very wide and sweeping acceptation. It appeals to the neighborhood with
all the charms that pertain to social intercourse; a guest the more and
a host the more are no small claims in small places. It appeals to the
parson, as another fountain from which to draw draughts of benevolence.
To the doctor it whispers fees and familiar dinners. Galen knows that
the luckiest of men are not exempt from human ills, and that gout comes
as a frequent guest where the cook is good and the wine tempting;
and the butcher himself revels in the thought of a “good family” that
consumes sirloins and forestalls sweetbreads.
It was somewhat trying to young Tom Lendrick, who had gone down to the
Nest to fetch away some remnants of fishing-tackle he had left there, to
hear these glowing anticipations of the new-comer, so evidently placed
in contrast with the quiet and inexpensive life his father had led. How
unlike were his father and this “acquisition to any neighborhood,”
was impressed upon him at any moment! How could a life of unobtrusive
kindness, of those daily ministerings to poor men's wants, compete with
the glitter and display which were to adorn a neighborhood?
Already were people beginning to talk of Lendrick as odd, eccentric,
peculiar; to set down his finest qualities as strange traits of a
strange temperament, and rather, on the whole, to give themselves credit
for the patience and forbearance which they had shown to one who, after
all, was “simply an egotist.”
Yes, such are not unfrequent judgments in this same world of ours; and
if you would have men's suffrages for the good you do, take care that
you do it conventionally. Be in all things like those around you; and if
there be a great man in your vicinity, whenever a doubt arises in your
mind as to any course of action, do as you may imagine he might do.
Young Lendrick came away not a little disgusted with this taste of human
fickleness. The sight of their old home changed even to desecration was
bad enough, but this cold ingratitude was worse.
Had he gone into the cabins of the poor, had he visited the humble
dwellings where his father's generous devotion had brought him face
to face with famine and fever, he would have heard much to redress the
balance of these opinions. He would have heard those warm praises
that come from sorrow-stricken hearts, the wail of the friendless and
forlorn. Tom heard not these, and he returned to town with a feeling of
anger and resentment against the world he had never known before.
“How absurd it is in old Fossbrooke,” thought he, “to go on saying money
cannot do this, that, and t'other! Why, it can do everything. It does
not alone make a man great, powerful, and influential, but it gains him
the praise of being good and kind and generous. Look at my poor father,
who never had a thought but for others, who postponed himself to all
around him; and yet here is some one, whose very name is unknown, more
eagerly looked for, more ardently desired, than would he be were it to
be announced to-morrow he was coming back to live amongst them. What
nonsense it is to say that the world cares for any qualities save those
it can utilize; and I am only amazed how a man could have seen so much
of life as Sir Brook and gained so little by his experience.”
It was in this mood he got back to the little lodging in a humble suburb
called Cullen's Wood, where Sir Brook awaited him. It is not impossible
that the disparities of temperament in this world are just as
beneficial, just as grateful, as are the boundless variety and change we
find in nature. To Tom Lendrick's depression, almost disgust with life,
Sir Brook brought that bright, hopeful, happy spirit which knew how to
throw sunlight on every path to be travelled.
He had received good news, or what he thought was good news, from
Sardinia. A new vein of ore had been struck,--very “fat” ore they called
it,--some eighty-odd per cent, and a fair promise of silver in it. “They
ask me for thirty thousand francs, though, Tom,” said he, with a smile;
“they might as well have written 'pounds' when they were about it. They
want to repair the engine and erect a new crane. They say, too, the
chains are worn and unsafe,--a thing to be looked to, or we shall have
some accidents. In fact, they need fully double what they ask for; and
seeing how impossible was the performance, I am astonished at their
modesty.”
“And what do you mean to do, sir?” asked Tom, bluntly.
“I have been thinking of two courses: my first thought was to make a
formal conveyance of the mine to you and your sister, for your joint use
and benefit. This done, and I standing aloof from all possible interest
in it, I bethought me of a loan to be raised on the security of the
property,--not publicly, not generally, but amongst your father's
friends and well-wishers,--beginning with the neighborhood where he has
lived so long, and around which he has sowed the seeds of such benefits
as needs must ripen in gratitude.”
“Indulge no delusions on that score, sir. There is not a man in the
county, except old Mills the vicar, perhaps, has a good word for us; and
as to going to one of them for assistance, I 'd rather sweep a
crossing. You shake your head, Sir Brook, and you smile at my passionate
denunciation; but it is true, every word of it. I heard, in the
few hours I spent there, scores of stories of my poor father's
eccentricity,--his forgetfulness, his absence, and what not,--but
never a syllable of his noble liberality, his self-sacrifice, or his
gentleness.”
“My dear Tom,” said the old man, solemnly, “when you have lived to
one-half my age, you will discover that the world is not so much cursed
with ill-nature as with levity, and that when men talk disparagingly of
their fellows, they do so rather to seem witty than to be just. There
was not, perhaps, one of those who tried to raise a laugh at your
father's oddities, or who assumed to be droll at his expense, who would
not in a serious mood have conceded to him every good and great trait
of his nature. The first step in worldly knowledge is to rise above all
consideration of light gossip. Take my word for it, we often confirm men
in wrong thinking by opposition, who, if left to themselves and their
own hearts, would review their judgments, and even retract them.”
Tom took a hasty turn up and down the room; a ready reply was on his
lip; indeed, it was with difficulty he repressed it, but he did so, and
stood in seeming acquiescence to what he had heard. At last he said,
“And the other plan, Sir Brook,--what was that?”
“Perhaps a more likely one, Tom,” said the old man, cheerfully. “It was
to apply directly to your grandfather, a man whose great intelligence
would enable him to examine a project with whose details he had not ever
before versed himself, and ask whether he would not make the advance we
require on mortgage or otherwise.”
“I don't think I 'd like to ask him,” said Tom, with a grim smile.
“The proposal could come from me,” said Sir Brook, proudly, “if he would
graciously accord me an interview.”
Tom turned away to hide a smile, for he thought, if such a meeting were
to take place, what he would give to be an unseen witness of it,--to
watch the duel between antagonists so different, and whose weapons were
so unlike.
“My sister knows him better than any of us,” said Tom, at last; “might I
consult her as to the likelihood of any success with him?”
“By all means; it is what I would have myself advised.”
“I will do so, then, to-day. I ought to have gone to see her yesterday;
but I will go to-day, and report progress when I come back. I have a
long budget for her,” added he, with a sigh,--“a catalogue of all the
things I am not going to do. I am not going to be a medallist, nor win
a fellowship, nor even be a doctor; it will, however, give me great
courage if I can say, I 'll be a miner.”
Tom Lendrick was right when he said he should have gone to see his
sister on the day before, though he was not fully aware how right. The
Chief Baron, in laying down a few rules for Lucy's guidance, made a
point of insisting that she should only receive visitors on one day of
the week; and in this regulation he included even her brother. So averse
was the old man to be exposed to even a passing meeting with strangers,
that on these Tuesdays he either kept his room or retired to a little
garden of which he kept the key, and from whose precincts all were
rigorously excluded.
Well knowing her brother's impatience of anything like restricted
liberty, and how rapidly he would connect such an injunction as this
with a life of servitude and endurance, Lucy took care to make the time
of receiving him appear a matter of her own choice and convenience, and
at the time of parting would say, “Good-bye till Tuesday, Tom; don't
forget Tuesday, for we shall be sure to be alone and to ourselves.” He
the more easily believed this, that on these same Tuesdays the whole
place seemed deserted and desolate. The grave-looking man in black, who
preceded him up the stairs, ushered him along the corridor, and finally
announced him, awaited him like a piece of machinery, repeating every
movement and gesture with an unbroken uniformity, and giving him to
understand that not only his coming was expected, but all the details of
his reception had been carefully prescribed and determined on.
“As I follow that fellow along the passage, Lucy,” said Tom, one day, “I
can't help thinking that I experience every sensation of a man going to
be hanged,--his solemn face, his measured tread, the silence, and the
gloom,--only needing pinioned arms to make the illusion perfect.”
“Tie them around me, dearest Tom,” said she, laughing, and drawing him
to a seat beside her on the sofa; “and remember,” added she, “you have
a long day. Your sentence will not come off for another week;” and thus
jestingly did she contrive to time his coming without ever letting him
know the restrictions that defined his visits.
Now, the day before this conversation between Sir Brook and Tom took
place being a Tuesday, Lucy had watched long and anxiously for his
coming. She knew he had gone down to Killaloe on the preceding Saturday,
but he had assured her he would be back and be with her by Tuesday.
Lucy's life was far from unhappy, but it was one of unbroken uniformity,
and the one sole glimpse of society was that meeting with her brother,
whose wayward thoughts and capricious notions imparted to all he said
a something striking and amusing. He usually told her how his week had
been passed,--where he had been and with whom,--and she had learned to
know his companions, and ask after them by name. Her chief interest was,
however, about Sir Brook, from whom Tom usually brought a few lines,
but always in an unsealed envelope, inscribed, “By the favor of Mr.
Lendrick, jun.”
How often would Tom quiz her about the respectful devotion of her old
admirer, and jestingly ask her if she could consent to marry him. “I
know he'll ask you the question one of these days, Lucy, and it's your
own fault if you give him such encouragement as may mislead him.” And
then they would talk over the romance of the old man's nature, wondering
whether the real world would be rendered more tolerable or the reverse
by that ideal tone which so imaginative a temperament could give it “Is
it not strange,” said Tom, one day, “that I can see all the weakness of
his character wherever my own interests do not come, but the moment he
presents before me some bright picture of a splendid future, a great
name to achieve, a great fortune to make, that moment he takes me
captive, and I regard him not as a visionary or a dreamer, but as a man
of consummate shrewdness and great knowledge of life?”
“In this you resemble Sancho Panza, Tom,” said she, laughing. “He had
little faith in his master's chivalry, but he implicitly believed in the
island he was to rule over;” and from that day forward she called her
brother Sancho and Sir Brook the Don.
On the day after that on which Tom's visit should have been but was
not paid, Lucy sat at luncheon with her grandfather in a small
breakfast-room which opened on the lawn. The old Judge was in unusual
spirits; he had just received an address from the Bar, congratulating
him on his recovery, and expressing hope that he might be soon again
seen on that Bench he had so much ornamented by his eloquence and his
wisdom. The newspapers, too, with a fickleness that seems their most
invariable feature, spoke most flatteringly of his services, and placed
his name beside those who had conferred highest honor on the judgeship.
“It is neatly worded, Lucy,” said the old man, taking up the paper on
which the address was written; “and the passage that compares me with
Mansfield is able as well as true. Both Mansfield and myself understood
how there stands above all written law that higher, greater, grander
law, that is based in the heart of all humanity, in the hope of an
eternal justice, and soars above every technicality, by the intense
desire of truth. It would have been, however, no more than fair to have
added that, to an intellect the equal of Mansfield, I brought a temper
which Mansfield had not, and a manner which if found in the courts
of royalty, is seldom met with on the Bench. I do not quite like
that phrase, 'the rapid and unerring glance of Erskine.' Erskine was
brilliant for a Scotchman, but a brilliant Scotchman is but a third-rate
Irishman. They who penned this might have known as much. I am better
pleased with the words, 'the noble dignity of Lord Eldon.' There, my
child, there, they indeed have hit upon a characteristic. In Eldon
nature seemed to have created the judicial element in a high degree. It
would be the vulgarity of modesty to pretend not to recognize in my own
temperament a like organization.
“May I read you, Lucy, the few words in which I mean to reply to this
courteous address? Will it bore you, my dear?”
“On the contrary, sir, I shall feel myself honored as well as
interested.”
“Sit where you are, then, and I will retire to the far corner of the
room. You shall judge if my voice and delivery be equal to the effort;
for I mean to return my thanks in person, Lucy. I mean to add the force
of my presence to the vigor of my sentiments. I have bethought me of
inviting those who have signed this document to luncheon here; and it
may probably be in the large drawing-room that I shall deliver this
reply. If not, it may possibly be in my court before rising,--I have not
fully determined.” So saying, he arose, and with feeble steps--assisting
himself, as he went, by the table, and then grasping a chair--he moved
slowly across the room. She knew him too well to dare to offer her arm,
or appear in any way to perceive his debility. That he felt, and felt
bitterly, “the curse of old age,” as he once profanely called it, might
be marked in the firm compression of his lips and the stern frown that
settled on him, while, as he sank into a seat, a sad weary sigh declared
the utter exhaustion that overcame him.
It was not till after some minutes that he rallied sufficiently to
unroll his manuscript and adjust his spectacles. The stillness in the
room was now perfect; not a sound was heard save the faint hum of a bee
which had strayed into the room, and was vaguely floating about to
find an exit. Lucy sat in an attitude of patient attention,--her hands
crossed before her, and her eyes slightly downcast.
A faint low cough, and he began, but in a voice tremulous and faint,
“'Mr. Chief Sergeant, and Gentlemen of the Bar'--do you hear me, Lucy?”
“Yes, sir, I hear you.”
“I will try to be more audible; I will rest for a moment.” fie laid his
paper on his knees, closed his eyes, and sat immovable for some seconds.
It was at this moment, when to the intense stillness was added a sense
of expectancy, the honeysuckle that grew across the window moved, the
frail branches gave way, and a merry voice called out, “Scene the first:
a young lady discovered at luncheon!” and with a spring Tom Lendrick
bounced into the room, and, ere her cry of alarm had ended, was clasping
his sister in his arms.
“Oh, Tom, dearest Tom, why to-day? Grandpapa--grandpapa is here,” sighed
she, rather than whispered, in his ear.
The young man started back, more struck by the emotion he had shown than
by her words, and the Chief Baron advanced towards him with a manner
of blended courtesy and dignity, saying, “I am glad to know you. Your
sister's brother must be very welcome to me.”
“I wish I could make a proper excuse for this mode of entry, sir. First
of all, I thought Lucy was alone; and, secondly--”
“Never mind the second plea; I submit to a verdict on the first,” said
the Judge, smiling.
“Tom forgot; it was Tuesday was his day,” began Lucy.
“I have no day; days are all alike to me, Lucy. My occupations of
Monday could be transferred to a Saturday, or, if need be, postponed
indefinitely beyond it.”
“The glorious leisure of the fortunate,” said the Judge, with a peculiar
smile.
“Or the vacuity of the unlucky, possibly,” said Tom, with an easy laugh.
“At all events, young gentleman, you carry your load jauntily.”
“One reason is, perhaps, that I never knew it was a load. I have always
paraded in heavy marching order, so that I don't mind the weight of my
pack.”
For the first time did the old man's features relax into a look of
kindly meaning. To find the youth not merely-equal to appreciate a
figure of speech, but able to carry on the illustration, seemed so to
identify him with his own blood and kindred that the old Judge felt
himself instinctively drawn towards him.
“Lucy, help your brother to something; there was an excellent curry
there awhile ago,--if it be not cold.”
“I have set my affections on that cold beef. It seems tome an age since
I have seen a real sirloin.”
A slight twitch crossed the Judge's face,--a pang he felt at what might
be an insinuated reproach at his in hospitality; and he said, in a
tone of almost apology, “We see no one---absolutely no one--here. Lucy
resigns herself to the companionship of a very dreary old man whom all
else have forgotten.”
“Don't say so, grandpapa, on the day when such a testimony of esteem and
affection reaches you.”
Young Lendrick looked up from his plate, turning his eyes first towards
his sister, then towards his grandfather; his glance was so palpably an
interrogatory, there was no-mistaking it. Perhaps the old man's first
impulse was not to reply; but his courtesy or his vanity, or a blending
of both, carried the day, and he said, in a voice of much feeling: “Your
sister refers to an address I have just received,--an address which
the Irish Bar have deemed proper to transmit to me with their
congratulations on my recovery. It is as gratifying, it is as
flattering, as she says. My brethren have shown that they can rise above
all consideration of sect or party in tendering their esteem to a man
whom no administration has ever been able to convert into a partisan.”
“But you have always been a Whig, sir, haven't you?” said Tom, bluntly.
“I have been a Whig, sir, in the sense that a King is a Royalist,” said
the old man, haughtily; and though Tom felt sorely provoked to reply
to this pretentious declaration, he only gave a wicked glance at his
sister, and drank off his wine.
“It was at the moment of your unexpected appearance,” continued the
Judge, “that I was discussing with your sister whether my reply to this
compliment would come better if delivered here, or from my place on the
Bench.”
“I 'd say from the Bench,” said Tom, as he helped himself to another
slice of beef.
The old man gave a short cough, with a start. The audacity of tendering
advice so freely and positively overcame him; and his color, faint
indeed, rose to his withered cheek, and his eye glittered as he said,
“Might I have the benefit of hearing the reasons which have led you to
this opinion?”
“First of all,” said Tom, in a careless off-hand way, “I take it the
thing would have more--what shall I say?--dignity; secondly, the men
who have signed the address might feel they were treated with more
consideration; and lastly,--it 's not a very good reason, but I 'm
bound to own it,--I 'd like to hear it myself, which I could if it were
delivered in public, but which I am not so likely to do if spoken here.”
“Oh, Tom, dear Tom!” whispered his sister, in dismay at a speech so
certain to be accepted in its least pleasing signification.
“You have already to-day reminded me of my deficiencies in hospitality,
sir. This second admonition was uncalled for. It is happy for _me_ that
my defence is unassailable. It is happy for _you_ that your impeachment
is unwitnessed.”
“You have mistaken me, sir,” said Tom, eagerly. “I never thought of
reflecting on your hospitality. I simply meant to say that as I find
myself here to-day by a lucky accident, I scarcely look to Fortune to do
me such another good turn in a hurry.”
“Your father's fault--a fault that would have shipwrecked fourfold
more ability than ever he possessed--was a timidity that went to very
cowardice. He had no faith in himself, and he inspired no confidence
in others. Yours is, if possible, a worse failing. You have boldness
without knowledge. You have the rashness that provokes a peril, and
no part of the skill that teaches how to meet it. It was with a wise
prescience that I saw we should not be safe company for each other.”
He arose as he spoke, and, motioning back Lucy as she approached to
offer her arm, he tottered from the room, to all seeming more overcome
by passion than even by years and infirmity.
“Well!” said Tom, as he threw his napkin on the table, and pushed his
chair back, “I 'll be shot if I know how I provoked that burst of
anger, or to what I owe that very neat and candid appreciation of my
character.”
Lucy threw her arm around his neck, and, bending over his shoulder till
her face touched his own, said, “Oh, my dearest Tom, if you only knew
how nervous and susceptible he is, in part from his nature, but more,
far more, from suffering and sorrow! Left to the solitude of his own
bitter thoughts for years, without one creature to whisper a kind word
or a hopeful thought, is it any wonder if his heart has begun to consume
itself?”
“Devilish bitter diet it must find it! Pass me over the Madeira, Lucy.
I mean to have my last glass to the old gentleman's health and better
temper.”
“He has moments of noble generosity that would win all your love,” said
she, enthusiastically.
“You have a harder lot than ever I thought it, my poor Lucy,” said
he, looking into her eyes with an affectionate solicitude. “This is so
unlike our old home.”
“Oh, so unlike!” said she; and her lip quivered and her eyes grew glazy.
“And can you bear it, girl? Does it not seem to you like a servitude to
put up with such causeless passion, such capricious anger as this?”
She shook her head mournfully, but made no answer.
“If it be your woman's nature enables you to do it, all I can say is, I
don't envy you your sex.”
“But, Tom, remember his years,--remember his age.”
“By Jove, he took good care to remind me of my own!--not that he was so
far wrong in what he said of me, Lucy. I felt all the while he had 'hit
the blot,' and I would have owned it too, if he had n't taken himself
off so quickly.”
“If you had, Tom,--if you had said but one word to this purport,--you
would have seen how nobly forgiving he could be in an instant.”
“Forgiving,--humph! I don't think the forgiveness was to have come from
_him_.”
“Sir William wishes to speak with you, Miss Lucy,” said the butler,
entering hastily.
“I must go, Tom,--good-bye. I will write to you tomorrow,--to-night, if
I can,--good-bye, my dearest brother; be sure to come on Tuesday,--mind,
Tuesday. You will be certain to find me alone.”