The old Chief sat alone in his dining-room over his wine. If somewhat
fatigued by the labors of the day,--for the Court had sat late,--he
showed little of exhaustion; still less was he, as his years might have
excused, drowsy or heavy. He sat bolt upright in his chair, and by an
occasional gesture of his hand, or motion of his head, seemed as though
he were giving assent to some statement he was listening to, or making
his comments on it as it proceeded.
The post had brought a letter to Lucy just as dinner was over. It bore
the post-mark “Cagliari,” and was in her brother's hand; and the old
man, with considerate kindness, told her to go to her room and read it.
“No, my dear child,” said he, as she arose to leave the room; “no! I
shall not be lonely,--where there is memory there are troops of friends.
Come back and tell me your news when you have read your letter.”
More than an hour passed over, and he sat there heedless of time. A
whole long life was passing in review before him, not connectedly, or in
due sequence of events, but in detached scenes and incidents. Now it
was some stormy night in the old Irish House, when Flood and Grattan
exchanged their terrific denunciations and insults,--now it was a
brilliant dinner at Ponsonby's, with all the wits of the day,--now he
was leading the famous Kitty O'Dwyer, the beauty of the Irish Court, to
her carriage, amid such a murmur of admiration as made the progress a
triumph; or, again, it was a raw morning of November, and he was driving
across the park to be present at Curran's meeting with Egan.
A violent ring of the hall bell startled him, and before he could
inquire the cause a servant had announced Dr. Beattie.
“I thought I might be fortunate enough to catch you before bed-hour,”
said the doctor, “and I knew you would like to hear some tidings of my
mission.”
“You have been to--Where have you been?” said the old Judge, embarrassed
between the late flood of his recollections and the sudden start of his
arrival.
“To Killaloe, to see that poor fellow who had the severe fall in the
hurdle-race.”
“Ay--to be sure--yes. I remember all now. Give me a moment, however.” He
nodded his head twice or thrice, as if concurring with some statement,
and then said, “Go on, sir; the Court is with you.”
Beattie proceeded to detail the accident and the state of the
sufferer,--of whom he pronounced favorably,--saying that there was no
fracture, nor anything worse than severe concussion. “In fact,” said he,
“were it an hospital case, I'd say there was very little danger.”
“And do you mean to tell me, sir,” said the Judge, who had followed the
narrative with extreme attention, “that the man of birth and blood must
succumb in any conflict more readily than the low-born?”
“It's not the individual I was thinking of, so much as his belongings
here. What I fear for in the present case is what the patient must
confront every day of his convalescence.”
Seeing that the Judge waited for some explanation, Beattie began to
relate that, as he had started from Dublin the day before, he found
himself in the same carriage with the young man's mother, who had been
summoned by telegraph to her son's bedside.
“I have met,” said he, “in my time, nearly all sorts and conditions
of people. Indeed, a doctor's life brings him into contact with more
maladies of nature and temperament than diseases of material origin;
but anything like this woman I never saw before. To begin: she combined
within herself two qualities that seem opposed to each other,--a most
lavish candor on the score of herself and her family, and an intense
distrust of all the rest of mankind. She told me she was a baronet's
wife; how she had married him; where they lived; what his estate was
worth; how this young fellow had become, by the death of a brother, the
heir to the property; and how his father, indignant at his extravagance,
had disentailed the estate, to leave it to a younger son if so disposed.
She showed at times the very greatest anxiety about her son's state; but
at other moments just as intense an eagerness to learn what schemes and
intrigues were being formed against him,--who were the people in whose
house he then was, what they were, and how he came there. To all my
assurances that they were persons in every respect her son's equals,
she answered by a toss of the head or a saucy half-laugh. 'Irish?' asked
she. 'Yes, Irish.' 'I thought so,' rejoined she; 'I told Sir Hugh I
was sure of it, though he said there were English Sewells.' From this
instant her distrust broke forth. All Ireland had been in a conspiracy
against her family for years. She had a brother, she said it with a
shiver of horror, who was cruelly beaten by an attorney in Cork for a
little passing pleasantry to the man's sister; he had kissed her, or
something of the kind, in a railroad carriage; and her cousin,--poor
dear Cornwall is Merivale,--it was in Ireland he found that creature
that got the divorce against him two years since. She went on to say
that there had been a plot against her son, in the very neighborhood
where he now lay ill, only a year ago,--some intrigue to involve him in
a marriage, the whole details of which she threatened me with the first
time we should be alone.
“Though at some moments expressing herself in terms of real affection
and anxiety about her poor son, she would suddenly break off to
speculate on what might happen from his death. 'You know, doctor, there
is only one more boy, and if his life lapsed, Holt and the Holt estate
goes to the Carringtons.'”
“An odious woman, sir,--a most odious woman; I only wonder why you
continued to travel in the same carriage with her.”
“My profession teaches great tolerance,” said the doctor, mildly.
“Don't call tolerance, sir, what there is a better word
for,--subserviency. I am amazed how you endured this woman.”
“Remember--it is to'be remembered--that in my version of her I have
condensed the conversation of some hours, and given you, as it were, the
substance of much talking; and also that I have not attempted to convey
what certainly was a very perfect manner. She had no small share of
good looks, a very sweet voice, and considerable attraction in point of
breeding.”
“I will accept none of these as alleviations, sir; her blandishments
cannot blind the Court.”
“I will not deny their influence upon myself,” said Beattie, gently.
“I can understand you, sir,” said the Judge, pompously. “The habits of
your profession teach you to swallow so much that is nauseous in a sweet
vehicle, that you carry the same custom into morals.”
Beattie laughed so heartily at the analogy that the old man's good-humor
returned to him, and he bade him continue his narrative.
“I have not much more to tell. We reached the house by about eleven
o'clock at night, and my fellow-traveller sat in the carriage till I
announced her to Mrs. Sewell. My own cares called me to the sick-room,
and I saw no more of the ladies till this morning, just before I came
away.”
“She is, then, domesticated there? She has taken up her quarters at the
Sewells' house?”
“Yes. I found her maid, too, had taken possession of Colonel Sewell's
dressing-room, and dispossessed a number of his chattels to make room
for her own.”
“It is a happy thing, a very happy thing for me, that I have not been
tried by these ordeals,” said the Judge, with a long-drawn breath. “I
wonder how Colonel Sewell will endure it.”
“I have no means of knowing; he arrived late at night, and was still in
bed and asleep when I left.”
“You have not told me these people's name?”
“Trafford,--Sir Hugh Beecham Trafford, of Holt-Trafford, Staffordshire.”
“I have met the man, or rather his father, for it was nigh fifty years
ago,--an old family, and of Saxon origin; and his wife,--who was she?”
“Her name was Merivale. Her father, I think, was Governor of Madras.”
“If so, sir, she has hereditary claims for impertinence and presumption.
Sir Ulysses Merivale enjoyed the proud distinction of being the most
insolent man in England. It is well that you have told me who she was,
Beattie, for I might have made a very fatal blunder. I was going to
write to Sewell to say, 'As this is a great issue, I would advise you
to bring down your mother, “special,”' but I recall my intention. Lady
Lendrick would have no chance against Lady Trafford. Irish insolence has
not the finish of the English article, and we put an alloy of feeling in
it that destroys it altogether. Will the young man recover?”
“He is going on favorably, and I see nothing to apprehend, except,
indeed, that the indiscretions of his mother may prejudice his case. She
is very likely to insist on removing him; she hinted it to me as I took
my leave.”
“I will write to the Sewells to come up here at once. They shall
evacuate the territory, and leave her in possession. As persons closely
connected with my family, they must not have this outrage put upon
them.” He rang the bell violently, and desired the servant to request
Miss Lendrick to come to him.
“She is not very well, my Lord, and has gone to her room. She told Mrs.
Beales to serve your Lordship's tea when you were ready for it.”
“What is this? What does all this mean?” said the old Judge, eagerly;
for the idea of any one presuming to be ill without duly apprising
him--without the preliminary step of ascertaining that it could not
inconvenience him--was more than he was fully prepared for.
“Tell Mrs. Beales I want her,” said he, as he rose and left the room.
Muttering angrily as he went, he ascended the stairs and traversed the
long corridor which led to Lucy's room; but before he had reached the
door the housekeeper was at his side.
“Miss Lucy said she 'd like to see your Lordship, if it was n't too much
trouble, my Lord.”
“I am going to see her. Ask her if I may come in.”
“Yes, my Lord,” said Mrs. Beales from the open door. “She is awake.”
“My own dear grandpapa,” said Lucy, stretching out her arms to him from
her bed, “how good and kind of you to come here!”
“My dear, dear child,” said he, fondly; “tell me you are not ill; tell
me that it is a mere passing indisposition.”
“Not even so much, grandpapa. It is simply a headache. I was crying, and
I was ashamed that you should see it; and I walked out into the air; and
I came back again, trying to look at ease; and my head began to throb
and to pain me so that I thought it best to go to bed. It was a letter I
got,--a letter from Cagliari. Poor Tom has had the terrible fever of
the island. He said nothing about it at first, but now he has relapsed.
There are only three lines in his own hand,--the rest is from his
friend. You shall see what he says. It is very short, and not very hard
to read.”
The old man put on his spectacles and read:--
“'My very dear Lucy.'
“Who presumes to address you in this way? 'Brook Fossbrooke?' What! is
this the man who is called Sir Brook Fossbrooke? By what means have you
become so intimate with a person of his character?”
“I know nothing better, nothing more truly noble and generous, than his
character,” said she, holding her temples as she spoke, for the pain of'
her head was almost agony. “Do read on,--read on, dearest grandpapa.”
He turned again to the letter, and read it over in silence till he came
to the few words in Tom's hand, which he read aloud: “Darling Lu--I
shall be all right in a week. Don't fret, but write me a long--long”--he
had forgotten the word “letter,”--“and love me always.”
She burst into tears, as the old man read the words, for by some strange
magic, the syllables of deep affection, uttered by one unmoved, smite
the heart with a pang that is actual torture.
“I will take this letter down to Beattie, Lucy, and hear what he says of
it,” said the old man, and left the room.
“Read this, Beattie, and tell me what you say to it,” said the Chief
Baron, as he handed the doctor Sir Brook's letter; “I'll tell you of the
writer when you have read it.”
Beattie read the note in silence, and as he laid it on the table said,
“I know the man, and his strange old-fashioned writing would have
recalled him without his name.”
“And what do you know of him, sir?” asked the Judge, sternly.
“I can tell you the story in three words: He came to consult me one
morning, about six or eight months ago. It was about an insurance on his
life,--a very small sum he wanted to raise, to go out to this very place
he writes from. He got to talk about the project, and I don't exactly
know how it came about,--I forget the details now,--but it ended by my
lending him the money myself.”
“What, sir! do you combine usury with physic?”
“On that occasion I appear to have done so,” said Beattie, laughing.
“And you advanced a sum of money to a man whom you saw for the first
time, simply on his showing that his life was too insecure to guarantee
repayment?”
“That puts the matter a little too nakedly.”
“It puts it truthfully, sir, I apprehend.”
“If you mean that the man impressed me so favorably that I was disposed
to do him a small service, you are right.”
“You and I, Beattie, are too old for this impulsive generosity,--too old
by thirty years! After forty philanthropy should take a chronic form,
and never have paroxysms. I think I am correct in my medical language.”
“Your medicine pleases me more than your morality,” said Beattie,
laughing; “but to come back to this Sir Brook, I wish you had seen him.”
“Sir, I have seen him, and I have heard of him, and if not at liberty
to say what I have heard of him, it is quite enough to state that _my_
information cannot corroborate _your_ opinion.”
“Well, my Lord, the possibility of what I might hear will not shake the
stability of what I have seen. Remember that we doctors imagine we read
human nature by stronger spectacles than the laity generally.”
“You imagine it, I am aware, sir; but I have met with no such instances
of acuteness amongst your co-professionals as would sustain the claim;
but why are we wandering from the record? I gave you that letter to read
that you might tell me, is this boy's case a dangerous one?”
“It is a very grave case, no doubt; this is the malaria fever of
Sardinia,--bad enough with the natives, but worse with strangers. He
should be removed to better air at once if he could bear removal.”
“So is it ever with your art,” said the Judge, in a loud declamatory
voice. “You know nothing in your difficulties but a piteous entreaty to
the unknown resources of nature to assist you. No, sir; I will not
hear your defence; there is no issue before the Court. What sort of
practitioners have they in this island?”
“Rude enough, I can believe.”
“Could a man of eminence be found to go out there and see him?”
“A man in large practice could not spare the time; but there are men of
ability who are not yet in high repute: one of these might be possibly
induced.”
“And what might the expense be?”
“A couple of hundred--say three hundred pounds, would perhaps suffice.”
“Go upstairs and see my granddaughter. She is very nervous and feverish;
calm her mind so far as you are able; say that we are concerting
measures for her brother's benefit; and by the time you shall come down
again I will have made up my mind what to do.”
Beattie was a valued friend of Lucy's, and she was glad to see him enter
her room, but she would not suffer him to speak of herself; it was
of poor Tom alone she would talk. She heard with delight the generous
intentions of her grandfather, and exclaimed with rapture,--“This is his
real nature, and yet it is only by the little foibles of his temper that
the world knows him; but we, doctor,--we, who see him as he is, know how
noble-hearted and affectionate he can be!”
“I must hasten back to him,” said Beattie, after a short space; “for
should he decide on sending out a doctor, I must lose no time, as I must
return to see this young fellow at Killaloe to-morrow.”
“Oh, in my greater anxieties I forgot him! How is he,--can he recover?”
“Yes, I regard him as out of danger,--that is, if Lady Trafford can be
persuaded not to talk him into a relapse.”
“Lady Trafford! who is she?”
“His mother; she arrived last night.”
“And his name is Trafford, and his Christian name Lionel?”
“Lionel Wentworth Trafford. I took it from his dressing-case when I
prescribed for him.”
Lucy had been leaning on her arm as she spoke, but she now sank slowly
backward and fainted.
It was a long time before consciousness came back, and even then she
lay voiceless and motionless, and, though she heard what Beattie said
to her, unable to speak to him, or intimate by a gesture that she heard
him.
The doctor needed no confidences,--he read the whole story. There are
expressions in the human face which have no reference to physical ills;
nor are there any indications of bodily suffering. He who asked, “Canst
thou minister to a mind diseased?” knew how hopeless was his question;
and this very despair it is--this sense of an affliction beyond the
reach of art--gives a character to the expression which the doctor's eye
never fails to discriminate from the look worn by mere malady.
As she lay there motionless, her large eyes looking at him with that
expression in which eagerness struggles against debility, he saw how he
had become her confidant.
“Come, my dear child,” said he, taking her hand between both his own,
“you have no occasion for fears on this score,--so far I assure you on
my honor.”
She gave his hand a slight, a very slight pressure, and tried to say
something, but could not. “I will go down now, and see what is to be
done about your brother.” She nodded, and he continued: “I will pay you
another visit to-morrow early, before I leave town, and let me find
you strong and hearty; and remember that though I force no confidences,
Lucy, I will not refuse them if you offer.”
“I have none, sir,--none,” said she, in a voice of deep melancholy.
“So that I know all that is to be known?” asked he.
“All, sir,” said she, with a trembling lip.
“Well, accept me as a friend whom you may trust, my dear Lucy. If you
want me, I will not fail you; and if you have no need of me, there is
nothing that has passed to-day between us ever to be remembered,--you
understand me?”
“I do, sir. You will come to-morrow, won't you?”
He nodded assent, and left her.