The old Judge was very sad after Lucy's departure from the Priory. While
she lived there they had not seen much of each other, it is true.
They met at meal-times, and now and then Sir William would send up
the housekeeper to announce a visit from him; but there is a sense of
companionship in the consciousness that under the same roof with you
dwells one upon whose affection you can draw, whose sympathy will be
with you in your hour of need; and this the old man now felt to be
waiting; and he wandered restlessly about the house and the garden,
tenacious to see that nothing she liked or loved was threatened with any
change, and repeating to all that she must find everything as she left
it when she came back again.
Sewell had been recalled to the country by the illness of his child, and
they were not expected at the Priory for at least a week or two longer.
Haire had gone on circuit, and even Beattie the Judge only saw hurriedly
and at long intervals. With Lady Lendrick he had just had a most angry
correspondence, ending in one of those estrangements which, had they
been nations instead of individuals, would have been marked by the
recall of their several envoys, but which they were satisfied to
signalize by an order at the Priory gate-lodge not to admit her
Ladyship's carriage, and an equally determined command at Merrion Square
for the porter to take in no letters that came from the Chief Baron.
Lest the world should connect this breach with any interest in my story,
I may as well declare at once the incident had no possible bearing upon
it. It was a little episode entirely self-contained, and consisted
in Lady Lendrick having taken advantage of Sir William's illness and
confinement to house to send for and use his carriage-horses,--a liberty
which he resented by a most furious letter, to which the rejoinder
begot another infinitely more sarcastic,--the correspondence ending by
a printed notice which her Ladyship received in an envelope, that the
Chief Baron's horses would be sold on the ensuing Saturday at Dycer's to
the highest bidder, his Lordship having no further use for them.
Let me own that the old Judge was sincerely sorry when this incident
was concluded. So long as the contest lasted, while he was penning his
epistle or waiting for the reply, his excitement rallied and sustained
him. He used to sit after the despatch of one of his cutting letters
calculating with himself the terror and consternation it produced, just
as the captain of a frigate might have waited with eager expectancy
that the smoke might drift away and show him the shattered spars or the
yawning bulwarks of his enemy. But when his last missive was returned
unopened, and the messenger reported that the doctor's carriage was at
her Ladyship's door as he came away, the Judge collapsed at once, and
all the dreariness of his deserted condition closed in upon him.
Till Sewell returned to-town, Sir William resolved not to proceed
farther with respect to the registrarship. His plan, long determined
upon, was to induct him into the office, administer the oaths, and
leave him to the discharge of the duties. The scandal of displacing an
official would, he deemed, be too great a hazard for any government
to risk. At all events, if such a conflict came, it would be a great
battle, and with the nation for spectators.
“The country shall ring with it,” was the phrase he kept repeating
over and over as he strolled through his neglected garden or his leafy
shrubberies; but as he plodded along, alone and in silence, the dreary
conviction would sometimes shoot across his mind that he had run his
race, and that the world had wellnigh forgotten him. “In a few days
more,” sighed he out, “it will be over, and I shall be chronicled as
the last of them.” And for a moment it would rally him to recall
the glorious names with which he claimed companionship, and compare
them--with what disparagement!--with the celebrities of the time.
It was strange how bright the lamp of intellect would shine out as the
wick was fast sinking in the socket. His memory would revive some stormy
scene in the House, some violent altercation at the Bar, and all the
fiery eloquence of passion would recur to him, stirring his heart and
warming his blood, till he half forgot his years, and stood forth, with
head erect and swelling chest, strong with a sense of power and a whole
soul full of ambition.
“Beattie would not let me take my Circuit,” would he say. “I wish he
saw me to-day. Decaying powers! I would tell them that the Coliseum
is grander in its ruin than all their stuccoed plastering in its trim
propriety. Had he suffered me to go, the grand jury would have heard
a charge such as men's ears have not listened to since Avonmore!
Avon-more! what am I saying?--Yelverton had not half my law, nor a tenth
part of my eloquence.”
In his self-exaltation he began to investigate whether he was greater as
an advocate or as prosecutor. How difficult to decide! After all, it
was in the balance of the powers thus displayed that he was great as a
judge. He recalled the opinions of the press when he was raised to the
bench, and triumphantly asked aloud, had he not justified every hope and
contradicted every fear that was entertained of him? “Has my learning
made me intolerant, or my brilliancy led me into impatience? Has the
sense of superiority that I possess rendered me less conciliatory? Has
my 'impetuous genius'--how fond they were of that phrase!--carried me
away into boundless indiscretions? and have I, as one critic said, so
concentrated the attention of the jury on myself that the evidence went
for nothing and the charge was everything?”
It was strange how these bursts of inordinate vanity and self-esteem
appeared to rally and invigorate the old man, redressing, as it were,
the balance of the world's injustice--such he felt it--towards him. They
were like a miser's hoard, to be counted and re-counted in secret with
that abiding assurance that he had wealth and riches, however others
might deem him poor.
It was out of these promptings of self-love that he drew the energetic
powers that sustained him, broken and failing and old as he was.
Carried on by his excited thoughts, he strayed away to a little mound,
on which, under a large weeping-ash, a small bench was placed, from
which a wide view extended over the surrounding country. There was a
tradition of a summer-house on the spot in Curran's day, and it was
referred to more than once in the diaries and letters of his friends;
and the old Chief loved the place, as sacred to great memories.
He had just toiled up the ascent, and gained the top, when a servant
came to present him with a card and a letter, saying that the gentleman
who gave them was then at the house. The card bore the name, “Captain
Trafford,--th Regiment.” The letter was of a few lines, and ran thus:--
“My dear Sir William,--I had promised my friend and late patient Captain
Trafford to take him over to the Priory this morning and present him to
you. A sudden call has, however, frustrated the arrangement; and as
his time is very brief, I have given him this as a credential to your
acquaintance, and I hope you will permit him to stroll through the
garden and the shrubberies, which he will accept as a great favor.
I especially beg that you will lay no burden on your own strength to
become his entertainer: he will be amply gratified by a sight of
your belongings, of which he desires to carry the memory beyond
seas.--Believe me very sincerely yours,
“J. Beattie.”
“If the gentleman who brought this will do me the favor to come up here,
say I shall be happy to see him.”
As the servant went on his message, the old man lay back on his seat,
and, closing his eyes, muttered some few dropping words, implying his
satisfaction at this act of reverential homage. “A young soldier too;
it speaks well for the service when the men of action revere the men of
thought. I am glad it is a good day with me; he shall carry away other
memories than of woods and streams. Ah! here he comes.”
Slowly, and somewhat feebly, Trafford ascended the hill, and with a most
respectful greeting approached the Judge.
“I thank you for your courtesy in coming here, sir,” said the Chief;
“and when we have rested a little, I will be your _Cicerone_ back to the
house.” The conversation flowed on pleasantly between them, Sir William
asking where Traflford had served, and what length of time he had been
in Ireland,--his inquiries evidently indicating that he had not heard of
him before, or, if he had, had forgotten him.
“And now you are going to Malta?”
“Yes, my Lord; we sail on the 12th.”
“Well, sir, Valetta has no view to rival that. See what a noble sweep
the bay takes here, and mark how well the bold headlands define the
limits! Look at that stretch of yellow beach, like a golden fillet round
the sea; and then mark the rich woods waving in leafy luxuriance to
the shore! Those massive shadows are to landscape what times of silent
thought are to our moral natures. Do you like your service, sir?”
“Yes, my Lord; there is much in it that I like. I would like it all if
it were in 'activity.'”
“I have much of the soldier in myself, and the qualities by which I
have gained any distinction I have won are such as make generals,--quick
decision, rapid intelligence, prompt action.”
Traflford bowed to this pretentions summary, but did not speak.
The old Judge went on to describe what he called the military
mind, reviewing in turn the generals of note from Hannibal down to
Marlborough. “What have they left us by way of legacy, sir? The game,
lost or won, teaches us as much! Is not a letter of Cicero, is not an
ode of Horace worth it all? And as for battle-fields, it is the painter,
not the warrior, has made them celebrated. Wouvermans has done more for
war than Turenne!”
“But, my Lord, there must be a large number of men like myself who make
very tolerable soldiers, but who would turn out sorry poets or poor
advocates.”
“Give me your arm now, and I will take you round by the fish-pond and
show you where the 'Monks of the Screw' held their first meeting. You
have heard of that convivial club?” Trafiford bowed; and the Judge went
on to tell of the strange doings of those grave and thoughtful men,
who-deemed no absurdity too great in their hours of distraction and
levity. When they reached the house, the old man was so fatigued that
he had to sit down in the porch to rest. “You have seen all, sir; all I
have of memorable. You say you 'd like to see the garden, but there is
not a memory connected with it. See it, however, by all means; saunter
about till I have rallied a little, and then join me at my early dinner.
I 'll send to tell you when it is ready. I am sorry it will be such
a lonely meal; but she who could have thrown sunshine over it is
gone--gone!” And he held his hands over his face, and said no more.
Trafiford moved silently away, and went in search of the garden. He
soon found the little wicket, and ere many minutes was deep in the leafy
solitude of the neglected spot. At last he came upon the small gate
in the laurel hedge, passing through which he entered the little
flower-garden. Yes, yes; there was no doubting it! This was hers! Here
were the flowers she tended; here the heavy bells from which she emptied
the rain-drops; here the tendrils her own hands had trained! Oh, force
of love, that makes the very ground holy, and gives to every leaf and
bud an abiding value! He threw himself upon the sward and kissed it.
There was a little seat under a large ilex--how often had she sat there
thinking!--could it be thinking over the days beside the Shannon,--that
delicious night they came back from Holy Island, the happiest of all his
life? Oh, if he could but believe that she loved him! if he could only
know that she did not think of him with anger and resentment!--for
she might! Who could tell what might have been said of his life at the
Sewells'? He had made a confidante of one who assumed to misunderstand
him, and who overwhelmed him with a confession of her own misery, and
declared she loved him; and this while he lay in a burning fever, his
head racked with pain, and his mind on the verge of wandering. Was
there-ever a harder fate than his? That he had forfeited the affection
of his family, that he had wrecked his worldly fortunes, seemed little
in his eyes to the danger of being thought ill of by her he loved.
His father's last letter to him had been a command to leave the army and
return home, to live there as became the expectant head of the house.
“I will have your word of honor to abandon this ignoble passion”--so he
called his love; “and in addition, your solemn pledge never to marry an
Irishwoman.” These words were, he well knew, supplied by his mother. It
had been the incessant burden of her harangues to him during the tedious
days of his recovery; and even when, on the morning of this very day,
she had been suddenly recalled to England by a severe attack of illness
of her husband, her last act before departure was to write a brief note
to Lionel, declaring that if he should not follow her within a week, she
would no longer conceive herself bound to maintain his interests against
those of his more obedient and more affectionate brother.
“Won't that help my recovery, doctor?” said he, showing the kind and
generous epistle to Beattie. “Are not these the sort of tonic stimulants
your art envies?”
Beattie shook his head in silence, and after a long pause said, “Well,
what was your reply to this?”
“Can you doubt it? Don't you know it; or don't you know _me?_”
“Perhaps I guess.”
“No, but you are certain of it, doctor. The regiment is ordered to
Malta, and sails on the 12th. I go with them! Holt is a grand old place,
and the estate is a fine one; I wish my brother every luck with both.
Will you do me a favor,--a great favor?”
“If in my power, you may be certain I will. What is it?”
“Take me over to the Priory; I want to see it. You can find some pretext
to present me to the Chief Baron, and obtain his leave to wander through
the grounds.”
“I perceive--I apprehend,” said Beattie, slyly. “There is no difficulty
in this. The old Judge cherishes the belief that the spot is little
short of sacred; he only wonders why men do not come as pilgrims to
visit it. There is a tradition of Addison having lived there, while
secretary in Ireland; Curran certainly did; and a greater than either
now illustrates the locality.”
It was thus that Trafford came to be there; with what veneration for the
haunts of genius let the reader picture to himself!
“His Lordship is waiting dinner, sir,” said a servant, abruptly, as he
sat there--thinking, thinking; and he arose and followed the man to the
house.
The Chief Baron had spent the interval since they parted in preparing
for the evening's display. To have for his guest a youth so imbued
with reverence for Irish genius and ability, was no common event. Young
Englishmen and soldiers, too, were not usually of this stuff; and the
occasion to make a favorable impression was not to be lost.
When he entered the dinner-room, Trafford was struck by seeing that
the table was laid for three, though they were but two; and that on the
napkin opposite to where he sat a small bouquet of fresh flowers was
placed.
“My granddaughter's place, sir,” said the old Judge, as he caught his
eye. “It is reserved for her return. May it be soon!”
How gentle the old man's voice sounded as he said this, and how
kindly his eyes beamed! Trafford thought there was something actually
attractive in his features, and wondered he had not remarked it before.
Perhaps on that day when the old Judge well knew how agreeable he was,
what stores of wit and pleasantry he was pouring forth, his convictions
assured him that his guest was charmed. It was a very pardonable
delusion,--he talked with great brilliancy and vigor. He possessed the
gift--which would really seem to be the especial gift of Irishmen of
that day--to be a perfect relater. To a story he imparted that slight
dash of dramatic situation and dialogue that made it lifelike, and yet
never retarded the interest nor prolonged the catastrophe. Acute as was
his wit, his taste was fully as conspicuous, never betraying him for an
instant, so long as his personal vanity could be kept out of view.
Trafford's eager and animated attention showed with what pleasure he
listened; and the Chief, like all men who love to talk and know they
talk well, talked all the better for the success vouchsafed to him. He
even arrived at that stage of triumph in which he felt that his guest
was no common man, and wondered if England really turned out many young
fellows of this stamp,--so well read, so just, so sensible, so keenly
alive to nice distinction, and so unerring in matters of taste.
“You were schooled at Rugby, sir, you told me; and Rugby has reason
to be proud if she can turn out such young men. I am only sorry Oxford
should not have put the fine edge on so keen an intellect.”
Trafford blushed at a compliment he felt to be so unmerited, but the old
man saw nothing of his confusion,--he was once again amongst the great
scenes and actors of his early memories.
“I hope you will spare me another day before you leave Ireland. Do you
think you could give me Saturday?” said the Chief, as his guest arose to
take leave.
“I am afraid not, my Lord; we shall be on the march by that day.”
“Old men have no claim to use the future tense, or I should ask you to
come and see me when you come back again.”
“Indeed will I. I cannot thank you enough for having asked me.”
“Why are there not more young men of that stamp?” said the old Judge,
as he looked after him as he went. “Why are they not more generally
cultivated and endowed as he is? It is long since I have found one more
congenial to me in every way. I must tell Beattie I like his friend. I
regret not to see more of him.”
It was in this strain Sir William ruminated and reflected; pretty much
like many of us, who never think our critics so just or so appreciative
as when they applaud ourselves.