For therewith arose not conviction but discussion; Trevanion was
logical, Beaudesert sentimental. My father held firm to the saffron bag.
When James the First dedicated to the Duke of Buckingham his Meditation
on the Lord’s Prayer, he gave a very sensible reason for selecting his
grace for that honour,—“For,” (saith the king) “it is made upon a very
short and plaine prayer, and, therefore, the fitter for a courtier, for
courtiers are for the most part thought neither to have lust nor leisure
to say long prayers; liking best _courte messe et long disner_.” I
suppose it was for a similar reason that my father persisted in
dedicating to the member of parliament and the fine gentleman, this
“short and plaine” morality of his—to wit, the saffron bag. He was
evidently persuaded, if he could once get them to apply that, it was all
that was needful; that they had neither lust nor leisure for longer
instructions. And this saffron bag,—it came down with such a whack, at
every round in the argument! You would have thought my father one of the
old plebeian combatants in the popular ordeal, who, forbidden to use
sword and lance, fought with a sand-bag tied to a flail: a very stunning
weapon it was when filled only with sand; but a bag filled with
saffron,—it was irresistible! Though my father had two to one against
him, they could not stand such a deuce of a weapon. And after tuts and
pishes innumerable from Mr Trevanion, and sundry bland grimaces from Sir
Sedley Beaudesert, they fairly gave in, though they would not own they
were beaten.
“Enough,” said the member, “I see that you don’t comprehend me; I must
continue to move by my own impulse.”
My father’s pet book was the Colloquies of Erasmus; he was wont to say
that those Colloquies furnished life with illustrations in every page.
Out of the Colloquies of Erasmus he now answered the member:—
“Rabirius, wanting his servant Syrus to get up,” quoth my father, “cried
out to him to move. ‘I do move,’ said Syrus. ‘I see you move,’ replied
Rabirius, ‘but you _move nothing_.’ To return to the saffron bag,—”
“Confound the saffron bag!” cried Trevanion in a rage; and then,
softening his look as he drew on his gloves, he turned to my mother, and
said, with more politeness than was natural to, or at least customary
with him:—
“By the way, my dear Mrs Caxton, I should tell you that Lady Ellinor
comes to town to-morrow, on purpose to call on you. We shall be here
some little time, Austin; and though London is so empty, there are still
some persons of note to whom I should like to introduce you, and yours—”
“Nay,” said my father, “your world and my world are not the same. Books
for me, and men for you. Neither Kitty nor I can change our habits, even
for friendship; she has a great piece of work to finish, and so have I.
Mountains cannot stir, especially when in labour; but Mahomet can come
to the mountain as often as he likes.”
Mr Trevanion insisted, and Sir Sedley Beaudesert mildly put in his own
claims; both boasted acquaintance with literary men, whom my father
would, at all events, be pleased to meet. My father doubted whether he
could meet any literary men more eloquent than Cicero, or more amusing
than Aristophanes; and observed, that if such did exist, he would rather
meet them in their books than in a drawing-room. In fine, he was
immovable; and so also, with less argument, was Captain Roland.
Then Mr Trevanion turned to me.
“Your son, at all events, should see something of the world.”
My mother’s soft eyes sparkled.
“My dear friend, I thank you,” said my father, touched; “and Pisistratus
and I will talk it over.”
Our guests had departed. All four of us gathered to the open window, and
enjoyed in silence the cool air and the moonlight.
“Austin,” said my mother at last, “I fear it is for my sake that you
refuse going amongst your old friends: you knew I should be frightened
by such fine people, and—”
“And we have been happy for more than eighteen years without them,
Kitty! My poor friends are not happy, and we are. To leave well alone is
a golden rule worth all in Pythagoras. The ladies of Bubastis, my dear,
a place in Egypt where the cat was worshipped, always kept rigidly aloof
from the gentlemen in Athribis, who adored the shrewmice. Cats are
domestic animals,—your shrewmice are sad gadabouts: you can’t find a
better model, my Kitty, than the ladies of Bubastis!”
“How Trevanion is altered!” said Roland, musingly—“he who was so lively
and ardent!”
“He ran too fast up-hill at first, and has been out of breath ever
since,” said my father.
“And Lady Ellinor;” said Roland, hesitatingly, “shall you see her
to-morrow?”
“Yes!” said my father, calmly.
As Captain Roland spoke, something in the tone of his question seemed to
flash a conviction on my mother’s heart,—the woman there was quick; she
drew back, turning pale, even in the moonlight, and fixed her eyes on my
father, while I felt her hand which had clasped mine tremble
convulsively.
I understood her. Yes, this Lady Ellinor was the early rival whose name
till then she had not known. She fixed her eyes on my father, and at his
tranquil tone and quiet look she breathed more freely, and sliding her
hand from mine rested it fondly on his shoulder. A few moments
afterwards, I and Captain Roland found ourselves standing alone by the
window.
“You are young, nephew,” said the Captain; “and you have the name of a
fallen family to raise. Your father does well not to reject for you that
opening into the great world which Trevanion offers. As for me, my
business in London seems over: I cannot find what I came to seek. I have
sent for my daughter; when she arrives I shall return to my old tower;
and the man and the ruin will crumble away together.”
“Tush, uncle! I must work hard and get money; and then we will repair
the old tower, and buy back the old estate. My father shall sell the red
brick house; we will fit him up a library in the keep; and we will all
live united, in peace, and in state, as grand as our ancestors before
us.”
While I thus spoke, my uncle’s eyes were fixed upon a corner of the
street, where a figure, half in shade half in moonlight, stood
motionless. “Ah!” said I following his eye, “I have observed that man,
two or three times, pass up and down the street on the other side of the
way, and turn his head towards our window. Our guests were with us then,
and my father in full discourse, or I should have—”
Before I could finish the sentence, my uncle, stifling an exclamation,
broke away, hurried out of the room, stumped down the stairs, and was in
the street, while I was yet rooted to the spot with surprise. I remained
at the window, and my eye rested on the figure. I saw the Captain, with
his bare head and his gray hair, cross the street; the figure started,
turned the corner, and fled.
Then I followed my uncle, and arrived in time to save him from falling:
he leant his head on my breast, and I heard him murmur,—“It is he—it is
he! He has watched us!—he repents!”