Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume II.

“But, Lucy, in what spirit will you judge me? If you can approach the theme thus coldly, it gives me little hope that you will wish to acquit me.”

A deep blush covered her face as she turned away her head, but made no answer.

“Be only fair, however,” cried he, eagerly. “I ask for nothing more.” He drew her arm within his as he spoke, and they turned towards the beach where a little sweep of the bay lay hemmed in between lofty rocks. “Here goes my last throw for fortune,” said Trafford, after they had strolled along some minutes in silence. “And oh, Lucy, if you knew how I would like to prolong these minutes before, as it may be, they are lost to me forever! If you knew how I would like to give this day to happiness and hope!”

She said nothing, but walked along with her head down, her face slightly averted from him.

“I have not told you of my visit to the Priory,” said he, suddenly.

“No; how came you to go there?”

“I went to see the place where you had lived, to see the garden you had tended, and the flowers you loved, Lucy. I took away this bit of jasmine from a tree that overhung a little rustic seat. It may be, for aught I know, all that may remain to me of you ere this day closes.”

“My dear little garden! I was so fond of it!” she said, concealing her emotion as well as she could.

“I am such a coward,” said he, angrily; “I declare I grow ashamed of myself. If any one had told me I would have skulked danger in this wise, I ‘d have scouted the idea! Take this, Lucy,” said he, giving her the sprig of withered jasmine; “if what I shall tell you exculpate me – if you are satisfied that I am not unworthy of your love, – you will give it back to me; if I fail – ” He could not go on, and another silence of some seconds ensued.

“You know the compact now?” asked he, after a moment. She nodded assent.

For full five minutes they walked along without a word, and then Trafford, at first timidly, but by degrees more boldly, began a narrative of his visit to the Sewells’ house. It is not – nor need it be – our task to follow him through a long narrative, broken, irregular, and unconnected as it was. Hampered by the difficulties which on each side beset him of disparaging those of whom he desired to say no word of blame, and of still vindicating himself from all charge of dishonor, he was often, it must be owned, entangled, and sometimes scarcely intelligible. He owned to have been led into high play against his will, and equally against his will induced to form an intimacy with Mrs. Sewell, which, beginning in a confidence, wandered away into Heaven knows what of sentimentality, and the like. Trafford talked of Lucy Lendrick and his love, and Mrs. Sewell talked of her cruel husband and her misery; and they ended by making a little stock-fund of affection, where they came in common to make their deposits and draw their cheques on fortune.

All this intercourse was the more dangerous that he never knew its danger; and though, on looking back, he was astonished to think what intimate relations subsisted between them, yet, at the time, these had not seemed in the least strange to him. To her sad complaints of neglect, ill-usage, and insult, he offered such consolations as occurred to him: nor did it seem to him that there was any peril in his path, till his mother burst forth with that atrocious charge against Mrs. Sewell for having seduced her son, and which, so far from repelling with the indignation it might have evoked, she appeared rather to bend under, and actually seek his protection to shelter her. Weak and broken by his accident at the race, these difficulties almost overcame his reason; never was there, to his thinking, such a web of entanglement. The hospitality of the house he was enjoying outraged and violated by the outbreaks of his mother’s temper; Sewell’s confidence in him betrayed by the confessions he daily listened to from his wife; her sorrows and griefs all tending to a dependence on his counsels which gave him a partnership in her conduct. “With all these upon me,” said he, “I don’t think I was actually mad, but very often I felt terribly close to it. A dozen times a day I would willingly have fought Sewell; as willingly would I have given all I ever hoped to possess in the world to enable his wife to fly his tyranny, and live apart from him. I so far resented my mother’s outrageous conduct, that I left her without a good-bye.”

I can no more trace him through this wandering explanation than I dare ask my reader to follow. It was wild, broken, and discursive. Now interrupted by protestations of innocence, now dashed by acknowledgments of sorrow, who knows if his unartistic story did not serve him better than a more connected narrative, – there was such palpable truth in it!

Nor was Lucy less disposed to leniency that he who pleaded before her was no longer the rich heir of a great estate, with a fair future before him, but one poor and portionless as herself. In the reserve with which he shrouded his quarrel with his family, she fancied she could see the original cause, – his love for her; and if this were so, what more had she need of to prove his truth and fidelity? Who knows if her woman’s instinct had not revealed this to her? Who knows if, in that finer intelligence of the female mind, she had not traced out the secret of the reserve that hampered him, of the delicate forbearance with which he avoided the theme of his estrangement from his family? And if so, what a plea was it for him! Poor fellow, thought she, what has he not given up for me!

Rich men make love with great advantages on their side. There is no doubt that he who can confer demesnes and diamonds has much in his favor. The power that abides in wealth adds marvellous force to the suitor’s tale; but there is, be it owned, that in poverty which, when allied with a sturdy self-dependence, appeals wonderfully to a woman’s mind. She feels all the devotion that is offered her, and she will not be outdone in generosity. It is so fine of him, when others care for nothing but wealth and riches, to be satisfied with humble fortune, and with me! There is the summing up, and none need be more conclusive.

How long Trafford might have gone on strengthening his case, and calling up fresh evidence to his credit, – by what force of words he might still have sustained his character for fidelity, – there is no saying; but his eloquence was suddenly arrested by the sight of Cave and Tom coming to meet them.

“Oh, Lucy,” cried he, “do not quit my arm till you tell me my fate. For very pity’s sake, do not leave me in the misery of this anxiety,” said he, as she disengaged herself, affecting to arrange her shawl.

“I have a word to say to my brother,” said she, hurriedly; “keep this sprig of jasmine for me. I mean to plant it somewhere;” and without another word she hastened away and made for the house.

“So we shall have to sail at once, Trafford,” said Cave. “The Admiral has sent over the ‘Gondomar’ to fetch us; and here’s a lieutenant with a despatch waiting for us at the cottage.”

“The service may go – No, I don’t mean that; but if you sail to-morrow you sail without me.”

“Have you made it all right?” whispered Tom in his ear.

“I ‘m the happiest fellow in Europe,” said he, throwing his arm round the other’s shoulder. “Come here, Tom, and let me tell you all – all.”

CHAPTER VI. HOW CHANGED

We are once more at the Priory; but how changed is it all! Billy Haire himself scarcely recognizes the old spot, and indeed comes now but seldom to visit it; for the Chief has launched out into the gay world, and entertains largely at dinner, and even gives déjeuners dansants, – foreign innovations at which he was wont to inveigh with vehemence.

The old elm under whose shade Avonmore and the wits used to sit of an evening, beneath whose leafy canopy Curran had jested and Moore had sung, was cut down, and a large tent of gaudy blue and white spread its vulgar wings over innumerable breakfast-tables, set forth with what the newspapers call every delicacy of the season.

The Horatian garden, and the Roman house – conceits of an old Lord Chancellor in former times, and once objects of almost veneration in Sir William’s eyes – have been swept away, with all their attendant details of good or bad taste, and in their place a fountain has been erected, for whose aquatic displays, be it noted in parenthesis, two horses and as many men are kept in full employ. Of the wild old woodland walks – shady and cool, redolent of sweet-brier and honeysuckle – not a trace remains; driving-roads, wide enough for a pony-carriage, have been substituted for these, and ruthless gaps in the dense wood open long vistas to the eye, in a spot where once it was the sense of enclosure and seclusion that imparted the chief charm. For so it is, coming out of the din and bustle of a great city, there is no attraction which can vie with whatever breathes of tranquillity, and seems to impart peace by an air of unbroken quiet. It was for this very quality the Priory had gained its fame. Within doors the change was as great as without. New, and, be it admitted, more comfortable furniture had replaced the old ponderous objects which, in every form of ugliness, had made the former decorations of the rooms. All was now light, tasteful, elegant. All invited to ease of intercourse, and suggested that pleasant union of social enjoyment with self-indulgence which our age seems to cultivate. But of all the changes and mutations which a short time had effected, none could compete with that in the old Chief himself. Through life he had been studiously attentive to neatness and care in his dress; it was with something of pride that he exhibited little traits of costume that revived bygone memories; and his long white hak, brushed rigidly back, and worn as a queue behind, and his lace ruffles, recalled a time when these were distinctive signs of class and condition.

His sharply cut and handsome features were well served by the well-marked temples and lofty head that surmounted them, and which the drawn-back hair displayed to full advantage; and what a terrible contrast did the expression present when a light-brown wig covered his head, and a lock of childlike innocence graced his forehead! The large massive eyebrows, so impressive in their venerable whiteness, were now dyed of a dark hue; and to prevent the semblance of ghastliness which this strong color might impart to the rest of the face, a faint tinge of rouge was given to the cheek, thus lending to the whole features an expression of mingled smirk and severity as little like the former look of dignified intelligence as might be.

A tightly fitting frock-coat and a colored cravat, fastened with a massive jewelled pin, completed a travesty which, strange to say, imparted its character to his gait, and made itself evident in his carriage.

His manner, too, – that admirable courtesy of a bygone day, of which, when unprovoked by a personal encounter, he was a master, – was now replaced by an assumed softness, – an ill-put-on submission that seemed to require all his watchfulness never to forget.

If his friends deplored and his enemies exulted over this unbecoming change in one who, whatever his defects, had ever displayed the force and power of a commanding intellect, the secret was known to few. A violent and unseemly attack had been made in the “House” against him by some political partisan, who alleged that his advanced age and failing faculties urgently demanded his retirement from the Bench, and calling loudly on the Government to enforce a step which nothing but the tenacity and obstinacy of age would have refused to accept voluntarily and even gratefully.

In the discussion – it was not debate – that the subject gave rise to, the year of his birth was quoted, the time he had been first called, and the long period he had served on the Bench; and if his friends were strong in their evidences of his unfailing powers and unclouded faculties, his assailants adduced instances in which he had mistaken the suitors and misstated the case. His temper, too, imperious even to insult, had, it was said, driven many barristers from his court, where few liked to plead except such as were his abject and devoted followers.

When the attack appeared in the morning papers, Beattie drove out in all haste to the Priory to entreat that the newspapers should be withheld from him, and all mention of the offensive subject be carefully avoided. The doctor was shown into the room where the Sewells were at breakfast, and at once eagerly announced the reason for his early visit.

“You are too late, doctor,” said Sewell; “he had read every line of it before we came downstairs. He made me listen to it, too, before I could go to breakfast.”

“And how did he bear it?”

“On the whole, I think well. He said they were incorrect about the year he was called, and also as to the time he entered Parliament. With regard to the man who made the attack, he said, ‘It is my turn to be biographer now; let us see if the honorable member will call the victory his.’”

“He must do nothing of the kind. I will not answer for his life if he gives way to these bursts of temper.”

“I declare I think I’d not interfere with him,” drawled out Sewell, as he broke an egg. “I suspect it’s better to let those high-pressure people blow off their steam.”

“I’m sure Dr. Beattie is right,” interposed Mrs. Sewell, who saw in the doctor’s face an unmistakable look of disgust at the Colonel’s speech.

“I repeat, sir,” said Beattie, gravely, “that it is a question of Sir William’s life; he cannot survive another attack like his last one.”

“It has always been a matter of wonder to me how he has lived so long. To go on existing, and be so sensitive to public opinion, is something quite beyond my comprehension.”

“You would not mind such attacks, then?” said Beattie, with a very slight sneer.

“I should think not! A man must be a fool if he does n’t know there are scores of fellows who don’t like him; and he must be an unlucky dog if there are not others who envy him for something or other, though it only be his horse or his dog, his waistcoat or his wife.”

In the look of malevolence he threw across the table as he spoke this, might be read the concentrated hate of one who loved to insult his victim. The doctor saw it, and rose to leave, disgusted and angry. “I suppose Sir William knows I am here?” said he, coldly.

“I suspect not,” said Sewell. “If you ‘ll talk to my wife, or look over the ‘Times,’ I’ll go and tell him.”

The Chief Baron was seated at his writing-table when Sewell entered, and angrily cried out, “Who is there?”

“Sewell, my Lord. May I come in?”

“Sir, you have taken that liberty in anticipation of the request. What do you want?”

“I came to say, my Lord, that Dr. Beattie is here.”

“Who sent for him, sir?”

“Not I, my Lord, certainly.”

“I repeat my question, sir, and expect a direct answer.”

“I can only repeat my answer, my Lord. He was not sent for by me or with my knowledge.”

“So that I am to understand that his presence here is not the result of any active solicitude of my family for the consequences of this new outrage upon my feelings;” and he clutched the newspaper as he spoke, and shook it with passion.

“I assure you, my Lord, Beattie has come here of his own accord.”

“But on account of this!” and the words came from him with a hissing sound that denoted intense anger. Sewell made a gesture to imply that it might be so, but that he himself knew nothing of it. “Tell him, then, sir, that the Chief Baron regrets he cannot see him; that he is at this moment engaged with the reply to a late attack in the House of Commons, which he desires to finish before post hour; and add, sir, that he is in the best of health and in excellent spirits, – facts which will afford him increased enjoyment, if Dr. Beattie will only be kind enough to mention them widely in the course of his visits.”

“I ‘m delighted, my Lord, to be charged with such a message,” said Sewell, with a well-assumed joy.

“I am glad, sir, to have pleased you, at the same time that I have gained your approbation.”

There was a haughty tone in the way these words were delivered that for an instant made Sewell doubt whether they meant approval or reprimand; but he thought he saw a look of self-satisfied vanity in the old man’s face, and he merely bowed his thanks for the speech.

“What do you think, sir, they have had the hardihood to say in the House of Commons?” cried the Chief, while his cheek grew crimson and his eye flashed fire. “They say that, looking to the perilous condition of Ireland, with a widespread conspiracy through the land, and rebellion in most daring form bearding the authorities of the Crown, it is no time to see one of the chief seats of justice occupied by one whose achievements in Crown prosecutions date from the state trials of ‘98! In which capacity, sir, am I assailed? Is it as Patriarch or Patriot? Am I held up to obloquy because I came into the world at a certain year, or because I was one of the counsel for Wolfe Tone? From whom, too, come these slanderous assaults? Do these puny slanderers not yet know that it is with men as with plants, and that though the dockweed is rotten within a few weeks, the oak takes centuries to reach maturity?

“There were men in the Administration once, sir, in whom I had that confidence I could have placed my office in their hands with the full conviction it would have been worthily conferred, – men above the passions of party, and who saw in public life other ambitions than the struggles for place. I see these men no longer. They who now compose the Cabinet inspire no trust; with them I will not treat.”

Exhausted by this outburst of passion, he lay back in his chair, breathing heavily, and to all seeming overcome.

“Shall I get you anything, my Lord?” whispered Sewell.

The old man smiled faintly, and whispered, “Nothing.”

“I wish, my Lord,” said Sewell, as he bent over his chair, – “I wish I could dare to speak what is passing in my mind; and that I had that place in your Lordship’s esteem which might give my words any weight.”

“Speak – say on,” said he, faintly.

“What I would say is this, my Lord,” said Sewell, with increased force, “that these attacks on your Lordship are in a great measure provoked by yourself.”

“Provoked by me! and how, sir?” cried the Chief, angrily.

“In this wise, my Lord. You have always held your libellers so cheap that you actually encourage their assaults. You, in the full vigor of your faculties, alive to the latest events, interested in all that science discovers or invention develops, persist in maintaining, both in your mode of living and your companionship, a continued reference to the past. With a wit that could keep pace with the brightest, and an imagination more alive than the youngest men can boast, you vote yourself old, and live with the old. Why, my Lord, is it any wonder that they try you on the indictment you have yourself drawn up? I have only to ask you to look across the Channel and see the men – your own contemporaries, your colleagues too – who escape these slanders, simply because they keep up with the modes and habits of the day. Their equipages their retinues, their dress, are all such as fashion sanctions. Nothing in their appearance reminds the world that they lived with the grandfathers of those around them; and I say, my Lord, if these men can do this, how much easier would it be for you to do it? You, whose quick intellect the youngest in vain try to cope with; you who are readier in repartee, – younger, in fact, in all the freshness of originality and in all the play of fancy, than the smartest wits of the day.

“My Lord, it has not been without a great effort of courage I have dared to speak thus boldly; but I have so often talked the subject over with my wife, and she, with a woman’s wit, has so thoroughly entered into the theme, that I felt, even at the hazard of your displeasure, I ought to risk the telling you.” After a pause, he added: “It was but yesterday my wife said, ‘If papa,’ – you know, my Lord, it is so she calls you in secret, – ‘if papa will only cease to dress like a church dignitary, he will not look above fifty, – fifty four or five at most.’”

“I own,” said the Judge, slowly, “it has often struck me as strange how little animadversion the Press bestowed upon my English colleagues for their advanced years, and how persistently they commented on mine; and yet the history of Ireland does not point to the early decline of intellectual power. They are fond of showing the characteristics that separate us, but they have never adduced this one.”

“I hope I have your Lordship’s forgiveness for my boldness,” said Sewell, with humility.

“You have more, sir, – you have my gratitude for an affectionate solicitude. I will think over what you have said when I am alone.”

“It will make me a very proud man if I find that my words have had weight with you. I am to tell Beattie, my Lord, that you are engaged, and cannot see him?” said he, moving towards the door.

“Yes. Say that I am occupied with my reply to this slander. Tell him if he likes to dine with me at six – ”

“I beg pardon, my Lord – but my wife hoped you would dine with us to-day. We have a few young soldiers, and two or three pretty women coming to us – ”

“Make my compliments to Mrs. Sewell, and say I am charmed to accept her invitation.”

Sewell took his leave with every token of respectful gratitude. But no sooner had he reached the stairs than he burst into a fit of laughter. “Would any one have believed that the old fool would have swallowed the bait? I was so terrified at my own temerity, I ‘d have given the world to be out of the scrape! I declare, if my mother could be got rid of, we ‘d have him leading something of sixteen to the altar. Well, if this acute attack of youth does n’t finish him, he must have the constitution of an elephant.”

CHAPTER VII. HOW TO MEET A SCANDAL

When the Government of the day had found that all their efforts to induce the Chief Baron to retire from the Bench were failures, – when they saw him firmly decided to accept nothing less than that price which they would not pay, – with a littleness which, it is but fair to own, took its origin from Mr. Cholmondely Balfour, they determined to pass upon him a slight which he could not but feel most painfully.

It happened in this wise. At the time I speak of Ireland was suffering from one of those spasmodic attacks of rebellion which every now and then occur through the chronic disaffection of the country, just as certain eruptions are thrown out over the body to relieve, as is supposed, some feverish tendencies of the system.

Now, although the native thinks no more of these passing troubles than would an old Indian of an attack of the “prickly heat,” to the English mind they always suggest danger, tend to increase the military force of the kingdom, and bring on in Parliament one of those Irish debates – a political sham fight – where, though there is a good deal of smoke, bustle, and confusion, nobody is hurt, nor, if the truth be told, is any one the better when it is over.

Through such a paroxysm was Ireland now passing. It matters little to our purpose to give it a specific name, for the Whiteboy or the Rockite, the Terry-alt, the Ribbonman, or the Fenian are the same; there being only one character in this dreary drama, however acute Viceroys and energetic secretaries may affect to think they are “assisting” at the representation of a perfectly new piece, with new scenery, dresses, and decorations.

In ordinary disturbances in Ireland, whenever they rose above the dignity of local mischief, the assistance and sympathy of France was always used as a sort of menace to England. It was a threat very certain to irritate, if it did no more. As, however, by course of time, we grew to form closer relations with France, – to believe, or affect to believe, – I am not very sure which, – that we had outlived old grudges, and had become rather ashamed of old rivalries, France could not be employed as the bugbear it had once been. Fortunately for Irish rebellion, America was quite prepared to take the vacant post, and with this immense additional gain, that the use of our own language enabled our disaffected in the States to revile us with a freedom and a vigor which, if there be that benefit which is said to exist in “seeing ourselves as others see us,” ought unquestionably to redound to our future good.