Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume I.. Lever Charles James
estrangement from his father, his fastidious retirement from the world, and, last of all, his narrow fortune, apparently now growing narrower, since within the last year he had withdrawn his son from the University on the score of its expense.
A gold-medallist and a scholar, Dr. Lendrick would have eagerly coveted such honors for his son. It was, probably, the one triumph in life he would have set most store by, but Tom was one not made for collegiate successes. He had abilities, but they were not teachable qualities; he could pick up a certain amount of almost anything, – he could learn nothing. He could carry away from a chance conversation an amount of knowledge it had cost the talkers years to acquire, and yet set him down regularly to work book-fashion, and either from want of energy, or concentration, or of that strong will which masters difficulties just as a full current carries all before it – whichever of these was his defect, – he arose from his task wearied, worn, but unadvanced.
When, therefore, his father would speak, as he sometimes did, in confidence to the vicar, in a tone of depression about Tom’s deficiencies, the honest parson would feel perfectly lost in amazement at what he meant. To his eyes Tom Lendrick was a wonder, a prodigy. There was not a theme he could not talk on, and talk well too. “It was but the other day he told the chief engineer of the Shannon Company more about the geological formation of the river-basin than all his staff knew. Ay, and what’s stranger,” added the vicar, “he understands the whole Colenso controversy better than I do myself.” It is just possible that in the last panegyric there was nothing of exaggeration or excess. “And with all that, sir, his father goes on brooding over his neglected education, and foreshadowing the worst results from his ignorance.”
“He is a fine fellow,” said Fossbrooke, “but not to be compared with his sister.”
“Not for mere looks, perhaps, nor for a graceful manner, and a winning address; but who would think of ranking Lucy’s abilities with her brother’s?”
“Not I,” said Fossbrooke, boldly, “for I place hers far and away above them.”
A sly twinkle of the parson’s eye showed to what class of advantages he ascribed the other’s preference; but he said no more, and the controversy ended.
Every morning found Sir Brook at the “Swan’s Nest.” He was fond of gardening, and had consummate taste in laying out ground, so that many pleasant surprises had been prepared for Dr. Lendrick’s return. He drew, too, with great skill, and Lucy made considerable progress under his teaching; and as they grew more intimate, and she was not ashamed of the confession that she delighted in the Georgics of Virgil, they read whole hours together of those picturesque descriptions of rural life and its occupations, which are as true to nature at this hour as on the day they were written.
Perhaps the old man fancied that it was he who had suggested this intense appreciation of the poet. It is just possible that the young girl believed that she had reclaimed a wild, erratic, eccentric nature, and brought him back ta the love of simple pleasures and a purer source of enjoyment. Whichever way the truth inclined, each was happy, each contented. And how fond are we all, of every age, of playing the missionary, of setting off into the savage districts of our neighbors’ natures and combating their false idols, their superstitions and strange rites! The least adventurous and the least imaginative have these little outbursts of conversion, and all are more or less propagandists.
It was one morning, a bright and glorious one too, that, while Tom and Lucy were yet at breakfast, Sir Brook arrived and entered the breakfast-room.
“What a day for a gray hackle, in that dark pool under the larch-trees!” cried Tom, as he saw him.
“What a day for a long walk to Mount Laurel!” said Lucy. “You said, t’other morning, you wanted cloud effects on the upper lake. I ‘ll show you splendid ones to-day.”
“I ‘ll promise you a full basket before four o’clock,” broke in Tom.
“I ‘ll promise you a full sketch-book,” said Lucy, with one of her sweetest smiles.
“And I ‘m going to refuse both; for I have a plan of my own, and a plan not to be gainsaid.”
“I know it, You want us to go to work on that fish-pond. I’m certain it’s that.”
“No, Tom; it’s the catalogue, – the weary catalogue that he told me, as a punishment for not being able to find Machiavelli’s comedies last week, he ‘d make me sit down to on the first lovely morning that came.”
“Better that than those dreary Georgics which remind one of school, and the third form. But what ‘s your plan, Sir Brook? We have thought of all the projects that can terrify us, and you look as if it ought to be a terror.”
“Mine is a plan for pleasure, and pleasure only; so pack up at once and get ready. Trafford arrived this morning.”
“Where is he? I am so glad! Where’s Trafford?” cried Tom, delighted.
“I have despatched him with the vicar and two well-filled hampers to Holy Island, where I mean that we shall all picnic. There ‘s my plan.”
“And a jolly plan too! I adhere unconditionally.”
“And you, Lucy, what do you say?” asked Sir Brook, as the young girl stood with a look of some indecision and embarrassment.
“I don’t say that it’s not a very pleasant project, but – ”
“But what, Lucy? Where ‘s the but?”
She whispered a few words in his ear, and he cried out: “Is n’t this too bad? She tells me Nicholas does not like all this gayety; that Nicholas disapproves of our mode of life.”
“No, Tom; I only said Nicholas thinks that papa would not like it.”
“Couldn’t we see Nicholas? Couldn’t we have a commission to examine Nicholas?” asked Sir Brook, laughingly.
“I ‘ll not be on it, that ‘s all I know; for I should finish by chucking the witness into the Shannon. Come along, Lucy; don’t let us lose this glorious morning. I ‘ll get some lines and hooks together. Be sure you ‘re ready when I come back.”
As the door closed after him, Sir Brook drew near to Lucy, where she stood in an attitude of doubt and hesitation. “I mustn’t risk your good opinion of me rashly. If you really dislike this excursion, I will give it up,” said he, in a low, gentle voice.
“Dislike it? No; far from it. I suspect I would enjoy it more than any of you. My reluctance was simply on the ground that all this is so unlike the life we have been leading hitherto. Papa will surely disapprove of it. Oh, there comes Nicholas with a letter!” cried she, opening the sash-window. “Give it to me; it is from papa.”
She broke the seal hurriedly, and ran rapidly over the lines. “Oh, yes! I will go now, and go with delight too. It is full of good news. He is to see grandpapa, if not to-morrow, the day after. He hopes all will be well. Papa knows your name, Sir Brook. He says, ‘Ask your friend Sir Brook if he be any relative of a Sir Brook Foss-brooke who rescued Captain Langton some forty years ago from a Neapolitan prison. The print-shops were filled with his likeness when I was a boy.’ Was he one of your family?” inquired she, looking at him.
“I am the man,” said he, calmly and coldly. “Langton was sentenced to the galleys for life for having struck the Count d’Aconi across the face with his glove; and the Count was nephew to the King. They had him at Capri working in chains, and I landed with my yacht’s crew and liberated him.”
“What a daring thing to do!”
“Not so daring as you fancy. The guard was surprised, and fled. It was only when reinforced that they showed fight. Our toughest enemies were the galley-slaves, who, when they discovered that we never meant to liberate them, attacked us with stones. This scar on my temple is a memorial of the affair.”
“And Langton, what became of him?”
“He is now Lord Burrowfield. He gave me two fingers to shake the last time I met him at the Travellers’.”
“Oh, don’t say that! Oh, don’t tell me of such ingratitude!”
“My