Sir Brook Fossbrooke, Volume I.. Lever Charles James
has come, and he is feverishly uneasy and anxious.”
The vicar was silent, but a grave motion of his head implied doubt and fear.
“Yes,” said Sir Brook, answering the gesture, – “yes, I agree with you. The Traffords are great folk in their own country. Trafford was a strong place in Saxon times. They have pride enough for all this blood, and wealth enough for both pride and blood.”
“They ‘d find their match in Lendrick, quiet and simple as he seems,” said the vicar.
“Which makes the matter worse. Who is to give way? Who is to céder le pas?”
“I am not so sure I should have advised that letter. I am inclined to think I would have counselled more time, more consideration. Fathers and mothers are prudently averse to these loves at first sight, and they are merciless in dealing with what they deem a mere passing sentiment.”
“Better that than suffer him to engage the girl’s affections, and then learn that he must either desert her or marry her against the feeling of his family. Let us have a stroll in the garden. I have made you one confidence; I will now make you another.”
They lit their cigars, and strolled out into a long alley fenced on one side by a tall dense hedge of laurels, and flanked on the other by a low wall, over which the view took in the wide reach of the river and the distant mountains of Scariff and Meelick.
“Was not that where we picnicked yesterday?” asked Sir Brook, pointing to an island in the distance.
“No; you cannot see Holy Island from this.”
Sir Brook smoked on for some minutes without a word; at last, with a sort of abruptness, he said, “She was so like her, not only in face and figure, but her manner; the very tone of her voice was like; and then that half-caressing, half-timid way she has in conversation, and, more than all, the sly quietness with which she caps you when you fancy that the smart success is all your own.”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“Of another Lucy,” said Sir Brook, with a deep melancholy. “Heaven grant that the resemblance follow them not in their lives as in their features! It was that likeness, however, which first attracted me towards Miss Lendrick. The first moment I saw her it overcame me; as I grew to know her better, it almost confused me, and made me jumble in your hearing things of long ago with the present. Time and space were both forgotten, and I found my mind straying away to scenes in the Himalaya with those I shall never see more. It was thus that, one day carried away by this delusion, I chanced to call her Lucy, and she laughingly begged me not to retract it, but so to call her always.” For some minutes he was silent, and then resumed: “I don’t know if you ever heard of a Colonel Frank Dillon, who served on Napier’s staff in Scinde. Fiery Frank was his nickname among his comrades, but it only applied to him on the field of battle, and with an enemy in front. Then he was indeed fiery, – the excitement rose to almost madness, and led him to acts of almost incredible daring. At Meanee he was nearly cut to pieces, and as he lay wounded, and to all appearance dying, he received a lance-wound through the chest that the surgeon declared must prove fatal. He lived, however, for eight months after, – he lived long enough to reach the Himalayas, where his daughter, an only child, joined him from England. On her way out she became acquainted with a young officer, who was coming out as aide-de-camp to the Governor-General. They were constantly thrown together on the journey, and his attentions to her soon showed the sentiments he had conceived for her. In fact, very soon after Lucy had joined her father, Captain Sewell appeared ‘in the Hills’ to make a formal demand of her in marriage.
“I was there at the time, and I remember well poor Dillon’s expression of disappointment after the first meeting with him. His daughter’s enthusiastic description of his looks, his manner, his abilities, his qualities generally, had perhaps prepared him for too much. Indeed, Lucy’s own intense admiration for the soldierlike character of her father’s features assisted the mistake; for, as Dillon said, ‘There must be a dash of the sabreur in the fellow that will win Lucy.’ I came into Dillon’s room immediately after the first interview. The instant I caught his eye I read what was going on in his brain. ‘Sit down here, Brook,’ cried he, ‘sit in my chair here;’ and he arose painfully as he spoke. ‘I’ll show you the man.’ With this he hobbled over to a table where his cap lay, and, placing it rakishly on one side of his head, he stuck his eyeglass in one eye, and, with a hand in his trousers-pocket, lounged forward towards where I sat, saying, ‘How d’ ye do, Colonel? Wound doing better, I hope. The breezy climate up here soon set you up.’ ‘Familiar enough this, sir,’ cried Dillon, in his own stern voice; ‘but without time to breathe, as it were, – before almost I had exchanged a greeting with him, – he entered upon the object of his journey. I scarcely heard a word he said; I knew its purport, – I could mark the theme, – but no more. It was not the fellow himself that filled my mind; my whole thoughts were upon my daughter, and I went on repeating to myself, “Good heavens! is this Lucy’s choice? Am I in a trance? Is it this contemptible cur (for he was a cur, sir) that has won the affections of my darling, high-hearted, generous girl? Is the romantic spirit that I have so loved to see in her to bear no better fruit than this? Does the fellow realize to her mind the hero that fills men’s thoughts?” I was so overcome, so excited, so confused, Brook, that I begged him to leave me for a while, that one of my attacks of pain was coming on, and that I should not be able to converse farther He said something about trying one of his cheroots, – some impertinence or other, I forget what; but he left me, and I, who never knew a touch of girlish weakness in my life, who when a child had no mood of softness in my nature, – I felt the tears trickling along my cheeks, and my eyes dimmed with them.’ My poor friend,” continued Fossbrooke, “could not go on; his emotions mastered him, and he sat with his head buried between his hands and in silence. At last he said, ‘She ‘ll not give him up, Brook; I have spoken to her, – she actually loves him. Good heavens!’ he cried, ‘how little do we know about our children’s hearts! how far astray are we as to the natures that have grown up beside us, imbibing, as we thought, our hopes, our wishes, and our prejudices! We awake some day to discover that some other influence has crept in to undo our teachings, and that the fidelity on which we would have staked our lives has changed allegiance.’
“He talked to me long in this strain, and I saw that the effects of this blow to all his hopes had made themselves deeply felt on his chance of recovery. It only needed a great shock to depress him to make his case hopeless. Within two months after his daughter’s arrival he was no more.
“I became Lucy’s guardian. Poor Dillon gave me the entire control over her future fortune, and left me to occupy towards her the place he had himself held. I believe that next to her father I held the best place in her affections, – of such affections, I mean, as are accorded to a parent. I was her godfather, and from her earliest infancy she had learned to love me. The reserve – it was positive coldness – with which Dillon had always treated Sewell had caused a certain distance, for the first time in their lives, between the father and daughter. She thought, naturally enough, that her father was unjust; that, unaccustomed to the new tone of manners which had grown up amongst young men, – their greater ease, their less rigid observance of ceremonial, their more liberal self-indulgence, – he was unfairly severe upon her lover. She was annoyed, too, that Sewells attempts to conciliate the old man should have turned out such complete failures. But none of these prejudices extended to me, and she counted much on the good understanding that she expected to find grow up between us.
“If I could have prevented the marriage, I would. I learned many things of the man that I disliked. There is no worse sign of a man than to be at the same time a man of pleasure and friendless. These he was, – he was foremost in every plan of amusement and dissipation, and yet none liked him. Vain fellows get quizzed for their vanity, and selfish men laughed at for their selfishness, and close men for their avarice; but there is a combination of vanity, egotism, small craftiness, and self-preservation in certain fellows that is totally repugnant to all companionship. Their lives are a series of petty successes, not owing to any superior ability or greater boldness of daring, but to a studious outlook for small opportunities. They are ever alive to know the ‘right man,’ to be invited to the ‘right house,’ to say the ‘right thing.’