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.
The present movement had gone so far as to fill the public mind with terror, and our jails with suspected traitors. To try these men a special commission had been named by the Government, from which, contrary to custom, the Chief Baron had been omitted. Nor was this all. The various newspapers supposed to be organs, or at least advocates, of the Ministry, kept up a continuous stream of comment on the grave injury to a country, at a crisis like that then present, to have one of its chief judicial seats occupied by one whose age and infirmities totally disabled him from rendering those services which the Crown and the nation alike had a right to expect from him.
Stories, for the most part untrue, of the Chief Baron’s mistakes on the Bench appeared daily. Imaginary suitors, angry solicitors, and such-like – the Bar was too dignified to join in the cry – wrote letters averring this, that, or the other cruel wrong inflicted upon them through the “senile incapacity of this obstructive and vain old man.”
Never was there a less adroit tactic. Every insult they hurled at him only suggested a fresh resolve to hold his ground. To attack such a man was to evoke every spark of vigorous resistance in his nature, to stimulate energies which nothing short of outrage could awaken, and to call into activity powers which, in the ordinary course of events, would have fallen into decline and decay. As he expressed it, “in trying to extinguish the lamp they have only trimmed the wick.” When, through Sewell’s pernicious counsels, the old Judge determined to convince the world of his judicial fitness by coming out a young man, dressed in the latest fashion, and affecting in his gait and manner the last fopperies of the day, all the reserve which respect for his great abilities had imposed was thrown aside, and the papers now assailed him with a ridicule that was downright indecent. The print shops, too, took up the theme, and the windows were filled with caricatures of every imaginable degree of absurdity.
There was one man to whom these offensive attacks gave pain only inferior to what they inflicted on the Chief himself, – this was his friend Haire. To have lived to see the great object of all his homage thus treated by an ungrateful country, seemed to him the direst of all calamities. Over and over did he ponder with himself whether such depravity of public feeling portended the coming decline of the nation, and whether such gross forgetfulness of great services was not to be taken as a sign of approaching dissolution.
It was true that since the Sewells had taken up their residence at the Priory he had seen but little of his distinguished friend. All the habits, the hours, and the associations of the house had been changed. The old butler, who used to receive Haire when he arrived on terms of humble friendship, telling him in confidence, before he went in, the temper in which he should find the Judge, what crosses or worries had recently befallen him, and what themes it might be discreet to avoid, – he was pensioned off, and in his place a smart Englishman, Mr. Cheetor, now figured, – a gentleman whose every accent, not to speak of his dress, would have awed poor Haire into downright subjection. The large back hall, through which you passed into the garden, – a favorite stroll of Haire’s in olden times, – was now a billiard room, and generally filled with fine ladies and gentlemen engaged in playing; the very sight of a lady with a billiard cue, and not impossibly a cigarette, being shocks to the old man’s notions only short of seeing the fair delinquent led off to the watchhouse. The drowsy quietude of the place, so grateful after the crush and tumult of a city, was gone; and there was the clang of a pianoforte, the rattle of the billiard balls, the loud talk and loud laughter of morning visitors, in its stead. The quaint old gray liveries were changed for coats of brilliant claret color. Even to the time-honored glass of brandy-and-water which welcomed Haire as he walked out from town there was revolution; and the measure of the old man’s discomfiture was complete as the silvery-tongued butler offered him his choice of hock and seltzer or claret-cup!
“Does the Chief like all this? Is it possible that at his age these changes can please him?” muttered Haire, as he sauntered one day homeward, sad and dispirited; and it would not have been easy to resolve the question.
There was so much that flattered the old Judge’s vanity, – so much that addressed itself to that consciousness that his years were no barrier to his sentiments, that into all that went on in life, whatever of new that men introduced into their ways or habits, he was just as capable of entering as the youngest amongst them; and this avidity to be behind in nothing showed itself in the way he would read the sporting papers, and make himself up in the odds at Newmarket and the last news of the Cambridge Eleven. It is true, never was there a more ready-money payment than the admiration he reaped from all this; and enthusiastic cornets went so far as to lament how the genius that might have done great things at Doncaster had been buried in a Court of Exchequer. “I wish he ‘d tell us who ‘ll win the Riggles-worth” – “I ‘d give a fifty to know what he thinks of Polly Perkins for the cup,” were the dropping utterances of mustachioed youths who would have turned away inattentive on any mention of his triumphs in the Senate or at the Bar.
“I declare, mother,” said Sewell, in one of those morning calls at Merrion Square in which he kept her alive to the events of the Priory, – “I declare, mother, if we could get you out of the way, I think he ‘d marry again. He ‘s uncommonly tender towards one of those Lascelles girls, nieces of the Viceroy, and I am certain he would propose for her.”
“I’m sure I’m very sorry I should be an obstacle to him, especially as it prevents him from crowning the whole folly of his life.”
“She’s a great horsewoman, and he has given me a commission to get him a saddle-horse to ride with her.”
“Which of course you will not.”
“Which of course I will, though. I’m going about it now. He has been very intractable about stable matters hitherto; the utmost we could do was to exchange the old long-tailed coach-horses, and get rid of that vile old chariot; but if we get him once launched into riding hacks, we ‘ll have something to mount us.”
“And when his granddaughter returns, will not all go back to the former state?”
“First of all, she’s not coming. There’s a split in that quarter, and in all likelihood an irremediable one.”
“How so? What has she done?”
“She has fallen in love with a young fellow as poor as herself; and her brother Tom has written to the Chief to know if he sees any reason why they should not marry. The very idea of an act of such insubordination as falling in love of course outraged him. He took my wife into his counsels besides, and she, it would appear, gave a most unfavorable character of the suitor, – said he was a gambler, – and we all know what a hopeless thing that is! – that his family had thrown him off; that he had gone through the whole of his patrimony, and was, in short, just as bad ‘a lot’ as could well be found.”
“She was quite right to say so,” burst in Lady Lendrick. “I really do not see how she could have done otherwise.”
“Perhaps not; the only possible objection was, that there was no truth in it all.”
“Not true!”
“Not a word of it, except what relates to his quarrel with his family. As for the rest, he is pretty much like other fellows of his age and time of life. He has done the sort of things they all do, and hitherto has come fairly enough out of them.”
“But what motive could she have had for blackening him?”
“Ask her, mother,” said he, with a grin of devilish spite-fulness, – “just ask her; and even if she won’t tell you, your woman’s wit will find out the reason without her aid.”
“I declare, Dudley, you are too bad, – too bad,” said she, coloring with anger as she spoke.
“I should say, Too good, – too good by half, mother; at least, if endurance be any virtue. The world is beautifully generous towards us husbands. We are either monsters of cruelty, or we come into that category the French call ‘complaisant.’ I can’t say I have any fancy for either class; but if I am driven to a choice, I accept the part which meets the natural easiness of my disposition, the general kindliness of my character.”
For an instant Lady Lendrick’s eyes flashed with a fiery indignation, and she seemed about to reply with anger; but with an effort she controlled her passion, and took a turn or two in the room without speaking. At last, having recovered her calm, she said, “Is the marriage project then broken off?”
“So far as the Chief is concerned, it is. He has written a furious letter to his granddaughter, – dwelt forcibly on the ingratitude of her conduct. There is nothing old people so constantly refer to ingratitude as young folks falling in love. It is strange what a close tie would seem to connect this sin of ingratitude with the tender passion. He has reminded her of all the good precepts and wise examples that were placed before her at the Priory, and how shamefully she would seem to have forgotten them. He asks her, Did she ever see him fall in love? Did she ever see any weakness of this kind in Mrs. Beales the housekeeper, or Joe the gardener?”
“What stuff and nonsense!” said Lady Lendrick, turning angrily away from him. “Sir William is not an angel, but as certainly he is not a fool.”
“There I differ from you altogether. He may be the craftiest lawyer, the wisest judge, the neatest scholar, and the best talker of his day, – these are all claims I cannot adjudicate on, – they are far and away above me. But I do pretend to know something about life and the world we live in, and I tell you that your all-accomplished Chief Baron is, in whatever relates to these, as consummate an ass as ever I met with. It is not that he is sometimes wrong; it is that he is never right.”
“I can imagine he is not very clever at billiards, and it is possible that there may be persons more conversant than he with the odds at Tattersall’s,” said she, with a sneer.
“Not bad things to know something about, either of them,” said he, quietly; “but not exactly what I was alluding to. It is, however, somewhat amusing, mother, to see you come out as his defender. I assure you, honestly, when I counselled him on that new wig, and advised him to the choice of that dark velvet paletot, I never contemplated his making a conquest of you.”
“He has done some unwise things in life,” said she, with a fierce energy; “but I do not know if he has ever done so foolish a one as inviting you to come to live under his roof.”
“No, mother; the mistake was his not having done it earlier, – done it when he might have fallen in more readily with the wise changes I have introduced into his household, and when – most important element – he had a better balance at his banker’s. You can’t imagine what sums of money he has gone through.”
“I know nothing – I do not desire to know anything – of Sir William’s money matters.”
Not heeding in the slightest degree the tone of reproof she spoke in, he went on, in the train of his own thoughts: “Yes! It would have made a considerable difference to each of us had we met somewhat earlier. It was a sort of backing I always wanted in life.”
“There was something else that you needed far more,” said she, with a sarcastic sternness.
“I know what you mean, mother, – I know what it is. Your politeness will not permit you to mention it. You would hint that I might not have been the worse of a little honesty, – is n’t that it? I was certain of it. Well, do you know, mother, there’s nothing in it, – positively nothing. I ‘ve met fellows who have tried it, – clever fellows too, some of them, – and they have universally admitted it was as great a sham as the other thing. As St. John said, Honesty is a sort of balloon jib, that will bowl you along splendidly with fair weather; but when it comes on to blow, you’ll soon find it better to shift your canvas and bend a very different sail. Now, men like myself are out in all kinds of weather; we want a handy rig and light tackle.”
“Is Lucy coming to luncheon?” said Lady Lendrick, most unmistakably showing how little palatable to her was his discourse.
“Not she. She’s performing devoted mother up at the Priory, teaching Regy his catechism, or Cary her scales, or, what has an infinitely finer effect on the surrounders, dining with the children. Only dine with the children, and you may run a-muck through the Decalogue all the evening after.”
And with this profound piece of morality he adjusted his hat before the glass, trimmed his whiskers, gave himself a friendly nod, and walked away.