The Caxtons, Part 5

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PART V.

CHAPTER I.

In setting off the next morning, the Boots, whose heart I had won by an
extra sixpence for calling me betimes, good-naturedly informed me that I
might save a mile of the journey, and have a very pleasant walk into the
bargain, if I took the footpath through a gentleman's park, the lodge of
which I should see about seven miles from the town.

"And the grounds are showed too," said the Boots, "if so be you has a
mind to stay and see 'em. But don't you go to the gardener,--he'll want
half a crown; there's an old 'Oman at the lodge who will show you all
that's worth seeing--the walks and the big cascade--for a tizzy. You
may make use of my name," he added proudly,--"Bob, boots at the 'Lion.'
She be a haunt o' mine, and she minds them that come from me
perticklerly."

Not doubting that the purest philanthropy actuated these counsels, I
thanked my shock-headed friend, and asked carelessly to whom the park
belonged.

"To Muster Trevanion, the great parliament man," answered the Boots.
"You has heard o' him, I guess, sir?"

I shook my head, surprised every hour more and more to find how very
little there was in it.

"They takes in the 'Moderate Man's Journal' at the 'Lamb:' and they say
in the tap there that he's one of the cleverest chaps in the House o'
Commons," continued the Boots, in a confidential whisper. "But we takes
in the 'People's Thunderbolt' at the 'Lion,' and we knows better this
Muster Trevanion: he is but a trimmer,--milk and water,--no horator,--
not the right sort; you understand?" Perfectly satisfied that I
understood nothing about it, I smiled, and said, "Oh, yes!" and slipping
on my knapsack, commenced my adventures, the Boots bawling after me,
"Mind, sir, you tells haunt I sent you!"

The town was only languidly putting forth symptoms of returning life as
I strode through the streets; a pale, sickly, unwholesome look on the
face of the slothful Phoebus had succeeded the feverish hectic of the
past night; the artisans whom I met glided by me haggard and dejected; a
few early shops were alone open; one or two drunken men, emerging from
the lanes, sallied homeward with broken pipes in their mouths; bills,
with large capitals, calling attention to "Best family teas at 4s. a
pound;" "The arrival of Mr. Sloinan's caravan of wild beasts;" and Dr.
Do'em's "Paracelsian Pills of Immortality," stared out dull and
uncheering from the walls of tenantless, dilapidated houses in that
chill sunrise which favors no illusion. I was glad when I had left the
town behind me, and saw the reapers in the corn-fields, and heard the
chirp of the birds. I arrived at the lodge of which the Boots had
spoken,--a pretty rustic building half-concealed by a belt of
plantations, with two large iron gates for the owner's friends, and a
small turn-stile for the public, who, by some strange neglect on his
part, or sad want of interest with the neighboring magistrates, had
still preserved a right to cross the rich man's domains and look on his
grandeur, limited to compliance with a reasonable request, mildly stated
on the notice-board, "to keep to the paths." As it was not yet eight
o'clock, I had plenty of time before me to see the grounds; and
profiting by the economical hint of the Boots, I entered the lodge and
inquired for the old lady who was haunt to Mr. Bob. A young woman, who
was busied in preparing breakfast, nodded with great civility to this
request, and hastening to a bundle of clothes which I then perceived in
the corner, she cried, "Grandmother, here's a gentleman to see the
cascade."

The bundle of clothes then turned round and exhibited a human
countenance, which lighted up with great intelligence as the
granddaughter, turning to me, said with simplicity. "She's old, honest
cretur, but she still likes to earn a sixpence, sir;" and taking a
crutch-staff in her hand, while her granddaughter put a neat bonnet on
her head, this industrious gentlewoman sallied out at a pace which
surprised me.

I attempted to enter into conversation with my guide; but she did not
seem much inclined to be sociable, and the beauty of the glades and
groves which now spread before my eyes reconciled me to silence.

I have seen many fine places since then, but I do not remember to have
seen a landscape more beautiful in its peculiar English character than
that which I now gazed on. It had none of the feudal characteristics of
ancient parks, with giant oaks, fantastic pollards, glens covered with
fern, and deer grouped upon the slopes; on the contrary, in spite of
some fine trees, chiefly beech, the impression conveyed was, that it was
a new place,--a made place. You might see ridges on the lawns which
showed where hedges had been removed; the pastures were parcelled out in
divisions by new wire fences; young plantations, planned with exquisite
taste, but without the venerable formality of avenues and quin-cunxes,
by which you know the parks that date from Elizabeth and James,
diversified the rich extent of verdure; instead of deer, were short-
horned cattle of the finest breed, sheep that would have won the prize
at an agricultural show. Everywhere there was the evidence of
improvement, energy, capital, but capital clearly not employed for the
mere purpose of return. The ornamental was too conspicuously
predominant amidst the lucrative not to say eloquently: "The owner is
willing to make the most of his land, but not the most of his money."

But the old woman's eagerness to earn sixpence had impressed me
unfavorably as to the character of the master. "Here," thought I, "are
all the signs of riches; and yet this poor old woman, living on the very
threshold of opulence, is in want of a sixpence."

These surmises, in the indulgence of which I piqued myself on my
penetration, were strengthened into convictions by the few sentences
which I succeeded at last in eliciting from the old woman.

"Mr. Trevanion must be a rich man?" said I. "Oh, ay, rich eno'!"
grumbled my guide.

"And," said I, surveying the extent of shrubbery or dressed ground
through which our way wound, now emerging into lawns and glades, now
belted by rare garden-trees, now (as every inequality of the ground was
turned to advantage in the landscape) sinking into the dell, now
climbing up the slopes, and now confining the view to some object of
graceful art or enchanting Nature,--"and," said I, "he must employ many
hands here: plenty of work, eh?"

"Ay, ay! I don't say that he don't find work for those who want it. But
it ain't the same place it wor in my day."

"You remember it in other hands, then?"

"Ay, ay! When the Hogtons had it, honest folk! My good man was the
gardener,--none of those set-Lip fine gentlemen who can't put hand to a
spade."

Poor faithful old woman!

I began to hate the unknown proprietor. Here clearly was some mushroom
usurper who had bought out the old simple, hospitable family, neglected
its ancient servants, left them to earn tizzies by showing waterfalls,
and insulted their eyes by his selfish wealth.

"There's the water all spilt,--it warn't so in my day," said the guide.

A rivulet, whose murmur I had long heard, now stole suddenly into view,
and gave to the scene the crowning charm. As, relapsing into silence,
we tracked its sylvan course, under dripping chestnuts and shady limes,
the house itself emerged on the opposite side,--a modern building of
white stone, with the noblest Corinthian portico I ever saw in this
country.

"A fine house indeed," said I. "Is Mr. Trevanion here much?"

"Ay, ay! I don't mean to say that he goes away altogether, but it ain't
as it wor in my day, when the Hogtons lived here all the year round in
their warm house,--not that one."

Good old woman, and these poor banished Hogtons, thought I,--hateful
parvenu! I was pleased when a curve in the shrubberies shut out the
house from view, though in reality bringing us nearer to it. And the
boasted cascade, whose roar I had heard for some moments, came in sight.

Amidst the Alps, such a waterfall would have been insignificant, but
contrasting ground highly dressed, with no other bold features, its
effect was striking, and even grand. The banks were here narrowed and
compressed; rocks, partly natural, partly no doubt artificial, gave a
rough aspect to the margin; and the cascade fell from a considerable
height into rapid waters, which my guide mumbled out were "mortal deep."

"There wor a madman leapt over where you be standing," said the old
woman, "two years ago last June."

"A madman! why," said I, observing, with an eye practised in the
gymnasium of the Hellenic Institute, the narrow space of the banks over
the gulf,--"why, my good lady, it need not be a madman to perform that
leap."

And so saying, with one of those sudden impulses which it would be wrong
to ascribe to the noble quality of courage, I drew back a few steps, and
cleared the abyss. But when from the other side I looked back at what I
had done, and saw that failure had been death, a sickness came over me,
and I felt as if I would not have releapt the gulf to become lord of the
domain.

"And how am I to get back?" said I, in a forlorn voice to the old woman,
who stood staring at me on the other side. "Ah! I see there is a
bridge below."

"But you can't go over the bridge, there's a gate on it; master keeps
the key himself. You are in the private grounds now. Dear, dear! the
squire would be so angry if he knew. You must go back; and they'll see
you from the house! Dear me! dear, dear! What shall I do? Can't you
leap back again?"

Moved by these piteous exclamations, and not wishing to subject the poor
old lady to the wrath of a master evidently an unfeeling tyrant, I
resolved to pluck up courage and releap the dangerous abyss.

"Oh, yes, never fear," said I, therefore. "What's been done once ought
to be done twice, if needful. Just get out of my way, will you?"

And I receded several paces over a ground much too rough to favor my run
for a spring. But my heart knocked against my ribs. I felt that
impulse can do wonders where preparation fails.

"You had best be quick, then," said the old woman.

Horrid old woman! I began to esteem her less. I set my teeth, and was
about to rush on, when a voice close beside me said,--

"Stay, young man; I will let you through the gate."

I turned round sharply, and saw close by my side, in great wonder that I
had not seen him before, a man, whose homely (but not working) dress
seemed to intimate his station as that of the head-gardener, of whom my
guide had spoken. He was seated on a stone under a chestnut-tree, with
an ugly cur at his feet, who snarled at me as I turned.

"Thank you, my man," said I, joyfully. "I confess frankly that I was
very much afraid of that leap."

"Ho! Yet you said, what can be done once can be done twice."

"I did not say it could be done, but ought to be done."

"Humph! That's better put."

Here the man rose; the dog came and smelt my legs, and then, as if
satisfied with my respectability, wagged the stump of his tail.

I looked across the waterfall for the old woman, and to my surprise saw
her hobbling back as fast as she could. "Ah!" said I, laughing, "the
poor old thing is afraid you'll tell her master,--for you're the head
gardener, I suppose? But I am the only person to blame. Pray say that,
if you mention the circumstance at all!" and I drew out half a crown,
which I proffered to my new conductor.

He put back the money with a low "Humph! not amiss." Then, in a louder
voice, "No occasion to bribe me, young man; I saw it all."

"I fear your master is rather hard to the poor Hogtons' old servants."

"Is he? Oh! humph! my master. Mr. Trevanion you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, I dare say people say so. This is the way." And he led me down
a little glen away from the fall. Everybody must have observed that
after he has incurred or escaped a great danger, his spirits rise
wonderfully; he is in a state of pleasing excitement. So it was with
me. I talked to the gardener a coeur ouvert, as the French say; and I
did not observe that his short monosyllables in rejoinder all served to
draw out my little history,--my journey, its destination, my schooling
under Dr. Herman, and my father's Great Book. I was only made somewhat
suddenly aware of the familiarity that had sprung up between us when,
just as, having performed a circuitous meander, we regained the stream
and stood before an iron gate set in an arch of rock-work, my companion
said simply: "And your name, young gentleman? What's your name?"

I hesitated a moment; but having heard that such communications were
usually made by the visitors of show places, I answered: "Oh! a very
venerable one, if your master is what they call a bibliomaniac--Caxton."

"Caxton!" cried the gardener, with some vivacity; "there is a Cumberland
family of that name--"

"That's mine; and my Uncle Roland is the head of that family."

"And you are the son of Augustine Caxton?"

"I am. You have heard of my dear father, then?"

"We will not pass by the gate now. Follow me,--this way;" and my guide,
turning abruptly round, strode up a narrow path, and the house stood a
hundred yards before me ere I recovered my surprise.

"Pardon me," said I, "but where are we going, my good friend?"

"Good friend, good friend! Well said, sir. You are going amongst good
friends. I was at college with your father; I loved him well. I knew a
little of your uncle too. My name is Trevanion."

Blind young fool that I was! The moment my guide told his name, I was
struck with amazement at my unaccountable mistake. The small,
insignificant figure took instant dignity; the homely dress, of rough
dark broadcloth, was the natural and becoming dishabille of a country
gentleman in his own demesnes. Even the ugly cur became a Scotch
terrier of the rarest breed.

My guide smiled good-naturedly at my stupor; and patting me on the
shoulder, said,--

"It is the gardener you must apologize to, not me. He is a very
handsome fellow, six feet high."

I had not found my tongue before we had ascended a broad flight of
stairs under the portico, passed a spacious hall adorned with statues
and fragrant with large orange-trees, and, entering a small room hung
with pictures, in which were arranged all the appliances for breakfast,
my companion said to a lady, who rose from behind the tea-urn: "My dear
Ellinor, I introduce to you the son of our old friend Augustine Caxton.
Make him stay with us as long as he can. Young gentleman, in Lady
Ellinor Trevanion think that you see one whom you ought to know well;
family friendships should descend."

My host said these last words in an imposing tone, and then pounced on a
letter-bag on the table, drew forth an immense heap of letters and
newspapers, threw himself into an armchair, and seemed perfectly
forgetful of my existence.

The lady stood a moment in mute surprise, and I saw that she changed
color from pale to red, and red to pale, before she came forward with
the enchanting grace of unaffected kindness, took me by the hand, drew
me to a seat next to her own, and asked so cordially after my father, my
uncle, my whole family, that in five minutes I felt myself at home.
Lady Ellinor listened with a smile (though with moistened eyes, which
she wiped every now and then) to my artless details. At length she
said,--

"Have you never heard your father speak of me,--I mean of us; of the
Trevanions?"

"Never," said I, bluntly; "and that would puzzle me, only my dear
father, you know, is not a great talker."

"Indeed! he was very animated when I knew him," said Lady Ellinor; and
she turned her head and sighed.

At this moment there entered a young lady so fresh, so blooming, so
lovely that every other thought vanished out of my head at once. She
came in singing, as gay as a bird, and seeming to my adoring sight quite
as native to the skies.

"Fanny," said Lady Ellinor, "shake hands with Mr. Caxton, the son of one
whom I have not seen since I was little older than you, but whom I
remember as if it were but yesterday."

Miss Fanny blushed and smiled, and held out her hand with an easy
frankness which I in vain endeavored to imitate. During breakfast, Mr.
Trevanion continued to read his letters and glance over the papers, with
an occasional ejaculation of "Pish!" "Stuff!" between the intervals in
which he mechanically swallowed his tea, or some small morsels of dry
toast. Then rising with a suddenness which characterized his movements,
he stood on his hearth for a few moments buried in thought; and now that
a large-brimmed hat was removed from his brow, and the abruptness of his
first movement, with the sedateness of his after pause, arrested my
curious attention, I was more than ever ashamed of my mistake. It was a
careworn, eager, and yet musing countenance, hollow-eyed and with deep
lines; but it was one of those faces which take dignity and refinement
from that mental cultivation which distinguishes the true aristocrat,
namely, the highly educated, acutely intelligent man. Very handsome
might that face have been in youth, for the features, though small, were
exquisitely defined; the brow, partially bald, was noble and massive,
and there was almost feminine delicacy in the curve of the lip. The
whole expression of the face was commanding, but sad. Often, as my
experience of life increased, have I thought to trace upon that
expressive visage the history of energetic ambition curbed by a
fastidious philosophy and a scrupulous conscience; but then all that I
could see was a vague, dissatisfied melancholy, which dejected me I knew
not why.

Presently Trevanion returned to the table, collected his letters, moved
slowly towards the door, and vanished.

His wife's eyes followed him tenderly. Those eyes reminded me of my
mother's, as I verily believe did all eyes that expressed affection. I
crept nearer to her, and longed to press the white hand that lay so
listless before me.

"Will you walk out with us?" said Miss Trevanion, turning to me. I
bowed, and in a few minutes I found myself alone. While the ladies left
me, for their shawls and bonnets, I took up the newspapers which Mr.
Trevanion had thrown on the table, by way of something to do. My eye
was caught by his own name; it occurred often, and in all the papers.
There was contemptuous abuse in one, high eulogy in another; but one
passage in a journal that seemed to aim at impartiality, struck me so
much as to remain in my memory; and I am sure that I can still quote the
sense, though not the exact words. The paragraph ran somewhat thus:--

"In the present state of parties, our contemporaries have not
unnaturally devoted much space to the claims or demerits of Mr.
Trevanion. It is a name that stands unquestionably high in the House of
Commons; but, as unquestionably, it commands little sympathy in the
country. Mr. Trevanion is essentially and emphatically a member of
parliament. He is a close and ready debater; he is an admirable
chairman in committees. Though never in office, his long experience of
public life, his gratuitous attention to public business, have ranked
him high among those practical politicians from whom ministers are
selected. A man of spotless character and excellent intentions, no
doubt, he must be considered; and in him any cabinet would gain an
honest and a useful member. There ends all we can say in his praise.
As a speaker, he wants the fire and enthusiasm which engage the popular
sympathies. He has the ear of the House, not the heart of the country.
An oracle on subjects of mere business, in the great questions of policy
he is comparatively a failure. He never embraces any party heartily; he
never espouses any question as if wholly in earnest. The moderation on
which he is said to pique himself often exhibits itself in fastidious
crotchets and an attempt at philosophical originality of candor which
has long obtained him, with his enemies, the reputation of a trimmer.
Such a man circumstances may throw into temporary power; but can he
command lasting influence? No. Let Mr. Trevanion remain in what Nature
and position assign as his proper post,--that of an upright,
independent, able member of parliament; conciliating sensible men on
both sides, when party runs into extremes. He is undone as a cabinet
minister. His scruples would break up any government; and his want of
decision--when, as in all human affairs, some errors must be conceded to
obtain a great good--would shipwreck his own fame."

I had just got to the end of this paragraph when the ladies returned.

My hostess observed the newspaper in my hand, and said, with a
constrained smile, "Some attack on Mr. Trevanion, I suppose?"

"No," said I, awkwardly; for perhaps the paragraph that appeared to me
so impartial, was the most galling attack of all,--"No, not exactly."

"I never read the papers now,--at least what are called the leading
articles; it is too painful. And once they gave me so much pleasure,--
that was when the career began, and before the fame was made."

Here Lady Ellinor opened the window which admitted on the lawn, and in a
few moments we were in that part of the pleasure-grounds which the
family reserved from the public curiosity. We passed by rare shrubs and
strange flowers, long ranges of conservatories, in which bloomed and
lived all the marvellous vegetation of Africa and the Indies.

"Mr. Trevanion is fond of flowers?" said I.

The fair Fanny laughed. "I don't think he knows one from another."

"Nor I either," said I,--"that is, when I fairly lose sight of a rose or
a hollyhock."

"The farm will interest you more," said Lady Ellinor.

We came to farm buildings recently erected, and no doubt on the most
improved principle. Lady Ellinor pointed out to me machines and
contrivances of the newest fashion for abridging labor and perfecting
the mechanical operations of agriculture.

"Ah! then Mr. Trevanion is fond of farming?" The pretty Fanny laughed
again.

"My father is one of the great oracles in agriculture, one of the great
patrons of all its improvements; but as for being fond of farming, I
doubt if he knows his own fields when he rides through them."

We returned to the house; and Miss Trevanion, whose frank kindness had
already made too deep an impression upon the youthful heart of
Pisistratus the Second, offered to show me the picture-gallery. The
collection was confined to the works of English artists; and Miss
Trevanion pointed out to me the main attractions of the gallery.

"Well, at least Mr. Trevanion is fond of pictures?"

"Wrong again," said Fanny, shaking her arched head. "My father is said
to be an admirable judge; but he only buys pictures from a sense of
duty,--to encourage our own painters. A picture once bought, I am not
sure that he ever looks at it again."

"What does he then--" I stopped short, for I felt my meditated question
was ill-bred.

"What does he like then? you were about to say. Why, I have known him,
of course, since I could know anything; but I have never yet discovered
what my father does like. No,--not even politics; though he lives for
politics alone. You look puzzled; you will know him better some day, I
hope; but you will never solve the mystery--what Mr. Trevanion likes."

"You are wrong," said Lady Ellinor, who had followed us into the room,
unheard by us. "I can tell you what your father does more than like,--
what he loves and serves every hour of his noble life,--justice,
beneficence, honor, and his country. A man who loves these may be
excused for indifference to the last geranium or the newest plough, or
even (though that offends you more, Fanny) the freshest masterpiece by
Lanseer, or the latest fashion honored by Miss Trevanion."

"Mamma!" said Fanny, and the tears sprang to her eyes. But Lady Ellinor
looked to me sublime as she spoke, her eyes kindled, her breast heaved.
The wife taking the husband's part against the child, and comprehending
so well what the child felt not, despite its experience of every day,
and what the world would never know, despite all the vigilance of its
praise and its blame, was a picture, to my taste, finer than any in the
collection.

Her face softened as she saw the tears in Fanny's bright hazel eyes; she
held out her hand, which her child kissed tenderly; and whispering, "'T
is not the giddy word you must go by, mamma, or there will be something
to forgive every minute," Miss Trevanion glided from the room.

"Have you a sister?" asked Lady Ellinor.

"No."

"And Trevanion has no son," she said, mournfully. The blood rushed to
my cheeks. Oh, young fool again! We were both silent, when the door
opened, and Mr. Trevanion entered. "Humph!" said he, smiling as he saw
me,--and his smile was charming, though rare. "Humph, young sir, I came
to seek for you,--I have been rude, I fear; pardon it. That thought has
only just occurred to me, so I left my Blue Books, and my amanuensis
hard at work on them, to ask you to come out for half an hour,--just
half an hour, it is all I can give you: a deputation at one! You dine
and sleep here, of course?"

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