The Caxtons, Part 9

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PART IX.

CHAPTER I.

And my father pushed aside his books.

O young reader, whoever thou art,--or reader at least who hast been
young,--canst thou not remember some time when, with thy wild troubles
and sorrows as yet borne in secret, thou hast come back from that hard,
stern world which opens on thee when thou puttest thy foot out of the
threshold of home,--come back to the four quiet walls wherein thine
elders sit in peace,--and seen, with a sort of sad amaze, how calm and
undisturbed all is there? That generation which has gone before thee in
the path of the passions,--the generation of thy parents (not so many
years, perchance, remote from thine own),--how immovably far off, in its
still repose, it seems from thy turbulent youth! It has in it a
stillness as of a classic age, antique as the statues of the Greeks.
That tranquil monotony of routine into which those lives that preceded
thee have merged; the occupations that they have found sufficing for
their happiness, by the fireside, in the arm-chair and corner
appropriated to each,--how strangely they contrast thine own feverish
excitement! And they make room for thee, and bid thee welcome, and then
resettle to their hushed pursuits as if nothing had happened! Nothing
had happened! while in thy heart, perhaps, the whole world seems to
have shot from its axis, all the elements to be at war! And you sit
down, crushed by that quiet happiness which you can share no more, and
smile mechanically, and look into the fire; and, ten to one, you say
nothing till the time comes for bed, and you take up your candle and
creep miserably to your lonely room.

Now, it in a stage-coach in the depth of winter, when three passengers
are warm and snug, a fourth, all besnowed and frozen, descends from the
outside and takes place amongst them, straightway all the three
passengers shift their places, uneasily pull up their cloak collars, re-
arrange their "comforters," feel indignantly a sensible loss of caloric:
the intruder has at least made a sensation. But if you had all the
snows of the Grampians in your heart, you might enter unnoticed; take
care not to tread on the toes of your opposite neighbor, and not a soul
is disturbed, not a "comforter" stirs an inch. I had not slept a wink,
I had not even lain down all that night,--the night in which I had said
farewell to Fanny Trevanion; and the next morning, when the sun rose, I
wandered out,--where I know not: I have a dim recollection of long,
gray, solitary streets; of the river, that seemed flowing in dull,
sullen silence, away, far away, into some invisible eternity; trees and
turf, and the gay voices of children. I must have gone from one end of
the great Babel to the other; for my memory only became clear and
distinct when I knocked, somewhere before noon, at the door of my
father's house, and, passing heavily up the stairs, came into the
drawing-room, which was the rendezvous of the little family; for since
we had been in London, my father had ceased to have his study apart, and
contented himself with what he called "a corner,"--a corner wide enough
to contain two tables and a dumb-waiter, with chairs a discretion all
littered with books. On the opposite side of this capacious corner sat
my uncle, now nearly convalescent, and he was jotting down, in his
stiff, military hand, certain figures in a little red account-book; for
you know already that my Uncle Roland was, in his expenses, the most
methodical of men.

My father's face was more benign than usual, for before him lay a
proof,--the first proof of his first work--his one work--the Great Book!
Yes! it had positively found a press. And the first proof of your first
work--ask any author what that is! My mother was out, with the faithful
Mrs. Primmins, shopping or marketing, no doubt; so, while the brothers
were thus engaged, it was natural that my entrance should not make as
much noise as if it had been a bomb, or a singer, or a clap of thunder,
or the last "great novel of the season," or anything else that made a
noise in those days. For what makes a noise now,--now, when the most
astonishing thing of all is our easy familiarity with things astounding;
when we say, listlessly, "Another revolution at Paris," or, "By the by,
there is the deuce to do at Vienna!" when De Joinville is catching fish
in the ponds at Claremont, and you hardly turn back to look at
Metternich on the pier at Brighton!

My uncle nodded and growled indistinctly; my father put aside his
books,--"you have told us that already."

Sir, you are very much mistaken; it was not then that he put aside his
books, for he was not then engaged in them,--he was reading his proof.
And he smiled, and pointed to it (the proof I mean) pathetically, and
with a kind of humor, as much as to say: "What can you expect,
Pisistratus? My new baby in short clothes--or long primer, which is all
the same thing!"

I took a chair between the two, and looked first at one, then at the
other. Heaven forgive me!--I felt a rebellious, ungrateful spite
against both. The bitterness of my soul must have been deep indeed to
have overflowed in that direction, but it did. The grief of youth is an
abominable egotist, and that is the truth. I got up from my chair and
walked towards the window; it was open, and outside the window was Mrs.
Primmins's canary, in its cage. London air had agreed with it, and it
was singing lustily. Now, when the canary saw me standing opposite to
its cage, and regarding it seriously, and, I have no doubt, with a very
sombre aspect, the creature stopped short, and hung its head on one
side, looking at me obliquely and suspiciously. Finding that I did it
no harm, it began to hazard a few broken notes, timidly and
interrogatively, as it were, pausing between each; and at length, as I
made no reply, it evidently thought it had solved the doubt, and
ascertained that I was more to be pitied than feared,--for it stole
gradually into so soft and silvery a strain that, I verily believe, it
did it on purpose to comfort me!--me, its old friend, whom it had
unjustly suspected. Never did any music touch me so home as did that
long, plaintive cadence. And when the bird ceased, it perched itself
close to the bars of the cage, and looked at me steadily with its
bright, intelligent eyes. I felt mine water, and I turned back and
stood in the centre of the room, irresolute what to do, where to go. My
father had done with the proof, and was deep in his folios. Roland had
clasped his red account-book, restored it to his pocket, wiped his pen
carefully, and now watched me from under his great beetle-brows.
Suddenly he rose, and stamping on the hearth with his cork leg,
exclaimed, "Look up from those cursed books, brother Austin! What is
there in your son's face? Construe that, if you can!"

CHAPTER II.

And my father pushed aside his books and rose hastily. He took off his
spectacles and rubbed them mechanically, but he said nothing, and my
uncle, staring at him for a moment, in surprise at his silence, burst
out,--

"Oh! I see; he has been getting into some scrape, and you are angry.
Fie! young blood will have its way, Austin, it will. I don't blame
that; it is only when--Come here, Sisty. Zounds! man, come here."

My father gently brushed off the Captain's hand, and advancing towards
me, opened his arms. The next moment I was sobbing on his breast.

"But what is the matter?" cried Captain Roland. "Will nobody say what
is the matter? Money, I suppose, money, you confounded extravagant
young dog. Luckily you have got an uncle who has more than he knows
what to do with. How much? Fifty?--a hundred?--two hundred? How can I
write the check if you'll not speak?"

"Hush, brother! it is no money you can give that will set this right.
My poor boy! Have I guessed truly? Did I guess truly the other evening
when--"

"Yes, sir, yes! I have been so wretched. But I am better now,--I can
tell you all."

My uncle moved slowly towards the door; his fine sense of delicacy made
him think that even he was out of place in the confidence between son
and father.

"No, uncle," I said, holding out my hand to him, "stay. You too can
advise me,--strengthen me. I have kept my honor yet; help me to keep it
still."

At the sound of the word "honor," Captain Roland stood mute, and raised
his head quickly.

So I told all,--incoherently enough at first, but clearly and manfully
as I went on. Now I know that it is not the custom of lovers to confide
in fathers and uncles. Judging by those mirrors of life, plays and
novels, they choose better,--valets and chambermaids, and friends whom
they have picked up in the street, as I had picked up poor Francis
Vivian: to these they make clean breasts of their troubles. But fathers
and uncles,--to them they are close, impregnable, "buttoned to the
chin." The Caxtons were an eccentric family, and never did anything
like other people. When I had ended, I lifted up my eyes and said
pleadingly, "Now tell me, is there no hope--none?"

"Why should there be none?" cried Captain Roland, hastily--"the De
Caxtons are as good a family as the Trevanions; and as for yourself, all
I will say is, that the young lady might choose worse for her own
happiness."

I wrung my uncle's hand, and turned to my father in anxious fear, for I
knew that, in spite of his secluded habits, few men ever formed a
sounder judgment on worldly matters, when he was fairly drawn to look at
them. A thing wonderful is that plain wisdom which scholars and poets
often have for others, though they rarely deign to use it for
themselves. And how on earth do they get at it? I looked at my father,
and the vague hope Roland had excited fell as I looked.

"Brother," said he, slowly, and shaking his head, "the world, which
gives codes and laws to those who live in it, does not care much for a
pedigree, unless it goes with a title-deed to estates."

"Trevanion was not richer than Pisistratus when he married Lady
Ellinor," said my uncle.

"True, but Lady Ellinor was not then an heiress; and her father viewed
these matters as no other peer in England perhaps would. As for
Trevanion himself, I dare say he has no prejudices about station, but he
is strong in common-sense. He values himself on being a practical man.
It would be folly to talk to him of love, and the affections of youth.
He would see in the son of Austin Caxton, living on the interest of some
fifteen or sixteen thousand pounds, such a match for his daughter as no
prudent man in his position could approve. And as for Lady Ellinor--"

"She owes us much, Austin!" exclaimed Roland, his face darkening.

"Lady Ellinor is now what, if we had known her better, she promised
always to be,--the ambitious, brilliant, scheming woman of the world.
Is it not so, Pisistratus?"

I said nothing,--I felt too much.

"And does the girl like you? But I think it is clear she does!"
exclaimed Roland. "Fate, fate; it has been a fatal family to us!
Zounds! Austin, it was your fault. Why did you let him go there?"

"My son is now a man,--at least in heart, if not in years can man be
shut from danger and trial? They found me in the old parsonage,
brother!" said my father, mildly.

My uncle walked, or rather stumped, three times up and down the room;
and he then stopped short, folded his arms, and came to a decision,--

"If the girl likes you, your duty is doubly clear: you can't take
advantage of it. You have done right to leave the house, for the
temptation might be too strong."

"But what excuse shall I make to Mr. Trevanion?" said I, feebly; "what
story can I invent? So careless as he is while he trusts, so
penetrating if he once suspects, he will see through all my subterfuges,
and--and--"

"It is as plain as a pikestaff," said my uncle, abruptly, "and there
need be no subterfuge in the matter. 'I must leave you,
Mr. Trevanion.' 'Why?' says he. 'Don't ask me.' He insists. 'Well
then, sir, if you must know, I love your daughter. I have nothing, she
is a great heiress. You will not approve of that love, and therefore I
leave you!' That is the course that becomes an English gentleman. Eh,
Austin?"

"You are never wrong when your instincts speak, Roland," said my father.
"Can you say this, Pisistratus, or shall I say it for you?"

"Let him say it himself," said Roland, "and let him judge himself of the
answer. He is young, he is clever, he may make a figure in the world.
Trevanion may answer, 'Win the lady after you have won the laurel, like
the knights of old.' At all events you will hear the worst."

"I will go," said I, firmly; and I took my hat and left the room. As I
was passing the landing-place, a light step stole down the upper flight
of stairs, and a little hand seized my own. I turned quickly, and met
the full, dark, seriously sweet eyes of my cousin Blanche.

"Don't go away yet, Sisty," said she, coaxingly. "I have been waiting
for you, for I heard your voice, and did not like to come in and disturb
you."

"And why did you wait for me, my little Blanche?"

"Why! only to see you. But your eyes are red. Oh, cousin!" and before
I was aware of her childish impulse, she had sprung to my neck and
kissed me. Now Blanche was not like most children, and was very sparing
of her caresses. So it was out of the deeps of a kind heart that that
kiss came. I returned it without a word; and putting her down gently,
descended the stairs, and was in the streets. But I had not got far
before I heard my father's voice; and he came up, and hooking his arm
into mine, said, "Are there not two of us that suffer? Let us be
together!" I pressed his arm, and we walked on in silence. But when we
were near Trevanion's house, I said hesitatingly, "Would it not be
better, sir, that I went in alone? If there is to be an explanation
between Mr. Trevanion and myself, would it not seem as if your presence
implied either a request to him that would lower us both, or a doubt of
me that--"

"You will go in alone, of course; I will wait for you--"

"Not in the streets--oh, no! father," cried I, touched inexpressibly.
For all this was so unlike my father's habits that I felt remorse to
have so communicated my young griefs to the calm dignity of his serene
life.

"My son, you do not know how I love you; I have only known it myself
lately. Look you, I am living in you now, my first-born; not in my
other son,--the Great Book: I must have my way. Go in; that is the
door, is it riot?"

I pressed my father's hand, and I felt then, that while that hand could
reply to mine, even the loss of Fanny Trevanion could not leave the
world a blank. How much we have before us in life, while we retain our
parents! How much to strive and to hope for! what a motive in the
conquest of our sorrow, that they may not sorrow with us!

CHAPTER III.

I entered Trevanion's study. It was an hour in which he was rarely at
home, but I had not thought of that; and I saw without surprise that,
contrary to his custom, he was in his arm-chair, reading one of his
favorite classic authors, instead of being in some committee-room of the
House of Commons.

"A pretty fellow you are," said he, looking up, "to leave me all the
morning, without rhyme or reason! And my committee is postponed,--
chairman ill. People who get ill should not go into the House of
Commons. So here I am looking into Propertius: Parr is right; not so
elegant a writer as Tibullus. But what the deuce are you about?--why
don't you sit down? Humph! you look grave; you have something to say,--
say it!"

And, putting down Propertius, the acute, sharp face of Trevanion
instantly became earnest and attentive.

"My dear Mr. Trevanion," said I, with as much steadiness as I could
assume, "you have been most kind to me; and out of my own family there
is no man I love and respect more."

Trevanion.--"Humph! What's all this? [In an undertone]--Am I going to
be taken in?"

Pisistratus.--"Do not think me ungrateful, then, when I say I come to
resign my office,--to leave the house where I have been so happy"

Trevanion.--"Leave the house! Pooh! I have over-tasked you. I will be
more merciful in future. You must forgive a political economist; it is
the fault of my sect to look upon men as machines."

Pisistratus (smiling faintly).--"No, indeed; that is not it! I have
nothing to complain of, nothing I could wish altered; could I stay."

Trevanion (examining me thoughtfully).--"And does your father approve of
your leaving me thus?"

Pisistratus.--"Yes, fully."

Trevanion (musing a moment).--"I see, he would send you to the
University, make you a book-worm like himself. Pooh! that will not do;
you will never become wholly a man of books,--it is not in you. Young
man, though I may seem careless, I read characters, when I please it,
pretty quickly. You do wrong to leave me; you are made for the great
world,--I can open to you a high career. I wish to do so! Lady Ellinor
wishes it,--nay, insists on it,--for your father's sake as well as
yours. I never ask a favor from ministers, and I never will. But"
(here Trevanion rose suddenly, and with an erect mien and a quick
gesture of his arm he added)--"but a minister can dispose as he pleases
of his patronage. Look you, it is a secret yet, and I trust to your
honor. But before the year is out, I must be in the Cabinet. Stay with
me; I guarantee your fortunes,--three months ago I would not have said
that. By and by I will open Parliament for you,--you are not of age
yet; work till then. And now sit down and write my letters,--a sad
arrear!"

"My dear, dear Mr. Trevanion!" said I, so affected that I could scarcely
speak, and seizing his hand, which I pressed between both mine, "I dare
not thank you,--I cannot! But you don't know my heart: it is not
ambition. No! if I could but stay here on the same terms forever--
here," looking ruefully on that spot where Fanny had stood the night
before. "But it is impossible! If you knew all, you would be the first
to bid me go!"

"You are in debt," said the man of the world, coldly. "Bad, very bad--
still--"

"No, sir; no! worse."

"Hardly possible to be worse, young man--hardly! But, just as you--
will; you leave me, and will not say why. Goodby. Why do you linger?
Shake hands, and go!"

"I cannot leave you thus; I--I--sir, the truth shall out. I am rash and
mad enough not to see Miss Trevanion without forgetting that I am poor,
and--"

"Ha!" interrupted Trevanion, softly, and growing pale, "this is a
misfortune, indeed! And I, who talked of reading characters! Truly,
truly, we would-be practical men are fools--fools! And you have made
love to my daughter!"

"Sir? Mr. Trevanion!--no--never, never so base! In your house, trusted
by you,--how could you think it? I dared, it, may be, to love,--at all
events, to feel that I could not be insensible to a temptation too
strong for me. But to say it to your heiress,--to ask love in return: I
would as soon have broken open your desk! Frankly I tell you my folly:
it is a folly, not a disgrace."

Trevanion came up to me abruptly as I leaned against the bookcase, and,
grasping my hand with a cordial kindness, said, "Pardon me! You have
behaved as your father's son should I envy him such a son! Now, listen
to me: I cannot give you my daughter--"

"Believe me, sir; I never--"

"Tut, listen! I cannot give you my daughter. I say nothing of
inequality,--all gentlemen are equal; and if not, any impertinent
affectation of superiority, in such a case, would come ill from one who
owes his own fortune to his wife! But, as it is, I have a stake in the
world, won not by fortune only, but the labor of a life, the suppression
of half my nature,--the drudging, squaring, taming down all that made
the glory and joy of my youth,--to be that hard, matter-of-fact thing
which the English world expect in a statesman! This station has
gradually opened into its natural result,--power! I tell you I shall
soon have high office in the administration; I hope to render great
services to England,--for we English politicians, whatever the mob and
the Press say of us, are not selfish place-hunters. I refused office,
as high as I look for now, ten years ago. We believe in our opinions,
and we hail the power that may carry them into effect. In this cabinet
I shall have enemies. Oh, don't think we leave jealousy behind us, at
the doors of Downing Street! I shall be one of a minority. I know well
what must happen: like all men in power, I must strengthen myself by
other heads and hands than my own. My daughter shall bring to me the
alliance of that house in England which is most necessary to me. My
life falls to the ground, like a child's pyramid of cards, if I waste--I
do not say on you, but on men of ten times your fortune (whatever that
be)--the means of strength which are at my disposal in the hand of Fanny
Trevanion. To this end I have looked, but to this end her mother has
schemed; for these household matters are within a man's hopes, but
belong to a woman's policy. So much for us. But to you, my dear and
frank and high-souled young friend; to you, if I were not Fanny's
father, if I were your nearest relation, and Fanny could be had for the
asking, with all her princely dower (for it is princely),--to you I
should say, fly from a load upon the heart, on the genius, the energy,
the pride, and the spirit, which not one man in ten thousand can bear;
fly from the curse of owing everything to a wife! It is a reversal of
all natural position, it is a blow to all the manhood within us. You
know not what it is; I do! My wife's fortune came not till after
marriage,--so far, so well; it saved my reputation from the charge of
fortune-hunting. But, I tell you fairly, that if it had never come at
all, I should be a prouder and a greater and a happier man than I have
ever been, or ever can be, with all its advantages: it has been a
millstone round my neck. And yet Ellinor has never breathed a word that
could wound my pride. Would her daughter be as forbearing? Much as I
love Fanny, I doubt if she has the great heart of her mother. You look
incredulous,--naturally. Oh, you think I shall sacrifice my child's
happiness to a politician's ambition. Folly of youth! Fanny would be
wretched with you. She might not think so now; she would five years
hence! Fanny will make an admirable duchess, countess, great lady; but
wife to a man who owes all to her! No, no; don't dream it! I shall not
sacrifice her happiness, depend on it. I speak plainly, as man to man,
--man of the world to a man just entering it,--but still man to man!
What say you?"

"I will think over all you tell me. I know that you are speaking to me
most generously,--as a father would. Now let me go, and may God keep
you and yours!"

"Go,--I return your blessing; go! I don't insult you now with offers of
service; but remember, you have a right to command them,--in all ways,
in all times. Stop! take this comfort away with you,--a sorry comfort
now, a great one hereafter. In a position that might have moved anger,
scorn, pity, you have made a barren-hearted man honor and admire you.
You, a boy, have made me, with my gray hairs, think better of the whole
world; tell your father that."

I closed the door and stole out softly, softly. But when I got into the
hall, Fanny suddenly opened the door of the breakfast parlor, and
seemed, by her look, her gesture, to invite me in. Her face was very
pale, and there were traces of tears on the heavy lids.

I stood still a moment, and my heart beat violently. I then muttered
something inarticulately, and, bowing low, hastened to the door.

I thought, but my ears might deceive me, that I heard my name
pronounced; but fortunately the tall porter started from his newspaper
and his leathern chair, and the entrance stood open. I joined my
father.

"It's all over," said I, with a resolute smile. "And now, my dear
father, I feel how grateful I should be for all that your lessons--your
life--have taught me; for, believe me, I am not unhappy."

CHAPTER IV.

We came back to my father's house, and on the stairs we met my mother,
whom Roland's grave looks and her Austin's strange absence had alarmed.
My father quietly led the way to a little room which my mother had
appropriated to Blanche and herself, and then, placing my hand in that
which had helped his own steps from the stony path down the quiet vales
of life, he said to me: "Nature gives you here the soother;" and so
saying, he left the room.

And it was true, O my mother! that in thy simple, loving breast nature
did place the deep wells of comfort! We come to men for philosophy,--to
women for consolation. And the thousand weaknesses and regrets, the
sharp sands of the minutiae that make up sorrow,--all these, which I
could have betrayed to no man (not even to him, the dearest and
tenderest of all men), I showed without shame to thee! And thy tears,
that fell on my cheek, had the balm of Araby; and my heart at length lay
lulled and soothed under thy moist, gentle eyes.

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