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!
