The Caxtons: A Family Picture — Complete

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 not?”

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.

I made an effort, and joined the little circle at dinner; and I felt grateful that no violent attempt was made to raise my spirits,—nothing but affection, more subdued and soft and tranquil. Even little Blanche, as if by the intuition of sympathy, ceased her babble, and seemed to hush her footstep as she crept to my side. But after dinner, when we had reassembled in the drawing-room, and the lights shone bright, and the curtains were let down, and only the quick roll of some passing wheels reminded us that there was a world without, my father began to talk. He had laid aside all his work, the younger but less perishable child was forgotten, and my father began to talk.

“It is,” said he, musingly, “a well-known thing that particular drugs or herbs suit the body according to its particular diseases. When we are ill, we don’t open our medicine-chest at random, and take out any powder or phial that comes to hand. The skilful doctor is he who adjusts the dose to the malady.”